This morning I went to visit my neighbour, Peace. She’s a beautiful young lady with a sweet personality. She’s 23 years old and has a 7-year-old child. She lives with her mother, uncle, 3 brothers, 3 sisters, her own daughter and nephew. Anyway, I was there because she had promised me last night when we went round for dinner that I could come today and milk her cow. It was quite a different experience to milking a cow in England. For a start the cow’s back legs were tied up to stop it kicking over the bucket, there was no milking stool, we just squatted next to it, the calf was invited in to start proceedings (thereby making it easier for the human milkers) and then shooed away. When I tried milking a cow in the new forest, its udders were so big that the calf couldn’t get down low enough to drink from them! The next part was much more similar to home – I was invited in, shown how to do things, then I took over and milked diddly squat. Actually, to be fair on me, I would have been exceptionally pleased with myself if it wasn’t for the clear indication from Martin, my teacher, that he didn’t consider my efforts to be very fruitful. He kept frustratedly showing me the technique again and so I gathered that I wasn’t quite meeting his standard. It’s all a case of perception! It’s a mystery to me how some people have a natural aptitude for milking. It will take me a long time! One of these naturally good people was Emma, who showed up some way into proceedings (having been absent thus far due to her early morning run, which I had forsaken due to the cow), took a few photos and turned her hand to milking. The jets of milk coming from the cow with Emma in charge pleased Martin very much. I was impressed too. We finished proceedings with a mug of fresh milk each. It didn’t taste like normal whole milk, possibly a bit sourer, but maybe that was because it wasn’t refrigerated. After all, it’s very rare for a Brit to taste room temperature milk.
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