My brother owns a second home by the sea. When I go there, I run, most mornings, along the beach that arches, grandly, for a mile or so to some rocks. If I feel good and strong, I run on the dry stuff.

One morning I was running. It was grey, misty, still and the sea waves broke and ran listlessly. It had not been raining, but the whole place was wet, as if a low flying cloud had grazed along the coast and forgotten a piece of itself; before it was pushed up over the mountains. On my way back along the beach I saw a large piebald cow stuck, knee deep, in the surf. It was struggling and looked like it would topple at any moment. I ran over and tried to lead it out of the water. It didn’t want to go. I slowly urged it back up the strand to the dunes, then onto some grass where there were other cows grazing.

I started walking back to the house. I looked over my shoulder and there was that cow again, shitting and lumbering straight back down the strand to the sea. I walked on a few steps, then turned and ran back. I got myself between her and the sea, trying to cajole her the other way. Like this, we slowly zig-zagged our way across and down the beach, toward the sea – me shooing, the cow changing direction – until I found myself stomach deep in water, leaning, with all of my useless strength, against her dark, heaving chest. Then she pushed me over; I was submerged and sea-deafened. By the time I got back up, she was past me and almost neck deep in water. I stood there and watched her disappear; then I walked back to the house.

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