The Old Cow's Days

A short fictional story inspired by Irish folklore.

Today I'd like to introduce you to an enchanting piece of seasonal folklore. In many places across Ireland, and particularly on the west coast, the first three days of April are known as The Borrowing Days, The Old Cow's Days or The Days of the Brindled Cow, in Irish: Laethanta na Bó Riabhaí. The folktale tells us of a cow, bó riabhach, which translates as the brindled cow — an ancient Irish breed of red coloured, streaked cattle that is now critically endangered, with only 150 cows in existence as of 2024¹. At the end of March, the cow has bragged to March how she survived harsh winter and will soon enjoy the abundance of April. This arrogance enraged March who then borrowed three days from April, thus extending the winter and killing the cow.

Bó riabhach, the ancient Irish brindled cow. Photo from That's Farming.

Dúchas, a project dedicated to digitising the extraordinary Irish National Folklore Collection, one of the largest folklore collections in the world, lists 51 entries on this topic compiled on the ground by Irish schoolchildren in the 1930s, in both Irish and English. The stories vary somewhat; typically they refer to the first three days of April, but in some variants it's the last few days of March and the first three days of April, while a couple of entries describe the first ten days of April. Whatever the number of days, the motif of the unpredictability of weather around this time of the year is clear, and similar stories that reflect our dependence on fickle weather exist in Scotland and several other European countries. The adjective riabhach used to describe the cow is an interesting one in this context — while its main meaning is striped, streaked or brindled, it has the secondary meaning of dull, grey, gloomy².

In my dark folk short story simply titled The Old Cow's Days, I've woven tiny traces of spirituality and philosophy and drawn from the Cailleach folklore I've written about before. I find it fitting to present the month of March as the Hag of winter, clinging onto the last bits of cold, delivering a devastating final blow. Today is a very cold day on the north coast. Funny enough, yesterday's sunset looked a bit pink and I asked my husband if he thinks the sky qualified as “red sky at night, shepherds’ delight.” He looked at the pale pink hue and said I was reaching… The sky did turn more reddish in no time, but sure enough, just like in my story, we didn't wake up to a nice, warm April, but dull skies and strong wind. Enjoy the story.

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This winter has been hard. As a red glaze poured across the sky at dusk like watercolour on a wet paper, Oisín couldn't help but feel worried for his animals. The entire last year has been hard, with a rainy summer and a poor harvest, and his savings were slowly dissipating. After a particularly long and wet winter, the amount of hay and grain in the barn was getting dangerously low, and the fields were still more mud than grass. Young lambs, most of them just a couple of days old, had it really bad this cold season. As Oisín gathered the lambs and ewes into the pen and closed the gates, he felt relieved that the day's work was over and the storm has waned. The days feel particularly long during storms, and it felt soothing to finally see a red sky at night; an omen believed to herald fair weather for the morning, a shepherds’ delight. A promise of spring, hopefully; an apt end to the fickle month of March that, year after year, without mistake delivers some of the harshest weather of all winter. April is usually far more stable, sometimes even bringing a short heat wave with the temperatures up into their twenties.

So he hoped, and his animals wished for the same. Old Aisling, the oldest cow in the herd, long past her milk-bearing years, the favourite of Oisín's grandmother ever since she calved Aisling one night under the full moon 20 years ago, happily munched on her hay and gloated over the end of winter. She was getting thinner, there was no doubt about it, and her red coat now looked scuffed, but she survived the winter and she knew that April was about to bring freshly sprouted grass and pleasant sun on her back. Young cows she shared the barn with shook their heads, thinking she was a mouthful.

That night, a cold breeze woke Aisling up in the dead of the night. “What an unusual time for the mistress to come to the barn”, she thought, struggling to open her heavy eyes. Where the wind was howling around broken wooden boards in the corner sat an old woman, dressed in a grey, raggedy cloak. Suddenly, Aisling sensed an uncomfortable fear; the sort that pierces through one's flesh, down to the bones, the sort one would feel in a graveyard at the witching hour. After a long, chilling silence, the woman finally spoke with a serious, almost bitter tone. “So, you thought you could outsmart me.” Aisling felt annoyed. Just who does this brazen old hag think she is?! “What are you talking about? Who are you and what are you doing in master Oisín's barn? Away with you, stranger.” The unfamiliar woman now seemed exasperated. “Listen, cow, even your master has a master of his own. All living beings have their place. You have forgotten yours. You will not feel the warm April's sun.” Aisling was irritated, readily getting up and charging towards the old woman. “Who are you?!” The hag chuckled: “I am the wind. I am the rain. I am the milk of the ewe. I am the time itself.” Is this some stupid riddle, asked Aisling in her head, but just as she was about to shout at the stranger who was insulting her in her own barn, she realised the woman was gone. She mulled over what just happened until she fell asleep again, but the rest of the night was agonising. The little time she managed to sleep, vivid nightmares tortured her until she found herself trembling in the hay. She has never felt this cold in her life.

The sun was about to rise when Oisín came to the barn to check on his lambing ewes. It wasn't a particularly eventful night, so he took some time to check on other animals too. Aisling was shivering in the corner. “What's wrong, my old girl?”, Oisín whispered softly into her ear, stroking her behind the ears. She was grateful for his presence. A ewe started bleating; it was one of the ewes that lambed twins the day before. Much to Oisín's surprise, one of her lambs laid dead in the pen. He sighed and gave the grieving ewe a gentle rub. Taking care of dead animals was one of the worst aspects of his job, but someone has to do it, it is what it is. He cradled the tiny lamb in his arms, next to his chest, like he was carrying a human child. A deep sadness was overflowing his heart. As he was leaving, the corner of his eyes caught something unusual. “Well, I'll be damned!” In one of the corners stood two young milking cows, a sheep with her lamb and a couple of crows, neatly perched on the back of a cow. The crows were frequent visitors here, always flying in through a gap under the beams. This curious group looked like they were forming a company, and Oisín would have sworn he heard them utter a couple of words — human words! “You've lost your mind, lad”, he muttered to himself as he was leaving. After all, such supernatural things are not possible, this is nothing but a couple of animals coming together to keep themselves warm. He must be going mad from hard work and loneliness, he thought; what he needs is a woman to keep him company.

“Do you think he heard us?”, gawked the crow. “Nah, maybe just a few words. He isn't really good with his Gift”, said the ewe. “What Gift, mama?”, asked the curious little lamb, playfully putting her head on her mother's chest. “Ah, you will learn soon enough. Some among humans come from a long line of open hearts and open minds. They can hear us and talk to us. Oisín's grandfather had a great Gift, but he died when Oisín was young and couldn't help him find his voice. He will learn with time.” Little lamb seemed happy with this explanation. She watched the sun traversing higher and higher above the mountain and she thought to herself — what a magical place the world is.

Oisín came back to the farmhouse at sunrise. His grandmother was long up and tea and breakfast were waiting for him. The kitchen was already warm and the intense scent of turf rolled out of the fireplace, down the hall and up the stairs. His grandmother Róisín was all he had left in this world after he lost his parents and grandfather as a child. She raised him on her own and they worked the farm together for as long as he could remember. He made sure to thank her every morning. “One of the lambs sadly passed”, he relayed to his grandmother while she was spreading some jam on freshly baked wheaten bread, “it was one of yesterday's twins.” She gave him the look of I told you so. “Oh, I knew that one wouldn't last right away. The poor wee devil. It’s in their eyes, you know, you can always see the end is near in someone's eyes.” He was pondering about that idea as his granny left the house for the barn.

After all the milking was done, Róisín went to visit her old Aisling. It was now the first of April, usually a mild day, but today was freezing, with thick frost covering the rushes and moss and a wind that could easily sweep a person off their feet. Aisling laid there quietly, the silence interrupted only by her occasional wheezing gasp for air. She struggled to breath and she couldn't eat. She felt tired, so tired. “Oh my poor, poor old girl”, Róisín kept repeating as he held Aisling's head on her chest, both of them wet from the tears rolling down their faces. She looked into Aisling's eyes and froze for a moment. Aisling looked into her eyes and had the same thought. “Oh…” It was time for both of them to go. Aisling in her 20th, Róisín in her 89th year. It was in their eyes.

The entire first of April, Aisling grew weaker. Towards the end of the day, Róisín grew weak too, and suddenly Oisín knew exactly what she meant when she said that you can see the end coming in one's eyes. They talked for hours at bedtime and neither of them felt sad. There was a sense of grace and relief, a silent celebration of a long life well lived. “When one door closes, another one opens”, Róisín said to him before she fell asleep. She never woke up.

On the second of April,  when Oisín arose just before the sunrise to check on his lambing ewes, he found his granny laying peacefully in her eternal sleep. In the barn, on a bed of fresh hay, old red Aisling laid cold with the same serenity.

He spent the morning grieving. In the afternoon he composed himself enough to walk to the chapel and arrange the funeral for the next day, the third of April. On his way back, it felt as if the whole parish already learned of his sad news, with dozens of people expressing their condolences and offering him any help he might need. That evening he held a wake that was nothing short of beautiful. Just like Róisín always wanted, it was loud and merry, with friends and extended family sharing stories about her life and mischiefs. Someone brought a fiddle and played her favourite reel. There was little room for tears of sorrow, for it was a long life well lived.

On the third of April, in the early morning hours, Oisín went to the stable to collect Aisling's cold body. He didn't have the heart to bury her yesterday, he left her to lay in her beloved spot in the corner one last time, and decided to bury her just before his granny's funeral. They should leave this world together. Suddenly, a voice called his name in the distance; an unfamiliar woman's voice. He had no idea who it could be. He watched as a young woman approached him up the lane, none the wiser. It was only when she came close and greeted him that he recognised her. “Clare?!”, he asked carefully. “It's me”, she smiled, “I’m not really surprised you didn't recognise me. You've been forgiven.” Clare was the youngest daughter of old Mick McDonell, their next door neighbour, and it's been some ten years since he last saw her. She left for a better life and school in the city; she never really seemed the type for a life on the farm in the glens. No wonder he didn't recognise her right away, but he politely apologised regardless. “I’m so sorry about your granny, Oisín.  I wish I was here for the wake, but I only arrived with the morning train. Mother just told me”, she spoke with a soft voice and took his hand in hers. A wave of warmth buzzed through his body. Clare helped him bury Aisling with the compassion of an old friend, even though digging the frozen soil wasn't easy, and they shared stories he had almost forgotten, about playing in the field with Aisling when they were children and chasing foxes away from the duck pond in Clare's garden. It felt as if she never left, and he felt something indescribable when she explained that she was back for good. “Turns out you can take a girl out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the girl”, she said and they both burst into laughter. “Come, I'll help you with the funeral”, she said and grasped his arm firmly.

On the fourth of April, the long awaited warm sun came up and lit Oisín's farm with the strength of a thousand candles. He felt a sense of peace and the intensity of that feeling took him by surprise. He decided to walk down the lane to Clare's house and ask her to spend the day together — but she was faster. She already stood there as he opened the doors to leave the house, holding a small lamb in one hand with the care of a mother holding her baby, while her other hand was up in the air, ready to knock. For a moment, Oisín questioned whether this was that same lamb who liked the company of crows. “Morning! Looks like you have an escapee. I found her on the path”, she said cuddling the lamb. “Look at her, the wee pet! Don't you just love new life!” Oisín agreed with every cell of his being.

An Irish stamp showing the moiled cow, another ancient, now rare Irish breed that possibly has genetic links with the brindled cow. I just had to include this photo after seeing the design with a dolmen.

1. https://boriabhachsociety.ie

2. https://www.teanglann.ie/en/fgb/riabhach