My favourite moss

Well, the clump of moss is my favourite, at least when I pass it on a walk out of the village.

We had just met a gentleman whose wife died in a ghastly tractor accident about 18 months ago.  Since her death he has taken over her pet projects, including raising a herd of Highland Cattle.  Walks in this village do not go quickly, and it is good to stop and talk.  

Today this gentleman told us of the trials of raising calves whose mothers had not fed them, for whatever reason.  One of those reasons was that a cow and her calf had been spooked by something or someone and had tried to cross a stream; the calf became stuck and this chap had to lift him out, wash him down and return him to mother.  But the process had removed the calf's smell, he thought, and the mother would no longer feed him.  So the owner had now to feed the calf by bottle, twice a day, adding to the two other calves needing similar feeding, sometimes despite the suspicion of bull or other cows.

It sounded like very hard work!