Memories of Milking Cows

Growing up on a farm, my Saturdays began at the crack of dawn. The clock would barely strike 5 AM when I'd quietly dress, careful not to disturb the peaceful slumber of my grandparents and sister. The creaky stairs presented a challenge, each step a potential betrayer of my early morning adventure. My grandmother always kept the front door locked, and despite my many attempts, I never did find out where she hid the key. But that never stopped me, as I'd climb up onto the kitchen sink and open the window before slipping out into the crisp morning air to find my beloved cows. 

The cows always seemed to be in the field we call Plot, which has the most wonderful oak tree in the middle. This tree, called Churchill’s Oak, was left there by my Grandad in memory of Winston Churchill when he removed the hedge separating two plots in 1965. As soon as I opened the gate to the field, about twenty-five cows would raise their heads and look in my direction, each with a unique name and personality. Among them, Sam stood out as my favourite. She was an Angus-Friesian cross with a gentle temperament that made her a joy to be around. Sam loved a good cuddle and often leaned into me, allowing me to wrap my arms around her soft, wrinkly neck.

The routine of rounding up the cows was the best way to start the day. The cool morning air, the soft rustling of grass underfoot, and the mist rising from the river at the bottom of the valley made that early walk in the fields feel almost magical. 

Each cow knew the drill. With a few gentle calls and nudges, they would begin their journey back to the yard, their hooves clomping rhythmically on the dewy ground.

Once in the yard, I’d secure the gate behind them and prepare for the milking process. The milking machine motor roared to life and the pump would make a pssssh-ti-cufff rhythmic sound, much like my favourite cartoon, Ivor The Engine. The cows, familiar with the routine, lined up in their specific order, each knowing exactly where to stand. 

Three cows at a time, their udders connected to the milking machine, while the next three waited patiently. Most of the cows were calm, but a few had a mischievous streak, occasionally delivering a swift kick if you weren’t paying attention. I remember one close call when a hoof whizzed past my ear, grazing my shoulder on the way back. Despite these occasional mishaps, the process was generally smooth and efficient.

Just as the first three cows finished milking, my grandad would arrive, taking charge with his steady hands and years of experience. His presence was always reassuring, a reminder of the generations of knowledge passed down through our family.

The connection I felt with the cows went beyond the work of milking. Each cow had a distinct personality, and I came to understand and appreciate their individual quirks. Sam, with her docile nature, was always a comfort. Others were more playful or stubborn, but all were endearing in their own way.

Back then, the farm taught me responsibility, patience, and the importance of nurturing living beings. The cows, in their silent, gentle way, became my friends and teachers.

Even now, the memories of those Saturday mornings bring a smile to my face. The sight of the cows lining up, the sound of the milking machine, and the feel of Sam’s warm, soft coat as she leaned into me for a cuddle are etched into my heart. Falling in love with cows as a boy wasn’t just about the animals; it was about the sense of connection with the land, an understanding that we have a responsibility to look after and steward it, just as my grandad did.