When our children were small, we often stopped while cycling to chat with the cows. “My dad speaks cow language,” they proudly said at school. Puberty made all faith in this rather special gift pale in one fell swoop.
This morning, while walking along the fields of the Utrechtse Heuvelrug, my attention was drawn to a family with two children and a few cows. The father, busy in conversation with a brown spotted, quite normal for the children. Cow language, never left.
Readers are the authors of this column. An Ikje is a personal experience or anecdote in a maximum of 120 words. Submit via [email protected]
A version of this article also appeared in the newspaper on June 12, 2023.