On a quick errand earlier, I passed a herd of Jersey cows. They were ranged along the length of the low stone wall; eyes the size of saucers looking with amusement, not at me, but at the farmer standing close by.
Hundreds of metres of bunting has been fluttering along this particular stretch of road - proclaiming the farmer's support for our monarch, and welcomng all to the village concerned - for some days now.
Today, the farmer stood with a length of bunting looped in one hand, his other stretched to the side with a further extension. For a moment it looked as though he was about to try his hand at rodeo lassoo, static-jubilee fashion. Too good to miss, I slowed down to watch.
The cows stayed still and continued to observe the lone figure getting closer to them. The bunting had blown in the breeze and the farmer was about to engage in a complex line dance in order to sort himself out. So, with a,'you, Flo', move to the right a little,' and 'Daisy, back a bit, will you' he began to untangle the regal tribute. I am pleased to report that the bunting is tied again in its rightful place and the herd concerned are grazing unconcerningly once more, albeit a little more hoof-co-ordinated than they might have been a few hours ago. Only in Somerset!
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