20 Jan 2019 Wading through couch and rye grass, I made my way up onto the bank of the lower dam to collect my female goat. “Off to bed for you missy”, I said, as a little white tufty tail greeted me with joyful excitement. This was my evening routine and had been for last 12 months or so, at sunset every night, 365 days a year. Had it been that long? I looked behind me at the tiny cottage I had once lived in for nearly the same length of time. Cold as hell in winter and roasting in the height of summer, this two-room worker’s shack had been my sole accommodation upon arriving on the farm in March 2017. Freshly discharged from the Army with PTSD, I was in a scared and frail state of mind. Now I watched with amusement as the once living room/kitchen I occupied was busily housing a gaggle of geese, noisily eating their evening dinner grain. The same shack had also housed the goats I was currently collecting, to take to their shed for the night. Now determined to get off her tet