YOU won’t catch me walking through a field of cows.

And a story on the Journal website, about a harmless walker being attacked in the New Forest, brought vividly to mind the reason why.

There I was, enjoying a sunny day off from a high-pressure job, out for a peaceful country walk.

I was holding my toddler son’s hand (he’s 34 now!) and had our border collie, Ben, on his lead.

We lived in Buckinghamshire in those days, on the edge of leafy Amersham.

I’m a bit of a wimpy townie, and I’d always been slightly worried about getting too close to a herd of cattle.

But my husband, a land agent who’s spent as much time on farms and rural estates as I have writing in newspaper offices, would airily dismiss my misgivings, telling me “They won’t bother you if you don’t bother them, and if they do, all you’ve got to do is face up to them.”

So when I realised we’d gone far enough for tired little legs and the quickest way back was through – you guessed it, a field of cows – I took the bull by the horns, as it were, swallowed my fears, and set off across it.

I’m told it was probably the sight of the dog that set them off (though the poor guy in North Gorley didn’t even have one).

They did have calves with them, which I now gather can make them over-protective, i.e. aggressive.

Anyway, they all suddenly hurtled straight towards us, and they weren’t stopping.

What to do?

I couldn’t manage with both hands full so I let Ben off and told him to run. Being no fool, he set off at full tilt away from the oncoming menace.

And that, I gather now, was probably the saving of us.

They swerved and started to chase him while I picked up my two-year-old and literally threw him over the nearest gate, scrambling over in his wake.

And the dog circled back to us and under the gate to safety.

There followed a weary trudge home because I was lost – and very shaken - on a lane I’d never seen before.

Relating this drama to my other half that evening, I no longer believed his insistence that the cattle would have done us no harm.

Next week’s local paper carried a report about an elderly woman walking her small dog through the same field a day later. She’d been trampled to death.

I don’t dislike cows. I’m as easily melted as the next person by the big brown eyes of a velvety calf.

Watching a herd racing around, kicking up their heels with the sheer joy of freedom when they’ve just been turned out after a winter under cover is an experience to bring a smile to the stoniest of faces.

Just as long as I’m on the other side of a stout fence. And those heels don’t come anywhere near me. Or my dog.

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