On our drive from Bray, on the coast, inland to Kilkenny we crossed sparsely populated farm country. On one backroad, traffic, such as it was, came to a standstill. We craned our necks to see what was going on that would create a traffic jam in rural County Wicklow. Cows. It was 4:30 in the afternoon, and the cows were coming home.

I remember encountering cows around this time of day on our journey through Yorkshire in England several years ago. The sun was creeping toward the horizon and the cows were getting antsy. They stood at the gate by the side of the road, calling to the farmer who appeared to be late fetching them. They didn’t need the farmer to tell them it was time to go home; they could feel it. Their bawling started off in a deep baritone, but rose to a soprano urgency. They hadn’t been milked since morning, and they wanted to get back to the barn for some relief. Now!

Some of these Wicklow ladies were so laden they could barely walk. A few stopped along the path, their udders swaying so heavily they were thrown off balance. I couldn’t watch. I felt their pain.

Eventually the herd made it across the road and traffic resumed. I couldn’t see the barn from the road, but I hoped, for their sakes, it was just around the corner.