constanttrek

On animals and scenery

November 9th, 2004

After reviewing the last lot of photographs we took, we decided the time has come for a diary entry on animals and scenery.

Now this may sound a boring kind of topic.  But given that they happen to be the two things we see the most of – and, one could argue, have the most conversation with or about, sad as it is – we are going to bore you anyway.

I am going to begin with the kind of comment which should never be uttered by a human unless they are a zoo keeper at feeding time or a lonely sheep farmer in North Wales: we are fatally attractive to animals.

Although this (forgive me) animal magnetism exists across the full range of God’s creatures, amongst those most powerfully affected are, by degree, horses, cows, and dogs.  Horses seem to sense us from literally miles away.  From the first leaden clump of our vastly overladen boots on the path, the horses will come.  From the far ends of their fields, they gallop busily down to the fence, where they watch us in a high state of alert, all pricked ears, rigid legs, and raised tails.  They shake their heads and snort like fusty old businessmen at a gay parade, and seem to be saying to each other:  “Well! I never!  Have you seen the likes of THAT before, sonny?  I keep telling you, these humans, they’re a strange old lot, and don’t you let anyone tell you different.  Get a look at the loads on their backs!  And folk wonder why horse unemployment is at an all time high…"

The young ones run back and forth in a state of high excitement, shying away in alarm if we get too close, but too curious to stay away, eyes rolling incredulously as they prance up and down.  The most beautiful are the wise old Shire horses, with their great plate feet, and colossal chests.  They watch us patiently with calm old-man’s eyes, their great heads hanging over the gates sniffing for a piece of apple.  They have seen it all before, and watch the young ones with a kind of world weary tolerance.

Occasionally we see a truly odd combination, like these two:

A goat and a horse, completely joined at the hip. 

That goat had no concept that he was a goat.

  No no, in his mind it was perfectly obvious that he is a pedigree thoroughbred, just like his mate.  They stood side by side, watching us go by with equal solemnity and concentration; then they turned and touched noses, and in perfect harmony they wheeled about, and trotted off together, the goat with head held high and trying to slow his little footsteps to that of the horse.  The horse must get very bemused as to why nobody ever rides the goat.

But without a doubt, the animals most likely to get our vote for psychologically disturbed – or disturbing – are the cows.

I do not know whether their strange mental state is a result of years of unnatural abuse by remote farmers (North Wales again?); the fact that they know, somewhere in their deep subconscious, that they exist on borrowed time before being slaughtered and unceremoniously consumed; or whether, like an old Larson cartoon, they actually stand up on hind legs and talk and smoke naturally when no humans are looking.  But whatever it is, I am here to tell you that there is SOMETHING STRANGE about them there bovine creatures.  They’re up to something, we swear it. 

Everytime we pass a field of cows – even if we are a good 50 metres away – they all stand up in unison.  Slowly at first, but with a strange and, quite frankly, menacing intent, they begin advancing toward us with the kind of inexorability which makes one extremely glad for the invention of electric fences.  When they are as close to us as they can feasibly get without becoming barbeque, they form a solid rugby scrum and watch us.  They watch us with the glazed, fixed stare of a heavy pot smoker eyeing the chocolate section in Tescos.  Stray wisps of hay hang forgotten from their suddenly slack mouths – and these are creatures who would eat through a WMD attack – as they stand, stock still, and just …watch.

Then comes the spooky part.  We start getting past them.  And they all move.  At once.  All of them.  They follow us, heads still craned to eyeball us solemnly, all the way up the edge of the fence, until eventually they reach the corner of the field, where they begin to cram into each other so the ones at the front are getting their mates’ heads stuck up their rectums, and still they watch us.  They stay like that until we are out of sight.  And then, who knows, they probably go back to smoking their bongs, drinking beer, and having wild sex.  I can just imagine the conversation:  “Ha!  Did ya see the look on their faces?  I bet it’s a while before they eat beef again…here then Daisy, pass us the bong, wouldja love…oh man there’s nothing like a good old human spook out to give a girl the munchies.  Now where’s that bit of hay I had?  Oh whaddya know, it’s still right here in my mouth…how ‘bout that?…”

Or something.

Either way, there is no doubt in my mind that there is something going on out there in cow world.  Something sinister and organised.  Mark my words.  Mad Cow disease is just the tip of the iceberg my friends, just the tip.  By the end of this trip I’ll have got to the bottom of it.  I’ll keep you posted on that one.

Now, where was I? 

Ah yes, the last of the overly curious:  dogs.

Now, before this little journey, I quite liked dogs.  Still do, at heart.  But I have to admit that increasingly I am repressing a daily urge to take my walking pole and shove it – well, just shove it – at the next canine possessed of the irrational and wholly unnecessary desire to bark it’s stupid head off at me for the simple reason that I dared WALK PAST IT.  Honestly, for the first time in my life, I have true sympathy with postmen.  They should get danger money, I reckon.  These are fierce, vicious creatures we are talking about here.  Forget all that stuff you read about man’s best friend. It depends absolutely on which man you happen to be, in my opinion.  And it’s not like the owners pretend otherwise.  On every other fence is a bright red plaque with a menacing picture of a rabidly salivating canine, and the brusque advice: “attention du chien!”  or the one I like even better – same picture, different slogan: “Je suis en garde!” Yes, I KNOW you’re on guard you stupid mutt, you nearly managed to savage my bloody leg through the fence.  Never mind the fact that I am over 10 metres away from your territory with absolutely no desire to come one step closer; obviously, to your poor short circuited, over red meat fed brain, I appear as a dangerous and sinister thief about to feed you baited meat and cudgel you to death.

And I tell you, some of these are cowardly little things, as well.  After approaching cautiously to the sound of incessant, near hysterical barking, we often discover that the cacophony is being made by a stupid little creature no bigger than your average sewer rat, behind a fence just high enough to allow it to bounce self importantly around growling itself hoarse, whilst preventing civic minded citizens such as myself from giving it a timely tap with a walking pole.  As we go past, these pathetic bundles of fluff hurl themselves at the fence and generally give an impression of being rabid beasts intent on blood.  Give me an equal playing field, I say, and a little electric prodder, and we’ll see how brave you are then, you idiotic midgets.

But I like dogs. Really I do.    

And so finally, after this little animal based rant, which some may feel indicates that we have been walking quite long enough and perhaps need a job in the real world again in order to regain at least a semblance of sanity, I will address the second part of the post: the scenery.

No need for toilet humour here (oh well.).  The scenery really has been absolutely amazing for the last few weeks, and actually warrants a whole post on it’s own, which I am too lazy to give. 

We are off the main roads at last, and have been following the Grand Randonees, the major walking paths of France.  They have taken us along winding forest paths, carpeted in golden leaves; through rich green valleys, where little farmhouses are tucked away amongst orchards; and across bubbling streams, with old water mills built in them.  The earth is so rich and loamy looking that you can almost watch seeds growing in it, and it smells heavenly. 

We came around one corner to find a man made lake, ringed by fruit trees – one a pear tree with fruit so golden and heavy they seemed to shine – and rock seats to rest on. ( I took the chance to have a quiet rest there whilst Gary took some pictures.  I am going to stop doing that as soon there will be more pictures of me sleeping than walking, which is in no way an accurate representation…)

We often pass little sheds in the middle of fields – but this one made us stop, as it was so like a tiny leprechaun dwelling.  I have no idea what could be kept in a building of such size, apart from gardening tools for gnomes.  It is buildings such as these, which seem to serve no purpose other than to make fields look pretty, which make the countryside so gorgeous. 

It being Autumn, the mushrooms are out everywhere; unfortunately, apart from the stock standard field variety, I am not game to collect any in case they are of the deadly type, and my little Ray Mears book which told me the difference went in the Great Pack Cull, so we are reduced to just photographing them.  They are awfully pretty, though.

We are trying to camp more in an effort to hoard our fast dwindling pennies for the important things in life – like booze – but there are times, when it is late and cold, not to mention wet, that the prospect does not appeal.  Fortunately on one such night on our way to Tours a lovely spot cropped up at the right time – beside a stream, on a soft bed of leaves.  Marvellous.  And not Blair Witchy at all.

So that pretty much ends my little spiel  on animals and scenery.  I realise I should be writing deep and meaningful pilgrim type things, but unfortunately my contemplative powers tend to revolve around either the sinister plots of the bovine population, or the various attributes of the Vouvray appellation – fantastic wine, in case you were wondering.  Fast sending us broke, but what a way to go.   

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