Life & Style

‘Sorry Mrs,’ I say, as I fiddle muck off the udders

Every week, Dominique McMullan tries something new: This week, she milks a cow

‘Not a bad smell, just a very potent smell of farm; mud mixed with shite, rain and grass’

Dominique McMullan
Sat Dec 16 2017 - 06:00

This week I milked a cow. I was in Devon, England, visiting my grandparents and thought it was time to find out how Devonshire makes it so creamy. Milking starts early. At 6am while my family slept, I borrowed a pair of mucky wellies and set off into the night. It was one degree outside. My granddad lent me his uninsured, unlicensed truck with a "dodgy" clutch that runs on red diesel.

I only had to drive down a few country lanes, but felt like an intrepid explorer, a thousand shining red dots watched me in the hedges.

As I pulled into the dark yard, the smell hit me first. Not a bad smell, just a very potent smell of farm; mud mixed with shite, rain and grass. Colin the farmer came out to greet me with a bemused look. “Well, you made it then.”

The milking had already begun. We watched the cows file in and out from a pit below ground level. Tens of udders swung at face level. The steaming beasts were titanic from below. They lined up, backsides facing us, and equipment hung ominously all around.

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Udders were sprayed with a disinfectant and wiped. It felt a bit intrusive. “Sorry Mrs,” I said as I reached under and awkwardly fiddled the muck off each soft, thumb-sized teet. “These are the young mums,” Colin told me. “Be gentle as they can be a bit nervous.”

A suction tube was attached to each udder. As it gripped, it made similar sound to when I had a job in a petrol station and you had to deposit every €100 in a shoot. It was pleasing.

Behind me, a worker topped up his coffee straight from the creamy white pipe that ran along the length of the shed. I drink almond milk in my coffee and my beverage choice is usually sneered at, except in the most hipster of cafes. I drink it because I like the taste of it. Judge if you will. I also watched Cowspiracy once and if that doesn't put you off cow milk then nothing will.

But after delivering milk from source I felt different. I joined the worker for a fresh, unpasteurised brew. It tasted deliciously creamy and well, like milk (maybe a little like cow poo too, but that could have been coming from me). I left as the sun was rising and with a litre Coke bottle full of fresh milk, covered in mud, nestled under my arm. Colin got ready to do it all again in six hours.