I even looked round it, because when I drove up for the viewing, I saw it was surrounded by fields full of cows. To one side of the cottage, calves skittered in the grass; to the other, their parents ruminated on the hill.
As we viewed the house, I picked out a spot by a window upstairs where I would write, specially chosen so I could watch the cows in the fields.
I am writing at that window now. It is a spot only slightly troubled by a moral dilemma that I hadn’t factored in: how to square this dreamy bovine view with my love of steak.I moved into the house and up to my desk and got used to writing my column while watching calves playing in the field.
It was sweet relief after my desks in Dalston and Soho, where I would regularly look up from work to see a screaming fight or a drug deal, and be disturbed by blue-flashing lights or sirens roaring.Over these weeks I have got to know my cow neighbours better than I ever knew my human neighbours in London.
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