George, my loyal black Labrador, was always by my side, no matter the season or weather. We ventured out together late into the evenings, roaming through the moody landscapes and jealous skies of Nicky Nook in Scorton, nestled within the Trough of Bowland in Lancaster, Lancashire, England. This rugged stretch of English countryside was a familiar stomping ground, filled with rolling hills, dense woodlands, and farmlands. I was often affectionately called “a man for all seasons,” and it’s no wonder—rain, snow, sun, or wind, George and I were always out exploring, often at a brisk pace.
We spent so much time in these hills and valleys that we grew attuned to the rhythms of the land. Footpaths led us through the quiet beauty of Lancashire’s fells and dales, but the tranquillity was sometimes interrupted by the looming presence of cows scattered across the landscape. Cows may seem like slow, docile creatures, but I had learned through experience, both personal and professional, that under the right circumstances, they could be dangerous.
In the 1970s, during my A-Level studies in economic geography, I spent time on a farm near Nicky Nook for my thesis. This was an immersion into the rural heartbeat of the area, learning the intricacies of farm life, cattle behaviour, and the management of footpaths cutting through grazing fields. That knowledge stayed with me throughout my life. Years later, my work as a civil litigator often brought me into contact with cases involving herd attacks—tragic incidents where cows had injured or even killed walkers, often as a result of careless land management. I knew the ins and outs of herd dynamics and cattle psychology. Cows have a herd mentality, and when one runs, they all do. They are highly inquisitive, but they can be unpredictable, particularly when protective of calves.
George and I had to be constantly aware of this as we wandered through these cow-grazing territories. The weathered signposts marking public footpaths were no deterrent to the cows. They owned the fields, and we were merely guests. On two separate occasions, we found ourselves in the midst of a herd that had decided to take a sudden interest in us. There’s nothing quite like the rush of adrenaline when you realise that a dozen or more cows are starting to close in, their heads low, ears pricked, eyes fixed. I knew what was coming.
The first time it happened, George and I were wandering along a familiar trail when I noticed the cows, scattered lazily around the higher parts of the field. At first, they seemed indifferent, but the more we walked, the more interested they became. Soon enough, a few began moving toward us. Then a few more. Before we knew it, the whole herd was barreling in our direction. I knew better than to turn and run, but there’s something primal about the sight of large animals charging toward you. The ground seemed to tremble beneath their weight. George and I ran like the clappers down the hill, adrenaline coursing through us as we made a mad dash for the bottom, where a sturdy gate offered the only protection. We barely made it through before the cows reached us, panting on the other side as they pressed up against the fence, mooing their frustration.
“That was a close shave,” I remember telling George, as we both caught our breath. Yet, the very next week, there we were again, walking the same path, a little wiser and more cautious but still undeterred by the possibility of another encounter.
Week after week, George and I continued our explorations, not just in Lancashire but across the vast wilderness of Northern England. The Lake District, with its majestic peaks like Helvellyn and the precarious Striding Edge, became our playground. The raw, windswept beauty of Snowdonia in Wales, the Yorkshire Dales, and Brontë Country all held their unique challenges and charm. In these wild places, the mind often wandered to the dark, brooding presence of Heathcliff in “Wuthering Heights.” Like him, I felt connected to the elemental forces of nature—stormy skies, howling winds, and the rugged terrain.
Despite the dangers lurking in these places, from sudden weather changes to the unpredictable terrain, George and I pushed on. Over time, these experiences gave us a deep understanding of the land and its hidden perils. The hills and mountains might seem imposing, but with experience and knowledge, we had learned to respect their dangers without being intimidated. That confidence helped in those moments of sudden peril, like the time we faced the cows.
The second time the cows turned on us, it was even more harrowing. This time, the herd was much closer when they decided to give chase. We had little time to react, and once again, we found ourselves sprinting downhill, George by my side, his powerful legs carrying him forward at breakneck speed. I could hear the cows behind us, their hooves pounding the earth. My heart raced, my breath short, as we hurtled toward the gate. I knew that if I didn’t time it right, if I stumbled or faltered, the consequences could be dire. But we made it, slamming the gate shut behind us, leaning on it for support as the cows snorted and stamped on the other side.
As a litigator, I had represented people in tragic cases where walkers hadn’t been so lucky. Cows, though not naturally aggressive, can be deadly if provoked or spooked, especially when they have calves. These experiences on the trails had given me a heightened understanding of the dangers, but they had also reinforced the connection George and I shared with the land. Despite the close calls, we kept returning to the hills and dales, our love for the countryside stronger than any fear of what might happen.
Even after these encounters, George and I would still make our weekly trips to the Lake District or the Yorkshire Dales. We knew the terrain well, understood the behaviours of the wildlife and livestock, and, most importantly, respected the land. Whether navigating the narrow ridge of Striding Edge, or trudging through the wind-battered peaks of Snowdonia, there was always a sense of exhilaration. Despite the dangers, onward we went, together, with the confidence that comes from a lifetime of experience and companionship.
“Bring it on,” I said to George, as we stood by the gate, adrenaline still rushing—knowing that no matter the dangers ahead, we’d always face them together.