It was a sunny autumnal afternoon when I got the news: my beloved younger brother had committed suicide. He was supposed to be visiting us three days later, yet it just wasn’t meant to be.
Five weeks later, after returning to our home in south-west France, I went straight to the wooded hillside where our cows had been in our absence. As I called out to them, heard them respond and eventually saw their heads coming out of the woodland edge, tears came to my eyes and for a moment all the grief just melted away.
Over the coming weeks, as the twice-daily round of feeding the cows began, ...
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