tempus fugit

By ceridwen

Going for the milk

After all day bunged up and banged up in the house  I take the dog to fetch the  milk.  Down this muddy, sticky, slippy, squelchy old lane (once a thoroughfare, now a bridleway)  across a stream, through the soon-to-be wild garlic-thrusting drier path, under the ailing ash trees and past the badger latrines, between the sodden fields of sodden sheep, and out to the road.  I cross over to the farm, tie the dog up and collect two litres of  milk from Daisy. 

Daisy-the-milk-vending-machine is a generous dispenser of fresh milk from the farm's own herd of dairy cows. Standing at one end of stone shed she accepts £1 coins or a card payment and once you have positioned your bottle under her udder spout and pressed START she lets down her milk ever so gently. Your bottle fills and when the delivery is complete you take the full bottle out of the machine and put the lid on.

Daisy's always open and during the past couple of years has attracted a huge range of customers: locals who like to eat/drink local, holiday makers, shops and cafes. She's well cared for (as are her suppliers), spotlessly clean and ever willing to dispense when fed.

Home by the same route, the light dying and remains of the Christmas cake waiting. 

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