IT was a close encounter with nature that few of the schoolchildren, out on a countryside ramble, were ever likely to forget.

For as well as bees, butterflies, wildflowers, water voles and dragonflies, the classroom kids also came face to face with . . . a bridge-leaping suicidal cow!

Memories of that most extraordinary day, back in the mid-1950s, are recalled by Moss Bank cattle dealer John Forster. It all began as a run-of-the-mill morning for John and his fellow cattle drovers from Shoots Delph Farm, at the top of Moss Bank brow.

Those were times when herds were regularly driven on the hoof through the town centre of St Helens, on their way to the local abattoir. "We regularly unloaded beasts at Moss Bank railway sidings," John recalls.

Those sidings once existed close to the old Railway pub, re-named the Moss Bank Hotel in recent years. It was before the local line became obsolete and was converted into Scafell Road a few decades ago. Cattle were transported by the old 'push me-pull me' train which clattered to Rainford Junction and then doubled back to the Moss Bank sidings.

John and the rest of the farm team - among them Austin Anders, his brother Bernard and Arthur Dolan - went down on most days to unload cattle brought in from all over the country.

By way of a diversion they'd tease Jenny, the mischievous pet monkey of Maggie Sumner, the Railway pub landlady. Jenny, in long lead and harness, was usually to be found scampering along the red-brick wall of the pub yard, ready to pluck hats and caps off the heads of unsuspecting passers-by. On one never-to-be-forgotten day, around 1954, a particularly large consignment of cattle arrived, to be guided into holding pens before being driven on foot up to Shoots Delph Farm. And then it happened! One nervous cow, spooked by all the excitement, leapt between the cattle trucks before running off up the railway track in the direction of Haresfinch.

It raced under the East Lancashire Road bridge and careered onwards, past the old sandwash and over the rail bridge at College Street. All the time, John kept in hot pursuit. But the trail suddenly went cold at the next high rail bridge, spanning a brook.

John recalls: "I noticed that the hoof marks had veered to the right of the bridge parapet; and looking down towards the brook I saw the cow lying dead below me on a concrete path."

John rapidly retraced his steps, to alert the rest of the farm crew into bringing their old Bedford lorry and a hefty rope. The idea was to drag the unfortunate beast into the vehicle and get it to the local abattoir in time to salvage the meat. But it proved too heavy for the team to haul the cow up the backboard and on to the truck.

"Some time ago I asked Arthur Dolan if he could remember how we coped," says John. Arthur had replied: "Don't you remember that class of schoolchildren, out on a nature walk with their teacher? As they came along the path we asked if they'd all give us a pull on the rope."

Many hands - no matter how tiny - make light work. And they had the broken-necked cow up on the truck in no time.

But there was no rewarding end to the tale.

"The carcase had been dead for some time," explains John, "and had not been bled properly. So after all that hard work and anxiety it was condemned when we got it to the abattoir."

JOHN wonders if any of those helpful kids (now well into middle-age) are still around and can remember that spectacular day.

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