Red Rag

Red Rag

Earphones pumping out a Foo Fighters classic, and legs aching from the previous ten miles of hiking over tough terrain, I began to think about where I’d sleep the night. A bothy? Or should I find a quiet spot to wild camp? Scotland had plentiful supplies of both. Especially in the Highlands along a little-traveled trail ending at Cape Wrath Lighthouse.

Midges buzzed erratically, trying desperately to nab me through the mesh visor that covered my head. I already had welts the size of Venus all over my hands and ankles, where the blighters had snuck. I’d been unaware of their ferocity at the start of my solo trek, but now had pile of midge repellant on hand. This lot didn't seem deterred.

It’ll be alright, I’d thought, setting off determinedly from Fort William, across the loch on the little ferry, and out into the unknown wilderness that beckoned, sans repellant. Midges are annoying but I'll be fine. More. Fool. Me. Midges are devils in disguise, attacking the unwary, mad for the taste of blood. Lesson learned.

I’d been walking – more like bog-hopping – for several hours. Negotiating the tricky terrain was a lesson in focus. Narrow tributaries from larger streams crisscrossed the peat laden ground. Some of the rivulets were hidden by moss and peat that created an overhang over the deep furrows cut into the rocks beneath. Granite that had lain there for millions of years had been gouged by glacial water existing since the last ice age. Together they formed treacherous ankle breakers that threatened to end my three-week trip with a trip in the air ambulance.

But that stage was behind me for now. I had been walking along what looked like a farm track, complete with tractor treads, and hopped over a stile without looking ahead. A lesson in foolishness.

I’d grabbed my vivid red scarf, wafting it at the hungry horde as they crowded me. I was now aware, as I peered through the insect cloud, that I had the attention of a band of bovine sisters…and their muscular, horn-laden beau who’d give Arnie a run for his money.

I lowered my hand, the scarf dangling limply, and met the bull’s stare. He stomped his foot once, the impact resonating through my soles. I gulped, taking a backward step. He advanced and stomped again, lowering his head.

One of his girlfriends mooed loudly. I jumped, clenching my hand tightly around the scarf. The entire herd now faced me, bolshy as a crowd of menopausal women on a night out when faced with someone that, in their hormone-induced paranoia, they considered a threat.

Another step back. Another moo. Another foot stomp. This time when Big Ben took a step forward, so did his herd. Crap!

I dared a glance behind me and saw a tractor approaching, a big double-pronged pointy thing protruding from it like a pair of horns. Hay baler, probably. Perhaps it had a bazooka attached. I figured I needed a bazooka. A big one. Bull-sized.

I paused for a second as I met the bull’s gaze again, his bleary tea-colored eyes narrowed on the scarf. Then I tilted my head and figured that I had no choice but to cross the field. I could retreat like a coward. Or I could give Big Ben his space and edge around the field, within easy reach of the fence in case a mad dash was called for.

The plan firm in my head, I crab-walked to the left, the fence at my back, in a clockwise direction. Slow and steady, determined not to annoy the bull unnecessarily. I hummed a tune, hoping to calm His Lordship. He mooed but stayed where he was. I heard the clank of metal on metal but daren’t risk looking toward the gate. The tractor revved and I heard someone calling to the cows. They said, “Cum on ya hairy idjuts!” or something like it. Hard to tell given the distance and Scottish dialect.

I spied two young calves hiding behind their red-haired mamas, cute as could be. No wonder Big Ben was protective. Guardian of the glen, eh? Impressive and protective. A winner by anyone’s standards.

By now I was over halfway across Big Ben’s domain, almost to the furthest fence. My feet squished in cow pats and bog, flies buzzed incessantly, and my heart raced fast enough to leap right out of my throat. And it was hot. June in the Highlands was always unpredictable. Yesterday had been hailstones and monsoon-like rain. Today was a heatwave.

Sweat trickled down my face. I rubbed my face, huffing in relief…and recalled the scarf. The red one that was now flapping about in my measly grasp. I lowered my hand again, trying to hide the scarf behind my back. Big Ben mooed again, stomped twice, and I quickly stuffed the offensive rag into my pocket, reversing as rapidly as I dared.

The herd followed, Big Ben swishing his immense head, his horns glinting in the waning light. Oh god.

“I’m sorry, alright?” I hissed, trying for calmness. “I get it. Your field. Your babies. I’m just passing through. Vegetarian, you know.”

I continued pacifying him until I saw the dry-stone wall within easy reach. A quick look over it had me huffing again. There was a steep drop on the other side, which meant I had to get to the gate, nearly a hundred meters distant, not hop over the wall as I’d hoped.

The tractor driver was still attempting to call the cows, who were far too interested in me, though they kept their distance. The bull, however, had advanced. I wondered how fast he could run. How quickly could he spear me with those wickedly sharp horns? Or perhaps he was into trampling his victims. He looked the trampling type. His red hair gave it away. Highland cattle were a hardy breed, perfectly suited to the area. Yeah, I bet he’d be into trampling.

The gate beckoned, still fifty meters away. I sped up and looked that way, briefly unfocused on my nemesis. Big Ben snorted as I jerked back around. He lifted his head – then charged. I shrieked and flung the scarf at him, then set off as fast as my chubby legs,the soggy ground, and my forty-pound backpack could manage. More a shuffling shamble than a run, really.

The scarf worked. Big Ben snorted again, and stopped, now having a whale of a time smashing the crimson accessory into a cow pat, giving me time to negotiate the gate. The tractor driver gave me a big thumb’s up, grinning as I slammed it shut behind me. I bowed, then set off again, ignoring my jelly legs and squelchy boots.

Heaving a sigh, I squared my shoulders and continued along the track until the farmyard was out of sight, the highlands stretching out before me, barren of trees – and cows. Damned cows.

I’d miss my scarf. I laughed. The term “red rag to a bull” had flitted through my mind, hence the distraction technique. Which had worked a treat. And nobody would believe me. I hadn’t had the bottle to film it. Damned cows!

THE END