Cornered In A Field By Ten Naked Young Males
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Friday 3pm
10 miles north of Newcastle upon Tyne, England
The footpath is marked on the map. It cuts diagonally across an enclosed field and ends at a lane no more than 400 yards away. On the ground, in exactly the right place, I find a stile and a small wooden signpost.
Routine stuff.
The right of way is undefined. I walk through some fairly long grass, aiming for what looks like a gate at the far end. I'm about a third of the way across when behind me I hear what sound like horses being ridden at some speed.
I turn to see three hefty brown bullocks bearing down on me. Obeying my instincts, I take a step forward and shout 'No!' They hesitate, then resume their approach. At the same time another seven equally intimidating specimens are moving in a kind of pincer movement, as if to cut off my escape.
Where did they all come from? If I'd seen them grazing I would never have climbed over the stile.
More to the point, what the hell do I do now?
I try walking on at a very slow pace, but each step seems to provoke a threatening response. I'm beginning to feel trapped and helpless. I don't know how to manage the behaviour of farm animals. Each of this lot is big enough to knock me over, and if I go down there's a good chance I'll get a hoof in the back from one or more of them. Something like panic starts to develop.
By this time I've been forced to one side of the field. There's a single strand of barbed wire I can duck beneath, which offers me some tangible protection. But I'm now standing on the brink of a deep ditch, choked with nettles and thorn bushes. And the circle is closing in. There's literally nowhere else I can go.
This is getting serious. They show no sign of losing interest. For all I know I might still be here when night falls.
I take out my phone and call 999. The switchboard puts me in touch with the police. The officer I speak to is sympathetic to my plight, though I can tell he's struggling not to laugh.
I light a cigarette and wait for help to arrive. Before it does, the cattle have wandered away. When they reach the farthest corner of the field I sneak under the barbed wire and make my way gingerly back to the stile - relieved, shaken, viscerally aware of my human frailty and promising never again to depart from the highways and byways when I'm tramping through the countryside.
And they say golf ruins a long walk.
(image from flickr)