When Cornflake and I arrived home from our holiday we found that a pipe had burst in an upstairs flat and we were flooded.
I’ve shrugged this off as an unavoidable part of London life, we’ve dried out already, so nothing to see here. Move along.
Meanwhile Portuguese life threw a different kind of challenge at Frenchie.
When she and Mr P returned home after a quick swim post dropping us off at the airport, there were two enormous cows in their garden. They grow their cows very large in Portugal, and the cows grow and keep very large horns.
Apparently if you keep cows in that area, traditionally it’s not your responsibility to keep them in, it’s everyone else’s responsibility to keep them out, unless of course you want them in to do a bit of lawn and shrubbery trimming. Given the lay of the land, super steep from the river, remarkably heavily fenced elsewhere, these are very audacious creatures.
Handsome though they are, after a while their bells were a torture and the cheeky effers ate the apples off the apple trees planted last year. No home grown apple pie on the menu chez Frenchie this year. Perhaps as a form of payment the cows left plentiful gifts of manure. This will surely be greeted appreciatively by the roses.
A bit of arm waiving and shouting saw them off eventually. Frenchie had given up finding the owners through a local Facebook page after amongst some light hearted barbecue banter and helpful snippets regarding local tradition, there was one too many, ‘if you dont like our cows on your land go back where you came from’ type comments. I’m relieved that these cunty types are not just homegrown in Britain, they are available internationally. This realisation is unlikely to make me less embarrassed when some Brexiteer Brit next kicks off in my earshot.
Given the ‘cows wander free’ tradition, they may well return, especially if they fancy an apple. How do you convey the news to cattle that Frenchie is a trained and practiced butcher?
fat tart 