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.