The Last Cow in the Village

In a remote Bosnian village, one woman and her last cow bear witness to a disappearing way of life. As her daily routine fades, so too does the rhythm of the countryside — raising questions about what is lost when villages vanish.

In a remote corner of Bosnia, one woman and her cow embody the disappearance of a rural world — and raise questions about what happens when villages disappear. Does it matter? And if it does — what, if anything, can be done about it?

All across Bosnia, abandoned villages tell a story of change — a quiet record of time’s passing and the inevitability that comes with it. Roofs collapse, paths vanish into forest, and homes that once echoed with life now stand silent.

Coming from London, I now live in a remote Bosnian village. Once, four hundred people lived here; today there are three - myself, my husband and the shepherd. I’m witnessing first-hand what it means to inhabit a place where life is slowly fading.

This is the story of one village, one woman, and one cow. But it could be the story of countless others scattered across Bosnia and the wider Balkans — communities that have watched their young leave for cities and foreign countries, their fields go untended, their pastures fall quiet.

We went to visit Kovilica — to meet her, her cow, and to ask about life in a place with only a handful of residents left. Kovilica is our neighbour, her village lying just across the valley from ours. We find her in the stable, milking her cow, Shara. She sits on a low stool, her hands moving with a rhythm learned over decades — milk hitting the pail, the cow breathing softly. It’s a scene that feels unchanged for generations.

Kovilica has lived in this village for most of her life. She has kept cows for over 50 years, and now, living without one is deeply felt by her and her household. She laughs as she tells us that Shara is playful, often running off from her but never from her husband. The milk she collects isn’t just for drinking — Kovilica uses it to make kaymak, a rich, creamy local cheese often spread on bread or served alongside traditional meals in Bosnia and Serbia.

When we ask if Shara will be her last cow, Kovilica nods. “Yes,” she says, “this will be the last.” The work is too much now; she and her husband are in their seventies. “But I love her,” she adds, looking at Shara with affection. “When we come home in the car, she recognises us. She moos, she speaks to us.”

Like all villages across Bosnia, animals here are never merely livestock; they are companions, providers, symbols of self-sufficiency. A cow means stability — milk and cheese for the house, something to trade when times are hard. Losing that connection isn’t just the loss of an animal. It’s the loss of a way of life, of knowledge, of identity rooted in the land.

When Shara is gone, her absence won’t only mark the end of a daily routine — it will mark another step towards the village’s disappearance. Across Bosnia, the same story unfolds: the elderly tending to their final animals, the last smoke rising from the last chimneys. When they are gone, the villages will go with them.

Can these remote places be revived? In other parts of the world, abandoned rural communities have found new life through tourism, eco projects, or incentives for young people to return. Could Bosnia’s forgotten hamlets be reimagined as sustainable farms, eco-retreats, or even remote work hubs? But would that feel authentic here? Would a revived village still be a village — or merely a museum of what once was?

The challenge isn’t simply to repopulate the countryside; it’s to preserve the thread of belonging that ties people to the land — to balance modernity with tradition without erasing either.

Perhaps some villages are meant to fade; perhaps that too is part of their story. But standing here, far from the city I once called home, I can’t help but feel that what’s at stake is more than nostalgia. It’s a question of connection — to place, to heritage, to the routines that shape who we are.

When the last cow leaves the village, it isn’t just the end of an era. It’s a reminder of how fragile the ties between people and place can be — and how easily, if we stop paying attention, they can disappear altogether.

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