When you live on a rural cul-de-sac, there are certain things you expect to witness come early Sunday morn. There’s the neighbour’s wind chimes, clanging a random melody in the sweet-aired breeze. There’s the 8am sun, mischievously peeking out through the tree-lined horizon. And there’s dear old Mr. McKinley, setting off to his weekly church service, a glint in his eye and a spring in his step.
Also, if your rural cul-de-sac happens to be in North Yorkshire, expect to witness several dozen bovines darting across your g-damn lawn.
It’s like the story of the Pied Piper! Only, you know, with cows.
