Grip it firmly, he’d said, then squeeze, don’t pull. I’d joined George and his mother milking their small herd of cows. I counted about ten, not all in milk, a couple expecting their first calves in the spring. I’d been quite pleased with my efforts, until George took over. I’d managed barely a dribble. But I’d enjoyed having a go, and said so. True, if a little less than tactful. Quickly realising my mistake, I added that doing this twice a day, every day, in all weathers, was an entirely different affair.
We left Zoya, George’s mother, busy with their milking machine, and headed out into the darkness to feed a calf in a nearby shed. Two litres of milk gone in less than a minute. Elsewhere, goats, kept for their meat. A bull, resting. A calf and a few pigs, being fattened for Christmas.
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