Letter from an English Village: Animals and Fields

As I write my blog post this evening, my study window is open because the day has been quite warm for May, although it rained heavily in the afternoon. Good thing, because the gardens needed it. The House Martin family in the rafter nest outside my window has gone to bed and apart for the odd manic burst of cheeping from the chicks, the little family is quiet.

The birdsong from the nearby woods in the grounds of the country house opposite has also quietened down and the traffic noise in the village lane is typically minimal - say one vehicle every 30 minutes. An enormous farm tractor making a detour to visit the village shop, some village boys coming to terms with the heady magic of testosterone - crouching low over handlebars trying to coax impossible speed out of miniscule motorbikes. I remember it well. I hear a powerful engine note - perhaps a tired dad barrelling back home late in his BMW after a tough day in the office, hopefully to receive smiles, cuddles and a glass of wine with his meal.

But the normal rhythm of the village evening is being periodically broken by the sound of an animal in distress. It is coming from the meadows by the little river which runs through the village and it sounds like a cow trying to find her calves - more of a fearful sound than pain. If it doesn't stop soon I will go and have a look, but I am quite cautious because, although I grew up in the country margin to a large town, I cannot claim to be a countryman. I know that what seems dreadful and harsh to me in the rural environment seems normal and natural to the gamekeepers, farmers and hunt workers I have met here.

A couple of years ago I was on my way to sing at a gig at a nearby town and left in plenty of time, intending to do a sound test with the band before the performance. As I left the village I drove past a field where I heard a cow bellowing. I stopped to investigate. She was calving and to my layman's eyes seemed to be having a tough time. Blood everywhere, a hell of a mess. I drove up the farm track and found a couple of farm hands in the yard. They were bemused by me and my questions, possibly also by my white crooner's tuxedo. Quite understandable, I suppose it must have seemed quite surreal to them. In any event they promised to have a look, explained that the situation was quite normal and that the particular cow always made a fuss when she calved. I left, feeling rather foolish. We had no time to do a sound test when I arrived at the venue and the performance suffered accordingly.

My wife came across a cow in distress the other day when she was out riding her bike. The farmer's wife drove up and asked if she had seen some heifers - the gate had been left open and the cow's little daughters had strayed. I think they found them. Coincidentally a couple of years ago I happened to do a painting of the same field gate - it should show below.


( from my online gallery at http://ianconway.biz )

For sheer heart-string tugging effect, you can't beat lambs. One evening last summer I found one marooned on the other side of a fence from her mother - both crying piteously and frantically running along the fence line on opposite sides. I couldn't catch the lamb and they were both getting very distressed, so I called out the farmer from his tea to sort it out. If looks could kill.. Another time I found a yearling stuck in a fence when I was out jogging. I was amazed how she quietened as I worked to pull her head out from the mesh. Although with the typical sheep IQ of 1-3 , she somehow knew I meant only to help. The speed with which she took off when I freed her! The incident made me think about the concept of the Good Shepherd and what that was meant to convey when the parable was first told.

The cow has stopped crying. She has probably been reunited with her calf. Back to the painting. I came across this scene in Autumn when we showed some friends around the village. It just seemed right and made a hell of an impact on my senses, so I returned later to sketch it for painting in my studio. The painting is meant to be allegorical and uses the device of the gate to suggest the passage from one stage of life to another. The gate is in the shade of a great tree, whose leaves are gently turning with the end of the Summer. All the memories of the year are embedded in the leaves - and when they fall and become one with the soil they will join all the past memories of this place beneath the tree. There is sunlight on the field beyond, promising optimistic times ahead, but to experience them we have to leave the shade of the tree and pass through the gate. What I am trying to suggest in the painting, admittedly rather clumsily, is that we must have the optimism and confidence to pass through the gates we encounter in life and avoid sheltering fearfully in the shades of the past.

More next week, in all likelihood.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)