Goats seemed like such a good idea...
Earlier this week, a friend shared a comment she'd seen about Instagram stories. The poster was recommending her favourite accounts and added me to that list (thank you, if it was you!!) and writing that I speak to the camera well but always seem to be looking for my goats.
While I can't particularly comment on the first bit, the latter is not actually true, because I don't really have to look for the goats any more. If they aren't in their field, I simply need to consider where in the vicinity they could get into the most trouble and there they will be. I hear our neighbouring farmer driving up? Without a doubt, they will be in his field grazing with his cows. Next door's holiday cottage door is open? They will be in the kitchen eating the holiday maker's dinner (true story). Have I bought new houseplants that day? Unquestionably they will have broken into the house to eat them. While the sheep just escape, the goats plot.
On Thursday morning, I woke up early to water the garden before the heat of the day. As I turned the corner to the veg plot, I saw 5 goats happily munching away at my peas, dahlias and raspberry bushes. They looked up at me quite innocently as I screamed at them to get the *&^* out of my garden, unperturbed by my flailing arms, tears and cuss words. If goats could wear facial expressions, theirs was one of utter astonishment...as if they couldn't believe I hadn't grown the whole garden just for them.
Of course I threatened all sorts of ends they would meet (meat), as I led them out into their field. Curry was mentioned, as was a rug or 5. I locked the door behind them and stomped off back to the house to compose myself with coffee and breakfast.
That breakfast was an omlette - eggs from the hens, spinach from the garden and the best feta you will ever eat, made from the milk of those horned ravagers of vegetable patches. I softened by bite one and by bite five, I sort of forgot why I had ever been mad at them in the first place. The power of a good cheese.