Well that was a different kind of picnic to our usual – and very exciting! We made it to our usual field (a mile or two from the canal), left our bikes on the public footpath running alongside the barbed wire fence edging our field (so that we would be able to keep an eye on the bikes) and we looked for a good spot to lay the red tartan picnic rug. I thought it would be nice to sit in the shade of a tree but Chris thought it would be much more private a little farther on, away from the fence and path. It was idyllic – the blue skies, the view of the flatlands, the herd of cows grazing in the distance…

As soon as we sat down on the rug a swarm of flying insects surrounded us – we weren’t sure what they were after (our dieting lunch wasn’t exactly plentiful or tempting) and it seemed likely that they wanted us. Being rather resourceful (if I do say so myself), I sprayed some factor 30 sunscreen at them and it worked a treat. We were so happy to be all alone again. We shared a banana and drank our “Calippo” ice-blocks. Before long Chris said, “I think a big bull is looking at us. He’s this side of the fence and coming our way.”

The bull was still some way off but he was barring the way that we had come into the field. We looked for another way out but couldn’t find anything suitable for pole-vaulting over the canal, and I haven’t had to test my broad-jumping skills for some years.

“We’ll have to go back to the fence where the bikes are,” I suggested.

“Too close to the bull,” Chris said.

“We’ll have to climb the fence nearer this end then,” I couldn’t see another way without actually  jumping into the canal.

I picked up a four foot plank of wood and walked towards the herd, singing as I did so. I remembered that cows enjoyed being milked to music so I thought a song from me might calm them and possibly endear me to them. The first song that popped into my head was, “I love to go a wandering along the mountain track…” Three cows couldn’t bear that song, turned around and walked off. The bull was fascinated and moved closer, or perhaps he took exception to the red rug that Chris threw over the barbs of the fence. Chris jumped over first and landed on top the pile of hawthorn branches on the other side of the fence. I saw a nice branch above me and hung on that while I elegantly and safely made it over the fence. Phew! We were safe!

The herd seemed not to be too bothered about us after all. The girls came over to the fence for a closer look and they enjoyed a chat. As it turned out the bull was feeling fruity and serviced three of them while they were otherwise amused. I’ve never seen anything like it. Luckily I had my mobile phone with me.

We were three miles from home when I started to feel the bones of my bottom objecting to my hard gel saddle cover.

“Are you saddle sore too?” I asked Chris.

“Not so much saddle sore as shorts-sore,” Chris answered.

“Oh, a hard seam?”

“Yes, I’ve never worn these particular shorts for cycling before,” he paused and added, “And I shall never do so again…”

I was still laughing when we arrived at our gate.