Milking sheep in Millau

Ever wondered how a sheep is milked? As you watch, imagine going through this process twice a day - both the farmer and the sheep!

These Lacaune sheep were on the Cassan family farm where we stayed at Millau, southern France. Their milk is used to make the famous Roquefort cheese.

Footage shot by Mount Gnomon's Eliza Wood. Editing by Bronwyn Purvis.  

Thank you to the fabulous Chiara and Diodorim Saviola (you met them in Italy at the Agritourismo Casa Nouva). They are not just farmers and agritourismo operators, they are also very talented musicians. On this film you hear their track "Miniature, Andante". Chiara is playing flute, and Diodorim the harpsichord.

Please don't let me be misunderstood

Suzanne introduces me to blood sausage - boudin noir - from Christophe's butchery.

Before I went overseas, people asked how I was going to cope in Europe without speaking another language. I shrugged it off, convinced I’d be able to communicate via my hands and google translate. On the most part, that has sufficed, as long as my hands aren’t full and there’s WiFi available.

Isn’t it funny how quickly you adopt an accent? The first time I rang Guy from Italy he laughed at the way I was talking. I was dropping out all the little, unnecessary words, and sounding very exotic – I thought.

Italy was an easy place to start the trip. Almost everyone we met spoke some English, and many were fluent. It hit me pretty quickly how easy it is to get away with speaking just one language when you’re Australian. It’s embarrassing.

We met a black pig farmer, Aldo, with a great set-up near Parma: lots of free range pigs, some cattle, and an on-farm butchery where he makes fantastic charcuterie, including prosciutto. While we were there, one of his regulars turned up to buy a chicken, and he happened to speak a few words of English.  We walked around the farm all together, pointing, laughing, and nodding when we thought we understood each other. I didn’t, however, find out exactly how many pigs he had and whether he sold all of them through the farm shop.

In Roquefort, France, we stayed with the lovely Suzanne Marques – a widow with grandchildren spread about the country, and a house on the hillside of the village. As soon as we arrived it was clear this was going to be a google translate situation. We tried to connect to WiFi, but the password wouldn’t work. Suzanne, who had her hair set beautifully by the way, picked up her mobile and called one of the grandchildren (we’d mistaken an O for an 0). After that, and showing Suzanne how to type on the iPad, the conversation flowed. At breakfast the next morning, Suzanne greeted us with, ‘Good morning. How are you?’ with a big grin on her face. We saw a book-marked French-English dictionary on the dining table. She’d been up late.

Suzanne took us to a specialist charcuterie butchery in the hills of Viala-du-Tarn. Christophe Fabre’s family had started the business in the village, but as it grew, they had to move to the outskirts. When I got there, they were expanding again, and about to treble their production. Remarkably though, they were able to sell it all within a radius of 200km – mostly at farmers’ markets. Christophe wanted to keep it that way to avoid more stringent export regulations.

We muddled through the conversation as Christophe remembered some English. At least pigs have the same body parts all around the world – they just have different names and different uses. Christophe was making air-dried ham, various sausages – including blood sausage – and lots of cooked pates and canned products. I could smell the cooked meat in the kitchen, and see the machines smeared with fresh, warm fat, but I couldn’t ask what they had been making, how long they’d cooked it for, how quickly they cooled it, what spices they put in, how it was served.

In a few days, Marion arrived. Guy met Marion when he was working in the Northern Territory, and she was there visiting the CSIRO studying ants. We heard about another family charcuterie business, this one near Camarès (from Annie, the sheep farmer). I can’t tell you the name of the family, because they were nervous about my blogging. This came about because of a miscommunication.

We’d spent a lovely couple of hours with Mr and his son. We sat around the kitchen table drinking coffee and munching on biscuits I’d got at the farmers’ market. With Marion translating, I learnt how their business had developed and diversified, and how they split their business into wholesale and direct. We toured the factory and it was fantastic: all the rooms were temperature controlled (to lengthen the meat’s shelf-life), there was absolutely no wastage of the pig, and I could see their products were created with care and love.

I really wanted to see the pigs. I hadn’t really thought much about them to this point – I think I knew they were indoors, and that efficient production was a priority for this business. We were given blue spacesuits and plastic shoe covers, and walked up the drive to the sheds.

The smell was mild and the pigs and their pens were incredibly clean. It was a big operation, and the whole area was air conditioned for the comfort and fast growth of the pigs. The sows and their piglets were in stalls, and Mr pointed enthusiastically for me to take a photo while the piglets were drinking. We talked about the production system, and Mr showed me the sow cards where the litters were recorded. While I could never be an indoors pig farmer, I thoroughly respected the care and science they were applying to their farm.

We got talking about sow stalls, and how they were being banned in France. Their business had got in early and moved to group housing for the sows (unfortunately, because they acted early, they missed out on government assistance - funny that). I started telling them about Australia and our rules. I told them about the media coverage of farmers’ not doing the right thing, and how extreme activists sometimes broke into piggeries to record footage.

This is when things started breaking down. I hadn’t kept things simple, and I’d got too confident now I had a translator with me. Suddenly, I think they thought that if I posted photos on my blog they’d be attacked. I flushed and my heart started racing. I shook my head vigorously and tried to explain.

Even though they said they understood, the rest of the tour was strained. I felt sick all the way home. I didn’t sleep and I was teary the next morning. It’s horrible being misunderstood, absolutely horrible.

I quickly made a card to post, thanking them for the visit and emphasising how professional I thought they were. A few days later I emailed a lovely portrait shot I took of Mr in among his hams. I hope they understand.

More photos from France on Flickr.

Pig farmer visits a Prosciutto de Parma factory

We drove into the city of Parma on a Sunday and almost all the shops were closed – apart from the tourism information centre, a tobacco shop, a gelateria, and a couple of bars.

It seemed only right to have ham for lunch. In the bar we chose, the Parma ham legs hung in the window, and a half leg sat melting on the slicer. I asked for a little taste of ham, enough for one. The chief slicer turned on the machine and began delicately lifting translucent slices onto a round timber board. Then he picked up a darker piece of meat and sliced. And then a salami.

When the board arrived in front of me it came with a chunk of parmigiano and a plate of toast dribbled with olive oil. Enough for a family.

I was confused about the different cuts of ham, so I picked a piece up in each hand and chased the waitress around the bar asking for details. They were both from the back leg, she told me, but had been cured for different lengths of time.  I told her I was a pig farmer – trying to excuse my behavior.

With a full stomach we negotiated the roundabouts out of Parma, and headed for the mountains where the ham I had been eating was made.

In the village of Langhirano the five, six, and seven storey factories towered above the stone houses. Their windows were long and narrow – a feature left over from when the mountain air was allowed to flow through the buildings to dry the meat. The signs by the road were over-sized and cartoon-like: jumping and flying pink pigs with chubby, smiling faces.

These factories produce hundreds of thousands of air-dried hams each year that are exported around the world. When I had thought about the brand of Parma ham, I had assumed all the pork legs came from Italian pigs – but it’s just not possible: the hams outrun the farm production.

With our agriturismo hosts Diadorim and Chiara, we visited a smaller factory, Vescovi, in the village of Lagrimone. They used strictly Italian pigs - the closer the farm the better - and showed us the tattoos on the legs.

But does it matter to the consumer where the pork comes from? Or is it the story of the curing process and the history that they are interested in?

So much more than bed and breakfast

At this time of year in Italy, people who can afford holidays head to either the sea or the mountains. In Rome and Bologna, the heat rose from the cobblestones, and on the flat country around Modena the mowed paddocks revealed the cracked clay and the cut-off cereals looked spikey.

In researching my trip, I discovered the word ‘agriturismo’ which brought up wonderful search results in Google. Italy has fantastic networks of farms that offer accommodation, and often restaurant-quality food too. When I made my bookings, I avoided the castles with swimming pools and hammocks, and looked for the ones with free range chooks and rambling gardens.

In Savignano sul Panaro, not far from Modena, we stayed at l’Alpenice – a small four-hectare organic farm with a bed and breakfast. Lorella runs the accommodation, while Andrea works off the farm selling seeds and agricultural products to farmers. They grow grapes for wine, and fruit for making conserves for the visitors. (Have a listen and look at the slideshow to hear more about why they run an agriturismo and who comes to visit).

At l’Alpenice there was a French family on a two-week holiday, and an Italian couple with a toddler stayed briefly en route to their mountain holiday. It was lovely to sit with them all at breakfast eating prosciutto, parmigiano, greengages, chocolate cake, and bread and jam, showing my farm photos and delighting as we learnt the Italian words for the animals.

In the evenings Andrea and I talked farming in Italy and Australia, comparing the crops we grow, government support for farmers, and the ageing farming populations. Lorella and Andrea both spoke English well, which was very helpful for this single-lingual Australian. Lorella even volunteered to come to the Bianca Modenese farm with us to be the translator. (Increasingly while I am away I am feeling very guilty for not having learnt another language at school).

After l’Alpenice, Bronwyn and I drove to Parma (yes, the famous ham place) and then headed into the mountains, singing “staying on the right, on the right… and giving way to the left, to the left”. The drive to the village of Tizzano felt like a long, drawn-out stage of Targa Tasmania: we zigzagged up and up the hills, and were overtaken constantly by zoom-zoom cars with more guts than our Panda.

We found Agriturismo Casanuova among the bright green forest trees. It’s run by Franca and Manuel Saviola, their son Diadorim and his wife Chiara. Franca welcomed us with elderflower cordial and clear instructions about dinner and breakfast times and where to hang our door keys.

Each night at 8pm, Diadorim rang a bell for dinner, and the guests filed into a dark and cool dining room. The long table can sit about 14 people, but there are extra tables if needed. Diadorim and Chiara served a starter of pasta: wide tubes with fresh tomatoes and basil with parmigiano reggiano “dust”. Then the salads began arriving: lettuce from Franca’s kitchen garden, grated zucchini with basil and vinegar, pickled capsicum and onions, beans with parsley…

Franca’s mains were amazing – simple food made with quality ingredients. Over five nights we had dishes that included: almost-raw roast beef served with a parsley/onion/vinegar sauce; the best chicken schnitzel and roast potatoes I have ever had; quiches and pizzas; fried rectangles of home-made pasta spread with a soft cheese - my mouth is watering at the memory.

Dessert was fruit in a sugar syrup, apple cake, hedgehog slice (but better), and grape jelly. Then it was Manuel’s turn to show-off, pouring his homemade liqueurs from walnuts and prunes.

I knew it would be good staying at agriturismos, but it exceeded all possible expectations. We had a cultural experience you could never get in a hotel, and we made real friends with the same values. They even started looking up flights to Tasmania.

Guy often talks about having a farm-stay at Mount Gnomon, and I’ve always been a bit cool on the topic – thinking of all the washing and cleaning I would have to do. But now I can see that we could offer a fantastic experience for visitors – so much more than only a bed and breakfast.

Casa Nuova, a set on Flickr.

Pig farmer visits a shepherd

Pecora Cornigliese, a set on Flickr.

While we were staying at Agriturismo Casanuova, in the Province of Parma, we heard about a rare breed of sheep that was making a comeback in the area.

The Pecora Cornigliese is an old breed native to the mountains near Parma. It's useful for milk, meat, and wool.

The breed has become rare because of a shortage of shepherds. In the village I visited, Rigoso, there used to be about 20 shepherds. Now there are less than a handful - including the one I met, Onorato.

The shepherds receive support from the EU (15 Euros per animal, per year), but there doesn't seem to be support to help them get their products to the markets.

Italians don't actually eat much lamb, so the future of this breed may be determined by how well it is marketed.

One single ingredient

How do you put a price on a piece of history?

Real balsamic vinegar - the Traditional Balsamic Vinegar of Modena - is the work of generations. Some of the maturing barrels date back to the mid-1800s, and you can buy vinegar made from grapes grown more than 50 seasons ago.

This vinegar is top quality, and is made from only one ingredient - Lambrusco grapes. There are no additives.

Can you imagine waiting decades to taste the fruits of your labour? And what about the return on investment?

These questions are actually irrelevant, because real balsamic vinegar is about sacrifice and romance, as we learnt from Marica Benatti.

Marica is from Acetaia del Cristo - a family business at San Prospero, near Modena in Italy.

Produced by Bronwyn Purvis.

Pig farmer drives a car

When we picked up our hire car in Bologna, the man in charge of the carpark stopped the traffic so we could turn safely onto the busy street.

At least, that’s what I thought had happened. Bronwyn told me later the traffic had halted behind a car waiting to come into the alley I was leaving. The car, and the bus and cars behind it, had waited while I made two failed hill-starts in front of a boom gate that went up and down and up and finally down behind us.

Before we had left the carpark I tried to write ‘this side’ onto my right hand – but I was so sweaty the pen wouldn’t work. As I drove down the street, I tried to imagine I was just driving the gravel road at Mt Gnomon in the ute, sticking to the right to avoid the potholes. I gripped the wheel at 10 and 2 and leaned forward like a pained turtle. It took about 15 minutes for me to realise where the rear-view mirror was.

Bronwyn skillfully navigated the outskirts of the city with the help of google maps and a dodgy tourist map from Europcar. It took quite a while to get into the rhythm of pausing for zebra crossings every 50 metres. Bronwyn was like the driving instructor I had when I was 17: patiently and quietly giving directions and reminding me who to give way to, and to watch the pedestrian, cyclist, scooter, truck, and deer…

As we reached the highway, the paper map came to an end, and the phone battery ran out. We were on our own for a couple of minutes as Bronwyn extracted my computer from a bag in the back seat whilst not taking her eyes off the road.

It wasn’t long before the speed went from 50 to something much faster, and I found myself on a four-lane highway among trucks, caravans, and whizzing little Fiats, Alpha Romeos, and Peugeots. Bronwyn’s face paled a little when I excitedly told her I’d never driven among four lanes of traffic before – let alone the wrong (or right) side of the road.

After about 30 minutes the pulsing blue arrow took us off the highway – we had a couple of false alarms that gave me a chance to practice merging back onto the highway – and we entered the roundabout zone. This was the first time Bronwyn raised her voice. She didn’t yell, but she was firm and pointed with great precision as I got utterly confused.

In the countryside, I had to control myself to keep my eyes on the road, and not look at the crops and the freshly rolled bales of hay. The roads become narrower and narrower, and I hoped my hand-eye coordination had improved since I put the tractor forks through two of our sheds.

By now all our navigational batteries had fizzled, and we were following written instructions to a family farm producing balsamic vinegar.

When we finally found the address, and pulled into the drive, I hugged Bronwyn and thanked her for navigating us there. I was trembling as I got out of the car to meet our host.

P.S. I have now learnt how to say I am a pig farmer: “Io sono una allevatrice di maiali”.

Next… Why did I just pay 90 Euros for 100ml of balsamic vinegar?