The other evening my daughter rode out on Ben and I accompanied them on a bike. Evenings on the roads around here mean encounters with drivers and walkers and, occasionally, cows. There is a family locally where three generations are involved in the farm. On this particular evening, a car came slowly down the road and stopped by us. It was the Dad. He told us some cows were coming and asked if Ben would be all right. He suggested moving off to a wider spot, but I figured Ben should be fine if I stood beside him. So Ben and my daughter waited on a grass verge, with me alongside holding Ben’s reins.
Then the cows came being led by the son (aged about 10). They passed in a group, looking but not approaching until I noticed, in the middle of the group, a bull. The ring at the end of his nose was only one of the giveaways. He was not being led by that ring. And he looked at Ben and made straight for us. Without thinking, I lunged forwards and he backed away. The cows passed on and were followed by Granddad in another car, who looked worried and shouted some sentences I could not make out. I smiled reassuringly and we continued on our way.
As happens on rides, there were other small incidents, including my daughter sitting her first big spook and laughing, growing in confidence all the time.
So it was only when I woke up the next morning that I realised that I had faced down a bull.