Old Morag’s white coat positively gleams in the late sun: the angles of her hips and ribs casting shadows on her lean flank.
She and Flora wander the farm road suckling their russet babies. This morning I almost stumbled over them chewing the cud in the long grass under the birch trees above the roundhouse, as I targetted the vivid yellow of a clump of ragwort.
They are free of the bull Angus Halfhorn: at their age -15 years old-and developing rheumatics from long wet winters endured outside, I am content that they should put their strength into this year’s suckling calf : only introducing them to Angus after weaning.
She has her head inserted sideways through the linewire to suck from the trough that serves the rest of the herd.
The water available for her and Flora is a full ten yards away and requires no degradation of my fences.
She is an old campaigner, mother of champions: she has earned her idiosyncracies.