“Walking along a peaceful country lane, flanked either side by fields of grazing cows, lazing in the May sunshine, I’ll confess this crime, I sang aloud,” says Olivia Stanton.
“It may be my Welsh heritage, but the idea of sound when long, loud and heart-felt belongs embedded in nature. I mean the birdsong in Somerset is deafening right now, and my late grandfather believed song is the one vital mechanic of the world. And it’s a known dairy-barn factoid that cows simply love singing (and music full stop).”
Historically, milking a female animal was an inherently sensual act. She, the cow, would milk easily and with earnest devotion if her attendant sang sweetly while performing the act – and after warming their hands – because it puts the cows at ease.
“‘In nature’, my grandfather said, ‘spring doesn’t happen because the sun rises high in the sky, it happens because the earth is sung to’. Astronomers don’t agree: birds sing because the sun rises, not the other way around. But for my grandfather, and now for me, the cause was the song. So, I stood by the fence, and I sang. It’s called kulning in Sweden: an ancient form of Swedish herd-calling, entrancing farm animals with their haunting melodies: drawing in cows, goats, sheep, and ducks with each hypnotic note. And one by one – I cannot deny, these beautiful ladies gently sauntered over to the sound of my voice. An ethereal soothing superpower overtook. I felt triumphant and magical, like a good Pied Piper. The sun came out, I shed a tear… and then carried on my walk.
Did they gaze longingly behind me? Please say so… and try it yourself.”