Bog Myrtle & Peat

The bull calf is finally free from his shed. He has been indoors for four months, and now his world explodes in light. He runs and bellows over the field, kicking his heels and rolling his eyes with delight.

It’s a joy to see him thrashing the ground and mashing the molehills with his forehead. Bulls dig, and soon there are sprays of soil and long, raking grooves where his hooves have ploughed. New swallows skim over his back, and the rain lies in beads along his thick curls. He has been four months without a bath, and I am keen to see him spruced and fresh in the smirr.

He catches sight of me and tips his chin to pour out a thin, rumbling bellow. Then he charges towards me at full speed across the grass; clods of soil fly into the low cloud. It’s a wincing, twisting fear to see him close the gap – his blocky shape is horribly lithe and flexible. It’s a game, but I must stand my ground and master him. My eyes widen and knuckles turn white around my stick – he almost weighs three hundred kilogrammes and I can see threads of creamy foam on his lip.

Rather than flatten me outright, he pulls up at the last moment and begins to bump me with his head – heavy shoves and mincing little steps like a boxer. This is his idea of fun, but it could crush me like a rotten post. There is not a bad bone in his body, but there are plenty of fragile ones in mine. I can bear a little of this game, but a decent tap on his nose brings him round. I am not a colleague, I am the boss. He stands back with an expression of confusion.

My heart is fluttering as he shrugs, turns his ears back and cartwheels away over the rushes like a gleeful acrobat. No hard feelings.