Just about the only benefit (other than the highly dubious one of ‘getting some exercise’) of spending hundreds of hours chasing your farmer friend's cattle across field and moor is that, every once in a while, you get to eat your arch-nemesis:
Two sirloin steaks formerly known as ‘Daisy-May’ yesterday.
Daisy-May had it coming, believe me.
Best steaks we ever ate. (And I'm not just saying that.)
Farmer: Is that one a boy or a girl? Me: How the hell should I know? Farmer: Lift its tail! Me: [Lifting calf's tail.] I can't see anything. Farmer: Well, have a feel. Me: I'm sorry, but you can fuck right off! This is where I draw the line. I am not about to start feeling up cattle!
It's that time of year again: time to help our farmer friend bring her cows down off the moors. Which is what we spent this afternoon doing, in the driving wind and pissing rain.
If you've been paying attention, you won't be at all surprised just how difficult it is to find cows on a moor. Today, we only managed to find about half of them. They were several miles away, well on their way to Haworth.
Just in case you're thinking I'm exaggerating just how wet and windy it was, I did you a crappy video:
If you've ever wondered what free-range beef looks like before they put it into plastic packets, now you know. (Obviously, I'm referring to the cattle, not the dogs.)