The Aberdeen Angus was first bred in Scotland in 1824 and records show that the breed has continued through to today. In general it is a mild-mannered beast without horns (which caused some consternation to the American market) It is generally regarded throughout the world as - Good Eating!
That said, there is always the exception to the rule.. When any beast of this size is unhappy it is best to stand aside.
Monday was the day of the cattle-market. During holiday time it was a magnet for all the kids in the area. The sound of the Auctioneer with his alien tongue, the smell, the animals lowing and bleating and snorting, the heavy trucks releasing their loads of livestock into pens, men with long sticks prodding and coaxing; it made up a tapestry that assaulted the senses.
At the far end of the market stood the Auctioneers hut which was in fact a caravan of the horse-drawn variety. A set of six wooden steps led up to the door which hung open on market day to reveal the men inside all wearing white smocks to denote their rank and busily writing in ledgers.
A brick wall surrounded the whole compound and the only way to sit atop the structure was to run up the steps of the caravan and jump up onto the wall. That done it was possible to walk, or shuffle if walking invoked fear, along and take up a position that overlooked the bull-pen beneath and the rest of the proceedings.
To the left was the entrance. The lorries would back up to here and release their loads of sheep, goats, pigs, cattle and the main attraction, the bulls. Over to the right the pens for those animals stood and the attendants guided the animals through a maze of moveable gates to the appropriate place.
This day, I had taken up my position early, though not before Pete who had a knack of being everywhere before anyone else. I started to tuck into a hot meat pie from the mobile canteen (sadly missed is that ‘Greasy Spoon; The best tasting meat pies in the whole world. Meat supplied by Taylors the Butchers of note.) when a loud bellow caught our attention.
A cattle truck was backing up and the noise came from within and it was loud. The truck stopped and the hiss from the brakes caused another roar. We knew a troubled bull when we heard one and fidgeted in anticipation.
On occasion various animals had made a bid for freedom. Pigs being the worst offenders, they could lead the men with sticks a merry dance in their attempts to get them to get back into line. A bull was a different manner and we waited while the men unbolted the draw gate and lowered it to the ground. The cross-gates are pretty flimsy affairs and serve only as a token barrier and are more of a guide for the creatures as they ascend or descend the ramp of the tailgate.
With another bellow at the world the black beast stood at the top of the ramp and snorted its defiance, it was not happy. The cross-gates were lifted and set each side of the ramp but no movement did it make. It stood and snorted, a mist appearing from each nostril. Noise is something that the Angus does well.
Mrs. Bowen owned the sweet shop. She had been the incumbent there since time began and Sweet Shops had been invented. It was no surprise to us kids when sometimes we would arrive at the door of the shop only to find a note on the door – Back in five minutes. Gone to feed the cats. We would wait of course, you cannot keep a child away from a sweet shop for long, especially when the shop in question had so many delights to lust for. She once had been married but Mr. Bowen had not lasted the course, he had expired before my time and indeed anyone else’s, except maybe Mrs. Stone who had laid everybody in the street out in her time and we all knew that She would be around to see us off to.
The shop next door belonged to Mr. Taylor the Butcher. He took only the best meat from the Market. He reluctantly left young Bob in charge whilst he was away but he fretted the whole time because Bob didn’t cut the meat in quite the right way; He would always cut rashers of bacon to thick or tie the beef to tight: Mr Taylor fretted a lot whilst at the market.
The Auctioneer began his spiel on the current bull that had entered the ring and hands or sticks lifted as he raised the price or they made cutting motions to indicate they were out of the bidding. Meanwhile the black Angus started his descent of the ramp albeit a tad reluctantly.
With a toss of the head, that maybe indicated a degree of boredom with the company that goaded him downward, the bull decided to strike out on his own. He simply lurched off to the left and crashed through the flimsy cross gate leaving the splintered wood about him as he stepped down onto the access road. Before him he saw a free path so he began to trot.
As one, the nearest people scattered. It was all very well to have a bull in a controlled environment, to have one loose on a road was not good.
Angus started to run and we watched with great interest, this was an extra to normal proceedings. We jumped down from the wall and followed – at a distance.
The driveway to the market first passed the Coachworks where Jeff stored and serviced his Luxury Coaches that made trips across Europe – Jeffways, The trip of a Lifetime. Call us for The BEST of Deals.
The bull took no notice and continued his way. Tossing his head and snorting as he trotted he rapidly approached the main road. Roads are everywhere of course, and the one the bull neared was the major road between London and Oxford. It was always busy and provided a headache for the Town Planners who had yet to realise what a wealth lay at their feet if they could bring the passing motorists to stop in the town and spend money. Alongside the road lay the river, this also provided another headache for planners. In later years they built a piped diversion for it and buried it forever underground and widened the road above to allow even more traffic to pass through.
At this time it remained a pleasant feature, the bull however was not into sight-seeing and he crossed the road without a thought. Much screeching of brakes and shouting accompanied this. A straight line bought the bull into Bridge Street and relative quite to the bustle of the market and main road. We followed the followers who, armed with sticks and loud voices advised each other on the best way to bring the beast to a halt and return him to the market. Advice there was in plenty – Action was there none.
With a hop and a jump the bull picked up speed. WE ran now to keep up, though still at a safe distance.
Mrs. Bowen came out of the butchers and fished into her handbag for her keys. Under her arm was a neatly wrapped parcel of fresh meat, a bit of steak for her tea and a few scarps for her cats. She looked up and beheld the mayhem that drew toward her.
She could have simply stepped aside and let it al pass. She could have opened her shop and stepped inside out of harms way. After all, a bull charging toward you was not an everyday experience.
Whatever sort of stubborn streak she had in her came to the fore. After looking up and assessing the situation she stepped out into the middle of the road and the animals path and stopped.
Now, it is true that the bull slowed and it is also true that we, the onlookers, drew a breath because even at the distance we were, we could see the anger in the his eyes. Mrs. Bowen saw none of this, what she saw was a naughty animal that ought to be chastised.
The loudest bellow was reserved for the old woman and the bull drew up in front of her, snorting and pawing the tarmac. With a casual movement Mrs. Bowen took the parcel of meat from under her arm and delivered a mighty blow onto the nose of the still snorting beast. “Now stop that you stupid creature”, she said.
It is difficult to describe the look the bull gave her. Surprise is probably the nearest, followed by one of pardon which quickly turned to fear.
Handlers gathered and roped and tied the beast and began to lead it away which seemed to please the bull no end; It gave a snort of acceptance and relief and allowed itself to be led back to the market without another murmur.
The old lady returned to her shop and let herself in.
We searched through our pockets and purses for a few pennies and followed her into the shop. We just HAD to spend more time in the company of this woman.
That said, there is always the exception to the rule.. When any beast of this size is unhappy it is best to stand aside.
Monday was the day of the cattle-market. During holiday time it was a magnet for all the kids in the area. The sound of the Auctioneer with his alien tongue, the smell, the animals lowing and bleating and snorting, the heavy trucks releasing their loads of livestock into pens, men with long sticks prodding and coaxing; it made up a tapestry that assaulted the senses.
At the far end of the market stood the Auctioneers hut which was in fact a caravan of the horse-drawn variety. A set of six wooden steps led up to the door which hung open on market day to reveal the men inside all wearing white smocks to denote their rank and busily writing in ledgers.
A brick wall surrounded the whole compound and the only way to sit atop the structure was to run up the steps of the caravan and jump up onto the wall. That done it was possible to walk, or shuffle if walking invoked fear, along and take up a position that overlooked the bull-pen beneath and the rest of the proceedings.
To the left was the entrance. The lorries would back up to here and release their loads of sheep, goats, pigs, cattle and the main attraction, the bulls. Over to the right the pens for those animals stood and the attendants guided the animals through a maze of moveable gates to the appropriate place.
This day, I had taken up my position early, though not before Pete who had a knack of being everywhere before anyone else. I started to tuck into a hot meat pie from the mobile canteen (sadly missed is that ‘Greasy Spoon; The best tasting meat pies in the whole world. Meat supplied by Taylors the Butchers of note.) when a loud bellow caught our attention.
A cattle truck was backing up and the noise came from within and it was loud. The truck stopped and the hiss from the brakes caused another roar. We knew a troubled bull when we heard one and fidgeted in anticipation.
On occasion various animals had made a bid for freedom. Pigs being the worst offenders, they could lead the men with sticks a merry dance in their attempts to get them to get back into line. A bull was a different manner and we waited while the men unbolted the draw gate and lowered it to the ground. The cross-gates are pretty flimsy affairs and serve only as a token barrier and are more of a guide for the creatures as they ascend or descend the ramp of the tailgate.
With another bellow at the world the black beast stood at the top of the ramp and snorted its defiance, it was not happy. The cross-gates were lifted and set each side of the ramp but no movement did it make. It stood and snorted, a mist appearing from each nostril. Noise is something that the Angus does well.
Mrs. Bowen owned the sweet shop. She had been the incumbent there since time began and Sweet Shops had been invented. It was no surprise to us kids when sometimes we would arrive at the door of the shop only to find a note on the door – Back in five minutes. Gone to feed the cats. We would wait of course, you cannot keep a child away from a sweet shop for long, especially when the shop in question had so many delights to lust for. She once had been married but Mr. Bowen had not lasted the course, he had expired before my time and indeed anyone else’s, except maybe Mrs. Stone who had laid everybody in the street out in her time and we all knew that She would be around to see us off to.
The shop next door belonged to Mr. Taylor the Butcher. He took only the best meat from the Market. He reluctantly left young Bob in charge whilst he was away but he fretted the whole time because Bob didn’t cut the meat in quite the right way; He would always cut rashers of bacon to thick or tie the beef to tight: Mr Taylor fretted a lot whilst at the market.
The Auctioneer began his spiel on the current bull that had entered the ring and hands or sticks lifted as he raised the price or they made cutting motions to indicate they were out of the bidding. Meanwhile the black Angus started his descent of the ramp albeit a tad reluctantly.
With a toss of the head, that maybe indicated a degree of boredom with the company that goaded him downward, the bull decided to strike out on his own. He simply lurched off to the left and crashed through the flimsy cross gate leaving the splintered wood about him as he stepped down onto the access road. Before him he saw a free path so he began to trot.
As one, the nearest people scattered. It was all very well to have a bull in a controlled environment, to have one loose on a road was not good.
Angus started to run and we watched with great interest, this was an extra to normal proceedings. We jumped down from the wall and followed – at a distance.
The driveway to the market first passed the Coachworks where Jeff stored and serviced his Luxury Coaches that made trips across Europe – Jeffways, The trip of a Lifetime. Call us for The BEST of Deals.
The bull took no notice and continued his way. Tossing his head and snorting as he trotted he rapidly approached the main road. Roads are everywhere of course, and the one the bull neared was the major road between London and Oxford. It was always busy and provided a headache for the Town Planners who had yet to realise what a wealth lay at their feet if they could bring the passing motorists to stop in the town and spend money. Alongside the road lay the river, this also provided another headache for planners. In later years they built a piped diversion for it and buried it forever underground and widened the road above to allow even more traffic to pass through.
At this time it remained a pleasant feature, the bull however was not into sight-seeing and he crossed the road without a thought. Much screeching of brakes and shouting accompanied this. A straight line bought the bull into Bridge Street and relative quite to the bustle of the market and main road. We followed the followers who, armed with sticks and loud voices advised each other on the best way to bring the beast to a halt and return him to the market. Advice there was in plenty – Action was there none.
With a hop and a jump the bull picked up speed. WE ran now to keep up, though still at a safe distance.
Mrs. Bowen came out of the butchers and fished into her handbag for her keys. Under her arm was a neatly wrapped parcel of fresh meat, a bit of steak for her tea and a few scarps for her cats. She looked up and beheld the mayhem that drew toward her.
She could have simply stepped aside and let it al pass. She could have opened her shop and stepped inside out of harms way. After all, a bull charging toward you was not an everyday experience.
Whatever sort of stubborn streak she had in her came to the fore. After looking up and assessing the situation she stepped out into the middle of the road and the animals path and stopped.
Now, it is true that the bull slowed and it is also true that we, the onlookers, drew a breath because even at the distance we were, we could see the anger in the his eyes. Mrs. Bowen saw none of this, what she saw was a naughty animal that ought to be chastised.
The loudest bellow was reserved for the old woman and the bull drew up in front of her, snorting and pawing the tarmac. With a casual movement Mrs. Bowen took the parcel of meat from under her arm and delivered a mighty blow onto the nose of the still snorting beast. “Now stop that you stupid creature”, she said.
It is difficult to describe the look the bull gave her. Surprise is probably the nearest, followed by one of pardon which quickly turned to fear.
Handlers gathered and roped and tied the beast and began to lead it away which seemed to please the bull no end; It gave a snort of acceptance and relief and allowed itself to be led back to the market without another murmur.
The old lady returned to her shop and let herself in.
We searched through our pockets and purses for a few pennies and followed her into the shop. We just HAD to spend more time in the company of this woman.
4 comments:
You tell a tale well.
I never tasted a an English meat pie, but now I hunger for one. I swear, I can smell that familiar stench of the farm animals you describe, as well as see the prodding, and I can even hear human voices in the background (speaking with nice British accents, naturally).
And then Mrs. Bowen, bless her heart. And what? Taylor and Bob? And the entire neighborhood joins the fray?
I had to laugh, for it all rang so true and in the moment (and all the while, knowing that cussed bull is gunna be trouble, somehow).
Poor Jeff. Lucky kids. Pitious planners. Poor naughty animal! And hoorah for courage!
Wonderful story, told with heart and humour. Harry told me to come read and I'm glad I did. :)
Thank you. You folks are just too kind.
The market and surrounding area houses and shops included were razed to the ground by the planners. They built a multi-storie car-park which even as I write is being demolished to make way for a All-sing, All-dancing Shopping precinct. I have seen the pictures of the proposal; It shines with glass and steel and walkways abound and it will be locked at night and those that owned the sweetshop and cattle market and the butchers will look down and shake their heads and wonder at the lack of Soul in this space.
Will Shakespeare died, and then 200 years passed before someone thought to take photographs of his old neighborhood. Little had changed by the 1800s, altho nothing currently survives but those early pictures, I am told.
The crisp images you have drawn of the cattle market, that sweeetshop and the butcher-next-door shall be vividly remembered too.
Out! Damn bulldozer!
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