Constable Gallichan’s cows

There’s a sign on the road that leads up to my house with the silhouette of a Jersey cow, it’s scratched and a little battered. I’ve often wondered when the last cow crossed this road to the fields across the way from my house which used to be part of an old Jersey farm.

Yesterday I was reminded of the poignancy of that sign by the announcement that Mr. Gallichan who lives down the road from me has decided to give up his herd of Jersey cows because the numbers simply don’t stack up any more.

How I’ll miss Constable Gallichan’s cows.

Every morning on my way into work I, like so many other Islanders who live in the Trinity area drive past Mr. Gallichan’s farm and over the years I’ve got used to watching the activities of these simple ruminants. If I was really early, maybe going to catch the “red eye” I would be in time to see the cattle gathering outside the milking shed, steaming in the misty early morning electric light long before dawn.

If I was a little later the cows would have vanished, but from the intensity of the light pouring out of the buildings one could tell that the milking was in full swing.

A little later still and the cows would be out in the field grazing away come rain or shine.

Then there were the slight irritations: Mr. Gallichan moving the cows across the road as early morning commuters impatiently waited whilst he battled with that last cow that had just spotted the perfect piece of grass, and then finally once across he waved us on; the smell of the slurry that reminded one of the less savoury jobs on the farm.

But this morning as I went past Mr. Gallichan’ s farm there were no lights, no cows looking dolefully at us fretting commuters, the gentle rhythms to which I have become so accustomed have stopped, replaced by the ghosts of what has been.

How I’ll miss Constable Gallichan’s cows.