You come across many hazards when you're walking. A wobbly stile here. Brambles, nettles and all manner of spiky plants there. An unseen pothole when you're wandering across a field of wheat. Unpaved country roads that should be safe to walk, except satnav drivers are sent down it and drive like they're on the motorway. And not to mention disappearing footpaths ("It's right here on the map, so where the hell is it?!!").
But one of the main things you come across when you're on your travels will be animals. They come in all shapes and sizes, but they all pose problems in their own ways. And none of them are wild: they are supposedly domesticated.
The first hazardous animal that comes to most minds is the cow. This animal has hurt most walkers than any other, and rightfully deserves to be respected. Not the brightest animal on the planet, but it is a heavy bit of kit. A solid chunk of muscle, the best part of a ton. With udders. And horns. Most of the time, they are simply a little skittish of your being in the field with them. If they're lying down, they will stand up. They're not being polite, and welcoming you into their field. They simply want to stare you out. And make sure you leave. And if you get too close, they will do a silly little jump and run as fast as their bulk will let them. Which is surprisingly swift most of the time. Sometimes they may think you're the farmer, though, and may have food, so you may get followed from time to time.
The time they get a bit of a mood is when they are in calf. With lots of little ones running around, they understandbly get a bit more alert, and watch your every move. There was a time when I was walking on Hadrian's Wall with my friend Joe, and we had to move through a paddock with some very young calves with their mothers. There wasn't much room for manoeuvre, and it was quite hairy being so close to a mardy mother with a calf under her legs. But, to date (and touch wood), I have never had a close encounter with an enraged cow. And I don't fancy it either. Just today, I gave a field full of cows and calves a wide berth so I didn't disturb them; a straight 100-metre path became about 200-metres as I curved around them.
I have also never had a close-call with a bull. I've been past many, but never had to share a field with one. The solitary bull in a field, that will chase a hiker up a tree or over a wall, may be a device used in comedy, but it is a common occurence. Only last week, a farmer in Nottinghamshire was charged with manslaughter when a bull charged a couple walking across the field, killing the man and injuring his wife. The sexually mature bull is naturally aggressive, especially if surrounded by cows who are in season. According to law, only young animals should be kept in fields with footpaths. But even this has its downfalls.
Young bulls and bullocks, whilst technically not as dangerous as their mature counterparts, are just as pushy as their elders. And what makes me a bit more cautious when I'm in a field with them is the fact that they are usually in herds. I have been in a field with thirty-to-forty young bulls who have followed me every step. I don't think it was malice; I think they had a natural curiousity, but at the time, it was bloody scary! Lots of young, big bulls, with sprouting horns, practically nudging me along. It was a bit disconcerting. Especially when they sprint towards you and look like they're about to charge.
One thing you don't see a lot of is goats. Unless you're wandering around Morocco, or up in the Alps somewhere, I doubt you will see many of these creatures. Unless you pop into a petting zoo somewhere, or happen across the rare herd of Kashmiri on Great Orme. It's a shame we don't really have them in farms any more. Their milk is okay, and they make great curry. Their meat, that is. Not the goat.
Horses and ponies next. I usually put them into three mood brackets: aloof, nervous, and overly friendly. A horse in a field is always a pleasant sight, and, certainly if you're walking in fields close to large towns, the most common animal you're likely to see. And wild ponies are always a magical encounter. I've come across them in Snowdonia, Pembrokeshire and even in the hills above Conwy and Penmaenmawr, and they are almost always beautiful creatures, but they are naturally a bit more wary of you than your average horse.
Whilst not under the domesticated bracket, birds are definitely a hazard. Especially if you're on an island or a cliff. In nesting season. Prepare to flown at. Or 'bombed'.
Dogs are sometimes an annoyance, but they can also be quite threatening. On the one hand, I've been jumped on my a muddy spaniel who wanted to make friends more times than I can remember. On the other, I was stalked across farmland on the Wirral by a rottweiler who had gotten out of his garden. Luckily, he got bored and went back. God alone knows what would have happened. He wasn't the most pleasant dog I've ever encountered.
But of late, the scariest creature I have had the displeasure of sharing several fields around the country is not one you immediately think as an animal of foreboding. One that would have you almost running out of the field. Heart beating faster. Shouting to scare them away, in vain. And that creature is the sheep. Yes, you read right. The sheep.
Untoward ungulates. Outraged ovids. It happened three times last year. All the years I've been walking, and it only happened last year. Maybe there was something in the air. But on three seperate occasions (near Ambleside, Cumbria; near Chatburn, Lancashire; and in Gaerwen, Anglesey), I was followed, quite aggressively, by entire herds of sheep. To be fair, it was lambing season, so I was ambling across fields full of lambs and their hyperattentive mothers, and was expecting some reponse. Normally the ewes just have a wee and run away, lambs in tow (I have no idea why they feel the need to do that first). But not in these cases. The elders of the herd, that looked like Nora Batty and Ena Sharples reincardnated into wooly form, took the lead, and were very almost biting my arse across the field. When I upped a gear to get away faster, they did too. Only getting over a stile to escape into the next field or onto a road did the ordeal cease. If they were rams, I would understand, but it was like being hounded by the sheep equivalent of Mumsnet. In all three cases, they were one breed of sheep: the Herdwick. These sheep were brought from Scandinavia by Norse settlers, so maybe they have a bit of beserker Viking spirit to them!
I'm sure I will get into more scrapes with the local livestock in the future...
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