It was down in Dorset...
~~~~~For Scarpe~~~~~
_{i.e., certain parts of this story are NOT TRUE}

Sherborne, to be precise. We'd arrived there late in the afternoon and my friend had insisted that we had to stop for a cream tea, which wittled away another couple of hours as we gorged ourselves on tea, cream cakes, scones and various other delightful items just perfect for clogging the arteries.

Bloated from this extended tea, we picked up a small map from the tourist office which depicted a nice walk through the fields outside the town, along various footpaths.

We set out upon this walk - about five or six miles in total - hoping we could be back in a couple of hours, assuming we navigated correctly.

Unfortunately this was the depths of winter, and the ground was not in perfect condition. Many of the footpaths had been waterlogged bog, and trying to traverse those was almost as tiring as trudging through the strips of land into which large, muddy furrows had been cut by the monstrous wheels of tractors.

Slowed by a combination of this and the vast amount of cream we had consumed, it became apparent that the daylight was quickly fading, and we had no torch.

Thinking we were on the right path, we came back to the B-road, as thr map said we would. Alas, there were now two ways we could go. With no torch by which to read the map, we had to make the best we could from the glimpses afforded by the headlights of passing cars.

In the end, we decided to try the gates to both paths, and take whichever opened most easily.

How I wish I had pushed the first gate a bit harder.

The second gate led into another field, this one relatively undisturbed compared to some of those across which we had struggled. There was a shed in the far corner, its door occasionally swinging in the dusk breeze. As we approached, we were sure we could hear noises.

Yes, there was definitely a noise coming from inside. Was somebody in there? Increasingly, these sounded like sounds of some sort of distress...pleading, almost.

No...what the hell? At this point, I was convinced I'd heard a mournful lowing. My friend and I looked at one another in the darkness and decided that whatever was going on, it was probably not good. If somebody was in trouble, we should probably investigate.

Oh, how I wish I had pushed the first gate a bit harder.

We crept over to the shed - unsure of what we might find, we felt it better not to disturb what might be going on, lest we do more harm than good.

I reached gingerly for the door of the shed. Both of us had our breath held in mute anticipation, when the breeze took the door and blew it wide open.

As our eyes struggled with the darkness, we made out the form of the Dorset farmer, sprawled face down on the floor, with nothing but his wellington boots to clothe his person, arse aloft and pointing it at a cow. The cow seemed uninterested, and probably would have wondered away, were it not for the fact the farmer had a rope around her neck, which he pulled on with his left hand to draw her closer to him.

In his other hand, his wrinkled, leathery garden hose stood to attention as it was massaged and caressed roughly in his callused, weather-beaten palm.

In his rectum, a strawberry. Clearly the farmer and the cow had differing ideas of how much fun it would be if the cow were to eat said strawberry from his tense, expectant ringpiece.

I was in the process of turning to my friend in sheer disbelief when he disappeared from my peripheral vision. As the shadows stopped shifting around, it became apparent that he was quite happy to take the place of the cow.

I couldn't look. It was too bad my eyes had adjusted to the light. I tried to ignore the surprised and very West-Country "Oo, 'ello there" from the farmer as my friend sank down between his hairy yokel legs.

I took the cow and led her back across the field. We went back to the fork in the path, and let me tell you I have never been quite so relieved as I was when that first gate opened after a little additional persuasion. The cow and I followed the path, lit only by what little of the stars and the waning crescent moon could shine through the clouds, back into the town. Both of us needed a stiff drink before I regurgitated my cream tea. I've never looked at strawberries, Dorset farmers, or indeed my friend in quite the same way since.
(LongJohnBaldry, Tue 2 Jun 2009, 17:39, 2 replies)

Fantastic
I don't give a shit if it's true or not, it's very funny and well written

*click*
( chart cat has an itch, Wed 3 Jun 2009, 6:07, closed)

Oh, of course it's not true
Well, it's true up to the point of trying to finish a walk in the darkness and initially picking the wrong gate. Finding the farmer and all that might be a slight exaggeration of the facts though.

I should probably add a disclaimer to this effect...
(LongJohnBaldry, Wed 3 Jun 2009, 10:12, closed)