Cow Calling and Trunnah Brook |
Since I first wrote about Trunnah Road, I’ve been fortunate enough to receive several letters from people who either knew me, or knew additional anecdotes. I recently received a photo of part of ‘the brook' —the one that runs from somewhere west of the Gardeners Arms to somewhere near the Wyre Estuary. Trunnah Brook, some called it. The photo was taken where the brook runs parallel to Heys Street, opposite the Sacred Heart church.
I used to have romantic notions about that foetid ‘rriver’ when I was little. I couldn't understand why my dad wouldn't let me build a raft to sail down it. My cousin Mary and I used to play together quite a lot, and one of our projects was to climb over the gate into 'Crofty's' field at the end of Holly Road, and go down to the brook as it ran—and still runs—along the Heys Street bit. A fence made of railway sleepers shielded the brook from the street, and from Crofty’s side, you could look across, and just see out between the sleepers. Mary and I would select one of the funny little rounded bays that had formed as the banks fell away; to make a ‘den.’ We’d line it with chickweed, and sit and talk, pretending we were in a sort of Enid Blyton world. I remember at one time, being scared to go home every day for weeks, because I had begged and pleaded for—and received—a ring with a picture of the Madonna and Child on the signet. Horror of horrors: in the course of helping to pull up chickweed for Mary and me to line our nest, it had slipped off, never to reappear. Looking back, I see it was really cheap and tawdry, but I was SO scared that my mum would notice its absence. Oh, dear, the crimes one committed!
Another friend had taught me how to make a blade of grass whistle by holding it between your thumbs. On one occasion, I told Mary that I could whistle like this, and, challenged, went on to demonstrate. I taught her to do it too, and we sat there for quite a while, blowing tunelessly on bits of grass. What we didn't know was that this sound is a sure-fire attractant to cows, and the far end of the field was full of cows. As we got up to wander back across the field to the gate, we found ourselves faced with an impenetrable semi-circle of cows waiting for whatever reward we had unwittingly promised them. We were scared out of our wits, and ran hell for leather away along the bank, through nettles and hawthorn, to escape them by scrambling over the gate. It was some while before we went back to our chickweed nests again….
The coda to this story is that, years and years later, soon after we were married, my husband Brian and I were touring somewhere in the south of England, and we stopped for a smoke break or something—we've quit many years since, but we were dedicated smokers then. Anyhow, the road was quite high, and the lay-by looked down a steep bank into a very long, very narrow field, bordered by a hawthorn hedge and barbed wire. There was a herd of dairy cows at the far end. 'I can call cows,' said I cheerfully. 'Rubbish,' said he. ’I can,' said I. 'Prove it,' said he. So I pulled a blade of grass, put it between my thumbs and began whistling through it.
And that's when we realised I really could call cows. The heads turned, the bodies turned, and as a single cow, the whole lot of them set off running towards us, udders swinging, and all of them bellowing in chorus like the last trump. Some of them reached the bank, still howling to beat the band, and others behind them were trying to climb up to us over the backs of the front runners. And more were coming. Realising that I had started a stampede, we leapt back into the car and hit the road. What speed limit? I bet that poor farmer got custard that night. But, barbed wire or not, we weren't going to stick around to find out.
And just by way of icing on the cake, my daughter will attest to the fact that I can whistle—without benefit of grass—and reduce to silence a cage full of squawking budgies, any number you like, and I can wake them up again with a different whistle.
I can also whistle Happy Birthday on key, on demand.
My husband and I have just had a laugh—still a rather nervous laugh!—about the cow fiasco. What things we got up to—in all innocence, of course, but wow, I won't do it again. These prairie cows don't mess about!