Cows in the Cornish Countryside

I have just returned from a lovely weekend in Cornwall, an area of Great Britain that forms the tip of its southwestern peninsula. It counts among its borders the Atlantic Ocean, the English Channel and the county of Devon, so the scenery is as breathtaking as any I’ve seen across the continent. The sheer cliffs, rugged coastline, nude stretching sand and aquamarine waters are reminiscent of parts of Portugal’s Algarve and portions of the coast of Italy. But like their European doppelgangers, the Cornwall beaches are not often warm places to sunbathe and tan. They are picturesque but windy coves that offer excellent surfing, windsurfing and kite sailing.

Newquay, the areas most popular surfing destination, was also our locale for the weekend. Six Canadian gals – myself, Lauren, Diane, Christine, Erin and Belle – rented an adorable cottage called the Barn Owl with exquisite views of rolling green (cow-filled!) fields, a short distance from the seaside. Though exuding a definite charm that echoes Greek’s island towns, Newquay has fallen prey to the tourist bug. Its rustic chippies, old-fashioned souvenir shops and pastoral B&B’s are now overtaken by American surf shops, three-tiered nightclubs and gaudy indoor amusement centres. The town has become very well known for hosting wild stag and hen do’s, so its nightlife has grown to accommodate this.

Despite the town’s glaring tourist appeal, we had a quiet and pleasant long weekend. The days were cool but gloriously clear and sunny so we wandered through fluorescent green fields, along the top of craggy cliffs overlooking the sea and on firm expanses of sand that were occasionally licked by the white-foamy tongues of the Atlantic. Our only instances of rain were early and late in the day, so we were tucked cozily into our cottage, sipping wine or tea, eating baked Camembert and chocolate, playing board games and euchre, and listening as the downpour played the windowpanes like a drum.

Quite a serene picture I am painting, isn’t it? Well, I have returned to the city very relaxed but with one noted difference. I am now quite afraid of cows. I always considered myself to be rather fearless but, as I get older, my tolerances have been gradually decreasing. On top of an alarmingly mounting fear of confined spaces, heights, clowns and people dressed as animals, I am now not too fond of the doe-eyed farm creatures.

Minding our own business on a delightful stroll through an area labeled a public walking path, we approached a congress of cows. As we mounted the fence that separated woman and beast, the cows looked up with interest, hunger and, I observed, a touch of rage. Though we stuck close to the fence as we headed down the hill, cows from across the pasture turned from their meals and began to rush towards us. Belle, confidently our leader, carried straight down to the bottom while the rest of us turned back. Then the cows lost interest and dispersed, so Erin, Diane and I hustled back over the fence and began to walk down the hill, eyes to the grass to avoid making eye contact with the bovine ladies. I was shaking like a leaf, and wearing questionably appropriate footwear, but managed to reach the bottom without getting trampled (though the cattle did come close). Christine and Lauren, too terrified of the aggressive animals and educated by the two demonstrations the rest of us had provided, opted to climb over a barbed-wire fence rather than face the beasts.

The cowherd has been haunting my dreams ever since. You may consider me a wimp, and you might be right in relation to a number of additional fears, but it is apparently known in the UK (no one bothered to tell me) that cows quite often attack humans. The typically placid creatures have been known, especially when protecting their young calves, to charge at humans, and dogs. Just search ‘cow attacks’ on the BBC website and you will see a plethora of stories. Last summer a vet was trampled to death by a herd of cows while walking her two dogs and MP David Blunkett was left with a black eye and a cracked rib after a tussle with a bovine. Statistics from the Health and Safety Executive released in 2009 say that 19 people have been killed and 481 injured by cows since 2001.

At least our countryside stroll avoided tragedy. We carried on past the cows, and past an old-fashioned mini BMW rally, towards a picturesque beach with towering rock face and then into Newquay for some fish and chips and fresh Cornish ice cream. (The seaside wandering was balanced out with some truly devilish eating.) The Cornish seaside was a welcome adventure from my recent long workdays and tourist jaunts around London with Mom, despite my newly acquired fear of cows – as well as a camera mishap involving sea and sand, a slight return-train incident that added further expenses, and a delay en route to Plymouth while a drunk was thrown off the train for assaulting a member of the staff. Despite all that drama, the air was crisp like Canada and the sky a clear blue, offering a much-needed respite from the congestion of the city.