Saving the best till last.

I said I'd get to it and here I am. Le fromage!

This is where the magic happens. It's hard to believe that this 'white gold' starts with these adorable, horned creatures. Obviously, if I'm going to explain the cheese process, I have to begin with the goats.

The kids above are three of sixteen kids, I had the pleasure of meeting while on the farm. Nicolas tells me that my sudden love of kittens is nothing compared to what I will feel when I see newborn kids for the first time... I'll be back in February with my fingers crossed for baby cuddles!

Working with kids is like working with kids. They play like children and have a cry just like children, which sends shivers down your spine. Below, you can see Lucile and I (trying) catching the kids one at a time to weigh them to check whether they're growing healthily. (Alright, I admit I'm not doing much here.)

So the goats are milked (not the kids, of course), as I've told in other posts, and depending on which stage of the year it is, there's either more or less milk. Over Winter there's no milk, the goats are (hopefully) all expecting and the cute little kids will arrive early next year.

 

The milk is then lugged up the hill to the fromagerie (cheese lab). Now that is where the magic happens, actually. Here's the picture-process, without giving away too many trade secrets. ;)

The entrance.

 The milk is re-filtered.

It is then poured into a large bowl, where it's mixed with bacteria and rennet (an enzyme produced in goats' stomachs). After 24 hours, the milk separates into two parts: whey protein (the liquid you can see below) and what is left underneath is cheese!

The moulds are prepared and the cheese is scooped into them with a ladle.

The moulds are left to drain on the table and constantly flipped. When the whey has drained out, you're left with delicious cheese.

There are endless possibilities of how the cheese can be prepared. It's simply a matter of time and herbs.

 

Finally, the cheese is sold. The process from milk to fresh cheese takes 3-4 days and, even after having seen it for myself, I'm amazed at it's simplicity.

Special thanks go to Victoria for the brilliant photos of hers which I used here. By the time I got around to taking pictures, the farm was muddy, the skies were grey and there was very little cheese left to photograph! Just as predicted, Vic, you took the sun with you!

And, of course, Lucile. Without whom I wouldn't have made such incredible discoveries.

Life-long traveller, occasional tourist.

When travelling, I'm often asked either 'Where are you from?' or 'Where do you live?' Those aren't the same question, and when you have a home-away-from-home, the answer can get a little confusing.

Nevertheless, while based away from home, I occasionally enjoy being a tourist in the place I live.

In my first week in France, I joined Lucile on her trip to the organic farmers' market in Honfleur, where she sells her goat cheese. I blindly got in the car, completely unaware of which direction we were travelling in. 

When we arrived, she said, "So if you walk down this road, turn left and then take the first right, you'll be at the harbour."
"The harbour? Like a harbour, with water and boats?"
"Yes? That is the right word, isn't it?"
I couldn't answer her because I honestly started crying. No joke. I had no idea that I was near the coast and obviously no idea how much I had subconsciously missed the coast until that moment.

So I walked straight to the harbour and smelled the salty air. The Aussie in me broke-out and I was once again reminded of just how land-locked Stuttgart is.

Honfleur harbour.

Fascinating side streets, dating back to the middle ages.

Saint Catherine's Church, built entirely of wood - said to be the largest wooden church in France.

Last week I had another opportunity to be a tourist and I set off to Mont Saint Michel. WOW! I didn't know what to expect, as it was a very last-minute decision to go there, but even if I had known, I'm sure I still would have been blown away.

Mont Saint Michel is an island, just 600 metres off the Norman coast. The first building was constructed there in 708 and, according to the legend, the Archangel Michael appeared (three times) and told Aubert, Bishop of nearby Avranches, to construct a church and sanctuary there.

It became a monastery and centre of pilgrimage, with it's abbey built high upon the mount in St Michael's name. According to my tour guide, it was never defeated by foreign attack, and was only ever occupied by foreigners during the German occupation of WWII. During the French Revolution and long after it was used as a prison. It's position as an island, yet still being so close to land, made it easily accessible, but dangerous to approach. I could have stayed there for days.

A foggy start: All good things come to those who wait.

This wheel was used to hoist the carved bricks to the top of the mount to build/rebuild the abbey. Workers (prisoners) had to run inside the wheel like hamsters to make it turn.

Cheekiest camp-spot ever. I was secretly proud of them.

Wheat-free options are few and far between in tourist spots, so I picked a prime picnic posi and perched myself on a rooftop with a view.

 

Soaking up the sun and the sea breeze.

 

They're all of my tourist adventures for now. In the meantime, I'm still loving the farm life. Only two weeks left here with the goats. We're all just avoiding the topic of my departure - I've really been welcomed here as a part of the family.

I have to remind myself of my motto: See you later, not goodbye.

If you wanna live with the animals, you've gotta think like an animal.

Impossible.

Here is a selection of my most recent animal stories...

The Cow Invasion

One day, a farmhand from a nearby farm came by to let us know that the farmer he works for planned to move his cows onto a shared field, which borders the farm here, in a fortnight. I had been taking the goats to that field a lot, so I appreciated the warning.

Two days later, I walked into the field with the goats only to find approx. 30 cows moo-ing at us. I changed course, of course, and kept my distance.

Probably having dozed off a little or generally day-dreaming, as I tend to do when out with the goats, I was quite surprised when I discovered a cow standing right behind me. Only one, that's not too bad, I thought. But by the time I had walked to the gate opening, another 10 or so had joined us. By that stage, I was no longer on the shared land, they were walking onto Lucile and Nicolas' farm.

Me, distracted by dog and goat cuddles.

 
I then remembered that I had never seen an actual gate to close the fence. And the cows just kept on coming. I wasn't sure how the cows or the goats would react to each others' company - and I didn't want to find out - so I quickly enclosed the goats to the barn. In order to do so though, I walked the goats to the corner of that field and we climbed through the fence - because the cows were curious and kept following us, I had to find a way to lose them. When the cows got to the fence, they thought they couldn't get through, so they stood there, moo-ing.

After I had enclosed the goats, I went in search of someone - anyone - who might know what to do. That's when I discovered I was home alone. Shit. It wouldn't have been so bad to just wait a little for someone to return, but when the pigs saw me, they started squealing. And when the cows heard the pigs, they discovered the gate.

Home alone with around 50 goats, three pigs, twelve cats, eleven hens, a barking dog and around 30 extra cows that didn't belong to Lucile and Nicolas. You can imagine my slight panic.

When Lucile arrived, speeding down the driveway after listening to my voicemail message, she just laughed and said I looked like I needed some chocolate! We collected ourselves and then set out waving big sticks around like lunatics and herded the cows back to the field they had come from. We also shut the gates that I didn't know existed.

I am pleased to say, that when a single cow entered the field two days ago, I was brave enough to wave my stick about and herd her back myself.

The herd today, in the distance, where they should be.

A billy-goat with a will finds a way.

Meet Gandalf...

This man lives with 43 women. Some days I guess he's in heaven, on others he probably has a headache. I've had the pleasure of meeting him during the mating season, which means there isn't much thinking going on at all.

At first, the goats swarmed around him, desperate for his attention. Head-butting each other to show who's more dominant. Wandering in front of him, eager to let him sniff their bottoms.

Then, once they'd gotten his attention, they'd run away. He'd chase them. The hunt was on. For my first month on the farm, that was a part of my daily surroundings. Too many goat hormones fuelling these horny, horned creatures.

Eventually, the goats got a bit tired of Gandalf and weren't as keen as before. That was understandably frustrating for him. Unfortunately, that meant he began to turn his aggression on me.

I never let him get to me, but it was quite frightening. The other goats are very friendly, and when they approach you, it's always for a cuddle. But you don't cuddle billy-goats. Aside from the fact that ejaculate and urinate into their own mouths several times daily, the smell and massive horns are enough to turn you away.

He got cheekier everyday. It started with a nudge, then a more obvious push. When he went to ram me, I got out of the way. A few weeks later he started to rear up on his hind legs, ready to head-butt. As it was getting too unpredictable to take him out with the herd, he was kept in the barn with lots of hay. Yet everytime he managed to find a way out, breaking anything in his way. He really wanted to get to his girls.

Nowadays he's fine after having been given several stern warnings and being told who's boss. I keep a big stick with me though, just in case.

Out with the goats, in the field where the cows are now, actually. I took the picture of the cows from the far field that you can see in the top of the picture.

Chicken Run

As many of you know, since my magpie attack at the end of Langmore Lane, I'm not the biggest fan of birds. I tried to explain that to Étienne, except my French was too entertaining for him. Je n'aime bien pas les poules. Which should have been, Je n'aime pas trop les poules. Not that big of a difference, I thought.

Since arriving and getting to know the kids a little better, which depended greatly on my French improvement, I'm finally beginning to understand their passing comments and quirks. So my conversation with Étienne went like this...

Étienne picked up a chicken and held it near me.
Me: Non, merci. Je n'aime bien pas les poules. (No, thanks. I don't really like chickens.)
Étienne: Quoi? Tu n'aimes pas les poules? Pourquoi? (What? You don't like chickens? Why?)
Me: Parce que. (Because. - Worst argument ever, I realise.)
Étienne: Tu aimes les oeufs? (Do you like eggs?)
Me: Oui. (Yes.)
Étienne: Donc, tu aimes les poules. (Then you like chickens.)
For him, that was the end of the discussion. He had clearly won that debate, so he walked away.

Anyway, getting back to chickens. The chickens here possibly coined the term 'free-range', they roam wherever they please - within reason, but they have to be chased out of the house as soon as the door is left open. Unfortunately they have begun to also lay their eggs wherever they please. Hence the title, Chicken Run.

Every few days I search in new areas, with a basket, awaiting the discovery of their hidden eggs. Just one of the many bizarre things that keep me entertained here every day.

When we do eventually find the eggs, we'll have to do as Victoria always did and yell out, "Winner, winner, chicken dinner!"

(There aren't any pics of chickens because, as I mentioned, I'm just not that big of a fan.)

Ohh, puddy tat

Never have I had to eat my own words as much as now. I think I'm becoming a cat-person! 

They are ridiculously cute. The kittens are adorable and cuddly - all they do is sleep and play (ok, and make a lot of mess) - I'm really beginning to ask myself why I was never a cat-person before. 

I even considered taking one with me on my journey. Then I remembered it was a cat and an endless amount of reasons against the idea came to mind. But I considered it, for a moment.

As I said in my last post, if we're cold, there's always a cat ready to cuddle. If I'm out in the fields, they come a curl up on my lap. If I sit at the table, the kittens curl up and fall asleep on my lap. If you stand in the kitchen, preparing something or washing the dishes, the kittens climb up your leg and sit on your shoulder. Even now, as I'm writing, I'm realising how much this would have bothered me a few months ago - but there's a kitten keeping me warm... I'm torn.

When I arrived there were four cats and seven kittens. Then another five kittens joined the mix. For a week or so there were three kittens less, which we unfortunately had to presume as having been taken by a fox in the night. Ta-da! One by one, the lost kittens returned. Who knows where they were in the meantime. Now five kittens have been given away. Two have decided they'd rather live out in the fields and eat mice. That leaves five kittens inside.

Try as I might, not all of my name suggestions have stuck. Masala got his name after he had fallen into a bowl of curry. Panda looks like a panda, but we thought he was a girl for a bit, then he became Pandette. He looks like he has a moustache too - looking from one side the name Adolf was jokingly suggested, from the other side there's a clear resemblance with Tom Selleck. Perhaps 'Tommy' or 'Magnum' is the better fit. Ash (was Ashlee, became Ashton - also suffered a gender-identity crisis) is grey, and following the origin of his name, he has a curious fascination with the fireplace. Fluffy is fluffy - nuff said. And that leaves the cute little one I call 'Les Alps', because he looks like a smaller version of another one I named 'Mont Blanc' (neither of those names has yet been adapted).

Masala and Ash when they first came into the house. 

Huddled together on a pile of blankets.

Hunter came for a cuddle to escape the wind in the field.

Blanchette, passed out on my lap, while I was on the phone with Mum.

Ohh, animals. Hard to live with, hard to live without. I miss you, Lucy.

La Ferme d'Esmeralda

I'm now 47 days into my French adventure and I have to admit I've been enjoying my time so much that I just keep forgetting to write new blog posts. Then I remember when I'm out in the fields with the goats and forget as soon as I get back to the house.

Therefore, I have at least three posts up my sleeve which I plan to post by the end of this week.

Firstly, I forgot to explain in my first post what the acronym WWOOF stands for. WWOOF is interpreted in several ways, but always maintains the same idea. Here are some interpretations...

World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms
Willing Workers On Organic Farms
We’re Welcome On Organic Farms

Throughout my blog posts you'll see me use WWOOFer (the volunteer), WWOOFing/WWOOFs (as a verb), etc. I paid for a years' membership with "WWOOF France", and what I get as a member is a full list and description of all participating farms/farmers in France who are willing to receive WWOOFers. Then, I can write to those people whose farms interest me, to see whether they are free to host me.

So there's a little background info as to how I ended up in the Norman countryside milking goats every morning.

You saw in my first post how beautiful some of my surroundings are, here is a bit more of a sneak peek into the charm of my little get-away at La Ferme d'Esmeralda.

At the top of the hill, in the background, you can see the house which dates as far back as the 17th century. The section on the left was added as an extension in the early 19th century. It has such character it makes you wonder what the walls would say if they could talk... BUT, being so old, it's often colder in the house than outside. That's not such a bad thing though because it means we get to light a log fire in the large fireplace in the kitchen or in the gorgeously decorated ceramic coonara fireplace in the living room. Nice and cosy. Plus there are so many kittens roaming around, that there's always someone fluffy in search of a cuddle.

I'm not sure exactly how big the property is here in terms of hectares, but it's big enough for me to explore new areas for the goats to graze each week. Usually I describe my adventures with the goats as having taken place in 'this field', 'the field near the woods', 'the next field', 'the top field with the shed', 'the field with the tree in the middle', 'the field on this side of the river/the other side of the river', 'the field near the horses' or 'the field on the hill'.

My daily routine varies depending on how many people are availble to help out and, of course, what needs to be done. This is my normal morning greeting... the goats lined up to be milked.

Some of the girls get a little impatient, if the milking takes too long!

They get fed their grain while we're milking and come through to the trough five at a time. If we're fast, it takes us about an hour and a half to milk them all, but most of the time it takes a bit over two hours.

Afterwards, the goats go out to graze. For me, that means French lesson time, or, in the time leading up to Sarah and Frank's wedding, speech practice!

For those of you in Australia that didn't know, two weeks ago I officiated my friends' wedding! It was so much fun and such an honour. And luckily, all of my practicing with the goats paid off!

Since the wedding, I've gone back to French lessons and have borrowed one of Hélène's old storybooks (French stories for three year olds) which I read, with the help of a dictionary. The first story, Le petit monstre, took me two hours to get through!

As I said, I'm forever distracted when I return from the fields because it is an absolute mad-house here! There are constantly people coming and going, whether it be neighbours, friends, family, deliveries or other guests. Lunch and dinner are times for everyone to meet and sit together, extra chairs are pulled up and meals are made for many. Needless to say, there's a never-ending pile of dishes haunting us.

Evenings are spent enjoying a cup of tea or glass of wine (or both), having a good chat or watching an episode of something online. However 10pm tends to feel like midnight after a day out in the fresh air, so the nights fly by quickly.

Now you have the first of this week's posts, some of the stories still to come include: the cow invasion, renovation rescue, wild billy-goat learns a lesson, my first goat's cheese, sight-seeing at Mont Saint Michel and the adventures of learning a new language.

Feel free to comment or send me an email, I'd love to hear from you.

Ici, c'est le paradis!

Eight days into my newest adventure, I can safely say: all is well in Normandy. 

As some of you may have guessed from the title (Ici, c'est le paradis = Here, this is paradise), I am truly loving my time here. The title is inspired by Chapter 2 of my 5th grader French books, which I read daily - with the goats.

So, eight days is a lot to report on. Let me start at the beginning...

Me, pre-trip. Ready to take on the life of a farmer.

Photo by V. Zwafink in Benningen a.N.

After a very emotional last few days, including a car accident in a borrowed uninsured car, moving out of my flat alone and in the rain, and generally having to farewell beautiful people and, of course, Germany, I set off by train to Paris.

Paris was a welcome distraction but even moreso than I had imagined! Ok, so this is what I was travelling with... a suitcase, a backpack, a smaller back(front)pack and my pillow (which I had also stuffed with more clothes!). I know, packing my pillow sounds a bit posh, but I love it.

I couldn't have had a warmer welcome in Paris. Several strangers came to help me with my luggage. Note: the Parisian Metro has A LOT of stairs.

Once off the Metro, glad that I had found the correct stop, I walked down the busy main street to find the hostel. Unbeknownst to me, I was walking in the wrong direction! I managed to ask someone working at an internet café using the little French I arrived with - he told me I was one hundred houses down!!

Soon after, I arrived at the hostel and hadn't even checked in by the time I'd met Hayden. I quickly joined him, two Bens, Kieran and Sam and we made a great Aussie-Kiwi mix. I didn't have the energy to leave the hostel at first but ended up staying up with them until early hours, happy not to be thinking about how nervous I was about where I had just left and where I was going.

Day Two: arriving at La Ferme d'Esmeralda

I made my way across Paris on Sunday morning, thankfully leaving myself much more time than suggested, because I only got to the station five minutes before my train was to leave to Lisieux.

In Lisieux, I was met at the station by Lucile, my WWOOFing host. I can now say, after a week with Lucile that she is an amazingly dynamic woman, but in that car ride to the farm, there was too much of my nervousness and 'get-to-know' business for me to recognise her true character.

We arrived at the farm and got straight to work. I soon found myself tangled in electric fencing wire, literally. When I thought that I could not have possibly left a more ridiculous first impression, Lucile and Nicolas left me with the goats while they went to visit a neighbour. Everything quickly turned to chaos when a car pulled up. All the goats ran away and I had half of them in one field (where they were supposed to be), a good part in another field and quite a few scaring the visitors into jumping back into their car.

My saying for this year has been: "Everything is OK in the end; if it's not OK, it's not the end". Yet again it proved to be right. The goats were fine, I was fine. Lucile and Nicolas just laughed!

Week One:

After a slightly bumpy start, I quickly found my place here, in the family home, in the fields and in the barn.

Now that I am more comfortable with the goats, I love being with them. They're desperate for affection, constantly seeking cuddles or a leaning/scratching post.

Goat cuddles and kisses.

One great thing about this week, aside it being full of new experiences, is the new people I have spent it with. My host family includes, Lucile and Nicolas, as well as their two gorgeous children Étienne (10) and Hélène (6). There's also another WWOOFer here at the moment, Victoria, from Brazil.

I spend most of my time with Lucile and Victoria, working on the farm while Nicolas (primary teacher), Étienne and Hélène are at school. While our work on the farm is tough and doesn't hold back on the battle wounds, we spend most of the day laughing our heads off!

Victoria (left) and Lucile (right), just another morning milking the goats.

Me, trying to be serious.

We take turns of taking the goats out to graze and that's where things get interesting. They either listen and follow you to where you want to take them, or... they don't. By the end of the week I learned the areas they prefer to graze in the mornings and where they don't, likewise for the afternoons.

While I'm out in the fields, I practice French. With the goats, of course! My pronunciation is terrific according to my field-friends, but I get my real practice when Étienne and Hélène get home from school. They speak to me in French, ask me questions and tell me stories, we play games together (for some reason I always seem to lose) and laugh together. However, I'm never sure whether we're laughing at the same things!

I mentioned battle wounds. Day two on the farm had Victoria and I picking blackberries to make jam. They were delicious, but our hands and arms looked like they'd fought with a ferral cat afterwards. While that healed I managed to be bitten by what I think may have been a spider. My elbow swelled up, turned red and felt like it was on fire for a few days - that's all. Victoria stood on a rusty nail, which went straight through her gumboots. It wasn't a laughing matter when she realised she hadn't had a recent tetanus shot - a late night trip to the hospital was then made. There are the goats, constantly head-butting our legs. Then yesterday I fell through the top floor of the barn. I'm beginning to think that my love of the colour purple is showing through on my skin! Never mind, I'm tough enough. I'll just be wearing black tights to the wedding this weekend instead of the beige ones I had planned to wear!

There will be more details to come in my next posts. Including the cheese lab, where the heavenly Hüftengold is made - I have no chance of leaving this place lighter than I arrived. Lucile's cheeses are just too good.

For now I'll leave you with a picture of my French classroom and my trusty pal, Edwin the dog.