The beast of Landrinio

The sun scolded down on anything in its reach, any human, beast or insect and the glistening on-flowing river, eastwards, shimmered by like a mirage. Suddenly through the haze of the desert like temperature, burst the gargantuan frame of a beast that was both angry and well muscled in every department. In fact, the thing was horned and fiery eyes blazed red. It stopped its mad rush into the middle of the field and slowly turned its head towards me, curious. I cautiously watched the movements of the beast, its pointy sword like tusks at least half a metre long each, or so they seemed. I peered back over my shoulder to calculate the distance of the gate of the cursed field and I'd say it was at least around six hundred metres away. I considered my only other option: the river.

As I was making my mind up about what to do, suddenly those singular set of eyes, burning circular wheels of fiery madness, were joined by other similar angry eyes as hordes of hooves and horns and pure muscle entered the arena in their twenties at least, from the hidden confines of a thick gathering of oaks. They looked at me and then turned to each other as if in uncertain unspoken discussions and in acquiescence began slowly to move my way. I froze and then I shouted. There were even spectators beyond the horde I noticed, who gaped in irritating fascination, watching from behind the safety of the exit gate, and were there slight smiles creeping at the edge of their ghastly mouths in pure entertainment? Before I knew it my body hit cold liquid and that was all I remember as I woke up hours later on the dried up riverbank.

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So, basically the moral of the story is during certain times of the year (mainly during beginning of spring and summer) watch out for roaming beasts in some of the farmers’ fields that the national trails regularly pass through. Although the mast majority of the cows, albeit large in stature, are harmless and relatively docile, skittish themselves even (not just the walkers!) there are some bulls like the ones in my short story that can catch you off guard, and therefore you have to be extremely careful.

So what actually happened to me in the end? Fortunately I was still alive, as of course I wouldn’t be writing this now, but I have spoken to some people who told me that a few unfortunate souls, including solitary hikers, have actually not been so lucky to avoid the stampeding hordes — but if you have to run, run your ass off or the final option jump; if you can swim, jump into the river!

Just for dramatic effect, I said that I ended up in the smooth flowing river of the Wye, but actually this isn’t how it really happened. Instead, I began to shout at the herd and wave my arms around in an frantic attempt to at least slow them down by confusing them. But I didn’t really know what I was doing. I was particularly concerned by the first bull that came out, the leader. It seemed to be out vying for something to attack. It wasn’t thinking as such, just a brainless beast of pure adrenaline and testosterone. As I shouted pathetically, it worked to an extent I think, but still the massive bulls kept coming, spurred on in their large numbers; and it has to be said that the other walkers on the other side of the fence watching on did absolutely nothing to help, but then to be fair, in the middle of nowhere what could they do? I backed away and backed away, until I was close enough to the gate and as I could see the bulls grow bored, after quite a while of waiting, I dashed past the group who were well away by now, when the opportunity presented itself.

During the wait, I could see that the other hikers were also trying to figure out how to get around — there didn’t seem to be another way. Eventually, the horde sauntered down to the far side of the field by a tall hedge, where the four hikers were tiptoeing around to get to as well, in a random field around the outside of the high greenery, unaware of the movement of the cows. At this point I was able to sprint along the path across the field and I was away. Glancing back, I could see the other walkers poking their heads through the hedge and to their surprise seeing the cows right there! I’m ashamed to say that I couldn’t resist a chuckle. Well it wasn’t like they helped me in that crisis situation either did they?

I don’t want to put anyone off from walking these absolutely wonderful national trails in the UK. At this time, I was well on the way to completing the 177 mile Offa’s Dyke walk, the whole thing created in 1971 starting from the Sedbury Cliffs in Chepstow, Wales and spans along the Welsh border all the way to Prestatyn, a north coastal town in Wales. Generally, the walk follows a man-made fortified hill designed originally by King Offa (and his helpers as I'm sure the King himself probably didn't lift a finger, although this has not been proven) in around the 8th century apparently, either as a display of his great power or to keep the English armies out.

The walk, not the longest national trail or the oldest, but according to lord Sandford, the former president of the Offa’s Dyke Association, the best. It is unique in the different kinds of countryside through which it passes and the intriguingly weird historical tales of the past told by the incredible array of historical features seen on the way. Walking the Offa’s Dyke path, even in various sections, is well worth it. It goes without saying, just be wary of the cows, naturally!