Ride a Country Mile

“Remember the day Dad put you on the sheep?” asked my sister.

How could I ever forget it? We were at my uncle’s farm, when I was lifted up and gently lowered onto the fleecy seat. Without hesitation, the placid animal turned into a live amusement park ride. Head down and breathing hard it bolted away from the house and along the muddy paddock. Above all, it was my mother’s wish that we always stayed clean. I knew it was to my peril that I fell off and marked my clothes. It also might hurt.

With clumps of greasy wool in each hand, I tucked my knees in and held on. With no steering mechanism in sight, I trusted that Lambie knew where she was taking me. A leap here and a swerve there maneuvered us

Uncle Lindsay, had his farm at Nietta

around the occasional rock and large tuft of grass. We were really travelling.

Behind me, I heard shouts fading as my rescuers were left far behind. They were never going to keep up with this pace. Through the gateway we powered, Lambie taking a right turn to avoid the bog stirred up from the hooves of 40 cows heading for the dairy. Spits of mud flew from her pounding feet as she squelched her way up the slope.

With open country in front of her, she chose the most unlikely option. The narrow doorway of the separating room invited her in and she accepted. I had not expected to be steeple chasing but I flattened into a streamlined position as we mounted the steps and tore through the room at a pace. No cows were waiting at the bails as we passed, and hung a sharp left into the waiting area.

Lambie did not slow down; I did. Through the rails she dived; a drop of several feet to the ground. Indecorously I was siphoned off her back, landing on the cement platform, my pride in tatters, but without a spot on my dress.

These days, I choose other methods of transport.