I looked out of the window to see Marmite the lawn mower busy at work, trimming the grass in the front garden. Who needs their grass cut in January you may well ask, but then you see Marmite is very particular, and will go to great lengths to make sure our garden is kept well clipped.
Marmite is one of the happy farmer’s group of girls, one of the four legged variety, a resident Highland heifer, who simply cannot resist a tasty bite, especially at this time of year. Keeping a close eye on her mother, Treacle, she too has mastered the art of pirouetting over the cattle grid on a daily basis in search of tastier delights than the ones on offer in her home pastures. Every morning mother and daughter follow their well practised routine of skipping daintily over the grid which is there to deter the cattle from sauntering onto the single track road.
It doesn’t get better than a cold January morning, lying cosily between the sheets, surveying the view whilst I await a welcome morning cup of tea from the happy farmer who is hard at work in the kitchen, Marmite busy out cutting the grass. This morning the happy farmer even took it upon himself to lay on some added entertainment. Whilst watching our Highland cow, I suddenly became aware of one scantily clad happy farmer making his way across the front garden, in his under garments and flip flops, waving his arms in the air, a well practised dance routine, which had little effect on Marmite. That is until the happy farmer grabbed a nearby football to lob at her. Marmite on seeing this frightful vision lifted her head, took one look and bolted in the opposite direction, out onto the road, past the pottery, galloping to what looked like home before swerving sharply to the left, spying another opportunity, another garden needing a wee tidy up, she fled into the cottage gardens.
Sometime later, cup of tea in hand, a slightly disgruntled happy farmer arrived in the bedroom. What was annoying him the most was the bit of ‘cattle herding’ that I completely missed, dash it. Apparently when Marmite took off into the cottage gardens the happy farmer was forced, by impassable muddy puddles, to come back to the house and ditch the flip flops, for a more sensible pair of wellington boots. Now the image of the happy farmer running around, waving his arms, shouting, in underpants and wellingtons can only be left to the imagination, luckily the holiday cottages didn’t have guests this week.
Until next time…