A Writers’ Retreat:
A Bovine Quest (with Climerick to finish).
We are on an island writing retreat.(Iona)
‘Go. Listen to a sound of the island – and reflect it in a written format of your choice’, we are bid.
I decide I will go and listen to the sound of cows chewing cud.
I walk to the gate that leads to the hill – no sign of any cows.
I walk on round two further bends - not a cow to be seen anywhere.
I see a woman feeding sheep. As she turns her car to leave, I knock on the window: it is reluctantly rolled down.
'Are there any cows around, or are they all being overwintered?' I ask, with scant idea of whether that is a sensible question in the second half of March.
'There’s cows up there', she says, jerking her thumb towards the north, ‘But none down there’. The thumb is jerked in the opposite direction and, feeling my visitor-ness, I set off, at least knowing I am not travelling in vain.
I walk to the gate to the North End; no sign of any cows.
I ask a young woman ‘Any cows up there?’
She looks at me and my walking stick slightly strangely, and says she has seen two or three.
I know I am not travelling in vain.
I ascend towards the top of the elevation: not a cow to be seen anywhere.
Aha! I think. If I climb as high as I can, I will surely see any cows there might be, wherever they may be lurking.
And sure enough - there are cows some 100 feet below and they are troughing it.
Gone is my notion of putting my voice recorder as close as I dare, to a constantly chewing soft mouth and retreating to transform the sound into writing.
Instead, there is the violent chomping of a bovine tea party, but joyful, I feel a CLIMERICK come upon me.
And so it did come to pass,
that I listened to cows chomping grass.
Then horror! They’re belching:
it’s clear they are belting
out methane, a vile greenhouse gas.