Silly Cow

The town of Oxford got its name because of the area in Port Meadow along the Thames where the oxen actually ford the river in the summer months. The phenomenon has been occurring for hundreds of years, and the wild cows in that great field still cross the river in Port Meadow today.

Uh-oh.

So, picture Your Correspondent after sixteen or seventeen miles of jogging, on my way home after a wonderful marathon training session. Headphones in my ears, a little sunburnt, and very very tired.

All of a sudden there is a moo. Then another moo. An ANGRY MOO.

Here they are, then, fording the river: the cows. Whole herds of cows. Where am I? Jogging past a smaller herd, consisting of mostly baby calves, which apparently Mama Cow thinks I am about to attack and kill. (No, Bessie, I'm a vegetarian!) I can see the anger flashing in her little cow eyes as she bellows again, lowers her head, and charges across the river at me.

I really should have kept my promise to find a different park. 

On the other hand, it's a great way to train for a faster time. My little tired legs were a blur as I vaulted behind the gate, which, I realised too late, was probably built to keep cows out instead of herding them in. One thing is certain: as angry as Mama Cow was with me, it's nothing compared to how angry my own Mama will be when she reads this story. Sorry, Mom! I'll find a treadmill next week, I promise!

Let's hope this is my last post involving dangerous run-ins with livestock. With that, I'm off to Spain, where I will surely be safe from marauding cows.

Oh. Wait.