Winter arrived on the marsh today with no courtesy and even less warning, at least as far as the marsh herd is concerned. Only a few days ago, the cattle were mooching about under a pale autumn sun, flicking flies from their flanks and enjoying the last scraps of warmth. Then came the sudden rains, the rise of the river, and the marsh slipping under water as easily as a man shrugging into an old coat. The fields turned slick, the gateways glistened, and the herd found themselves knee-deep in cold, tea-coloured floodwater.

And now, as if all that weren’t enough, the temperature has dipped below freezing. This morning I had to break the ice on the drinking troughs—the surface crisp, glassy, and freshly frozen. I used the heel of my boot first, then my walking stick when the ice proved more stubborn than expected. The cattle watched, steam rising from their nostrils, as if I were performing some obscure ritual only humans understand.

There’s a reliability to their behaviour that I’ve come to know well. When the weather is good, the grass plentiful, and the ground dry, they give me the same level of interest they give a passing deer—acknowledgement without investment. I can walk among them and they’ll barely shift. At most, one might raise an eyebrow in my direction before returning to the serious business of chewing cud.

But the moment conditions turn even slightly tricky, the cattle develop a sudden and urgent fascination with my whereabouts. They are on me like a rash—persistent, mildly irritating, and impossible to shake off. I am, apparently, the answer to all their problems the instant the weather stops playing fair.

What always catches me off guard is how stealthy they can be. You’d think a herd of cattle, with their weight, their size, and their generally lumbering nature, would be easy to track by sound alone. Not so. These animals can move like ghosts when it suits them. I can be fiddling with a gate or examining a fence post, convinced I’m alone, and then hear the soft, deliberate cough of a bovine throat right behind me. It’s never a dramatic snort or a clatter of hooves—just a polite little ahem to let me know that several hundred kilograms of curious muscle and bone is now within nudging distance of my spine.

This morning they took that stealth to a new level. I was concentrating on the frozen trough, trying not to slip into the river, when I felt a tentative shove between my shoulder blades. I spun round and found myself face-to-face with one of the belted Galloways, blinking at me with wide, innocent eyes and steam rising from his nostrils as if to say, “Oh, were you busy? Sorry. But also—help.”

The rest of the herd had formed a haphazard line behind him, all wearing the same expression of mild panic disguised as politeness. They shuffled forward in unison, closing the space between us with the determination of small children trying to crawl into a single armchair for warmth. Some were looking at me expectantly; they wanted reassurance. You could almost feel their collective thought: Don’t leave us. Not today.

Once the ice was broken and the water sloshing freely again, they dipped their muzzles in with exaggerated enthusiasm, slurping as if I’d given them liquid gold. Confidence restored, they stretched, shook themselves, and for a moment looked almost content. But the spell didn’t last. A gust of wind blew across the marsh, cold enough to lance straight through wool, and the herd immediately sought my company again.

The belted Galloways are the worst culprits for this clinginess. They’re hardy, tough animals—built for rough weather, really—but they act like nervous toddlers when the seasons turn. They have a habit of pressing close enough to fog my glasses with their breath, and if I’m not careful, they’ll edge me right into the water before I realise what’s happening. This morning, one planted herself so firmly against my thigh that I had to sidestep and speak firmly to him.

There is a curious moment each winter when the cattle seem to forget entirely that they are, in fact, cattle—robust, weatherproof, perfectly equipped for life in these conditions. Instead, they behave as though they’re just a shade removed from house pets: vulnerable, seeking reassurance, nudging for comfort, and looking at me with those huge, liquid eyes that are impossible to ignore. I find myself talking to them more when winter bites, to reassure them.

“You’ll be all right,” I said this morning, patting the nearest flank as if soothing a worried dog. “It’s only a bit of ice.”

They didn’t believe me, not for a second. A bullock behind me gave a baleful snort, and another pushed its head under my arm with the solemn determination of a child anking for its blankie.

Still, there’s a strange kind of pleasure in moments like these. It’s grounding. The wind might be slicing across the marsh, and the water might be freezing over faster than I can break it, but standing there in the middle of a worried, steaming, quietly murmuring herd feels like being at the centre of ancient beasts. A kind of winter communion.

Of course, the romance of it evaporated briefly when one of them leaned against me; I leaned into its shoulder and coaxed her back on track. The cows looked affronted, as if I’d misbehaved.

By late morning, their confidence had returned. They drifted away in loose clusters—some picking at the grass, others heading toward the higher ground. I watched them go, relieved to have a little breathing room again, though I knew they’d be back the moment the next cold snap hit.

The marsh has a way of reshaping the rhythm of life when winter arrives. It humbles everything that lives here—humans included. But there’s a quiet, stubborn resilience in the herd that always reappears once the first shock of the season has passed. They adjust. They cope. They get on with it.

And so do I.

But this morning, surrounded by apprehensive cattle acting as though I were their mother, I couldn’t help but laugh. Winter had announced itself without ceremony, and the herd, as always, turned to me for answers. I don’t always have them, but I do have a decent pair of boots, a stout stick for breaking ice, and enough patience to let a belted Galloway lean on me when needed.

It’s a start.