In the Works
Ffos-y-Rhiew
In Shropshire, in a valley on the Welsh border, my elderly neighbor was known as a “relic” by locals – his farm, Ffos-Y-Rhiew was small; his herd of cows also small; he grazed on the verge. Geoff lived alone with his dog Rover, a cat with no tail and a hen. Geoff wanted to marry me. I insisted we be friends. When I got back to America, Geoff called every Sunday. I returned to that valley five years later where all hell broke loose. Ffos-Y-Rhiew is the story of our close and long-distance friendship, my confusion and the endurance of Geoff’s love.
This book is yet to be released.
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From Ffos-Y-Rhiew
Chapter One
A long journey over a large body of water is over. My former home has left me, or I have left it, behind. We are apart — I have no idea for how long and no idea how I got here – in what sort of vehicle — or how long my journey was. I have no memory of riding in a contraption or of climbing or descending or of approaching this land, no memory of being lowered — and yet, I know I was set down a moment ago – set down very gently, in this field. It is good to be here. The air is soft and clean, pleasantly moist as if a storm passed a few hours ago. The stars are out, but not the moon. The field is not too flat or too hilly. The air is cool but not cold. Damp but not wet. I have come to a moderate place, drowsy with routine.
It’s dark, but I can just make out the silhouettes of nearby cows, standing and kneeling, facing in various directions. Some are lying down. Some are drinking from a trough, lifting and dropping their heads, wheezing. A few turn to regard me, then turn away.
I have knowledge (how could I?) that there is no stream or pond nearby, which means someone has lugged water to the trough and that means the farmer is vigilant. Also, the trough looks sturdy, not easily kicked over, and stable enough for one cow, I see now, to rub its neck on the sharp edge. Worry here — is the metal edge jagged? I walk closer. Yes, the edge of the trough is jagged, but not too jagged.
The cows are black and white. Their heavy heads lift and drop, their cow breath visible in the night air. They ignore one another, which is their nature. They like to be together, apart. Where have I learned about cows? The place where I just came from was a metropolitan city. There were no cows there. How delightful — a new experience!
I could watch these docile cows forever, their flat foreheads, swollen bellies, sway backs, bony hips, knobby knees, long tongues, hair twirly at the ends of their tails. One cow turns from the trough, her newborn calf jabbing at her teats, thrusting with the strength of all the calves that ever were, probably born in this field, the afterbirth flung by the farmer into a bush where slowly it dried into flakes that were carried off by the wind.
Do they know the worth of this cool, peaceful night? Do they know this won’t last? Are they able to graze and drink and sleep, mate and give birth without knowing what happens next? One raises her tail. A stiff arc of urine drills into the hard mud. Good for her. When morning comes, dew glinting, frost on the dung and the blades of grass, those lying down will heave their great bodies up, knees groaning, stagger through the grass and buttercups, drink at the trough then wander off to yank grass, chew, lie back down. And when the time comes and the blue van appears, they’ll go where they’re told. My delight in these cows is fading. Now I see only their horrible ending. Not good. I remind myself tonight is not about endings; it is about new beginnings.