Much More Bull

A message had been painted on the top rail of the gate in neat white capitals

‘Bull in Park’

Assuming this was not referring to the animal’s automotive state (‘Heifer in Neutral’, ‘Sheep in Reverse’), this looked serious.

As a walker, I had the right to climb over the gate, cross the land by the public footpath, and be gored to death. As a coward, however, I didn’t feel keen.

It was possible, of course, that the notice was intended to advertise the bull as an attraction - a petting- or photo-opportunity perhaps. But somehow I doubted it. There was, I felt, a clear implication that the bull in question was the wrong sort of bull, possibly in the wrong sort of mood, and if it took against me, that was my lookout. All that was missing was a sentence in italics pointing out that this would not affect my statutory rights. Perhaps it was painted on the other side of the gate.

Only one way to find out. I scaled the gate and, reader, I crossed that field. Not without trepidation, and some searching questions (Can bulls climb trees? Can I climb trees? Not when their lowest branches are 3 metres from the ground I can't).

But nothing happened. Half a dozen sheep - possibly the animal’s lunch - watched me idly, and somewhere in shadows of a deep barn, something may or may not have stirred.

I had survived – no Bull. They must have left it in Park, after all.

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Later today I am casseroling the ox-heart – it’s been in the freezer, taking up a whole shelf more or less, whilst I searched out a recipe. This collosal object will only serve four, because most of the outside is fat (we must have got a very sedentary animal – too much on-line gaming and not enough brisk walks).

I shall render the fat (‘render’ - wonderful word, redolent of cauldrons, stoked fires and sweaty arms in rolled-up sleeves) to lard for future cooking. The fact that I’ve got through the last decade without ever feeling a need for lard makes me hesitate only slightly.

I have meanwhile learnt that ox-heart is in fact just cow- or bull-heart re-packaged to make it sound better. Oxen don’t actually come into it. On the same principal, ‘crispy seaweed’ sounds so much more appetising than ‘fried spring greens’, and ‘sweetbreads’ - well, never mind that; just eat up and I’ll tell you later.

I shall stew the meaty bits (if I can find them) of my heart for about a week, serve them with celeriac mash, glazed carrots and peas, deal with the resultant protests as best I can, then scrape the largely-untouched plates into the recycling bin.

Home cooking is such a joy.