A pig farmer in tourists' clothing

It’s been a long time since I’ve ridden a bicycle successfully, and I didn’t expect my next wobbling, bottom-aching ride would be on a pig farm in Italy.

We pulled into the gravel driveway of Antica Corte Pallavicina Relais 45 minutes late, feeling frustrated after driving up and down the main road in Polesine Parmense looking for the turn off.

Our guide, Giovanni, was straddling his bicycle waiting for us: curly haired with a moustache and wearing a crisp shirt and trousers that a tourist wouldn’t imagine wearing in the heat of Italy’s summer.

Giovanni is the director of Antica Corte Pallavincia – a castle on a pig farm with a Michelin star restaurant and a cellar packed with drying pig meat.

Massimo Spigaroli’s a chef who you might have seen on MasterChef, or at Melbourne’s Food and Wine Festival.

In the heat of the late morning, I struggled onto my bicycle (artisan made for use by visitors to the farm) and we began our tour.

The farm is spread out around the town, and the first stop we made was its parmigiano reggiano factory. The workers were cleaning up after making the morning’s batch, and they had fun teasing Giovanni and “accidentally” getting him wet with the high-pressure hose. The cheese is made from milk sourced from farmers around the region, and is exported around the world under the Spigaroli name.

Next, we visited the ducks, geese, and turkeys, whose enclosure was in the shade of the vineyard. The poultry are grown for use in the restaurant. An older man was feeding them greens from the vegetable garden and the birds were pushing and pecking with excitement as they fought for a leaf.

When we reached the piggery – a long concrete building – Giovanni pointed me towards the dark entrance and said he needed to go and do something in another building, leaving me to it.

The stench was incredible. The black pigs were lying in shit and they flicked their tails at the flies. The pigs spooked when they heard me, and slipped on their hooves as they ran to their tiny outside concrete run to urinate.

Pigs grown for charcuterie are large when they are killed – three of four times the size of ours at Mount Gnomon. They’re also a lot older, around two years compared with six months.

Next to the piggery, Giovanni had unlocked the doors to the culatello drying room that was made of stone and covered in vines to help keep it cool. It was dark inside, except for a thin green light filtering through the vertical windows on the north side.

Everywhere there was meat: back legs with no bones or skin, squished into bladders and laced with string. Giovanni told me the culatello spends the first eight to ten months of its drying period here, where the environment is breezy and not too humid.

Back on the bicycle, I watched Giovanni pedal slowly as we talked and I realised my wobbling was being caused by my erratic stop-start pedaling. On the main road we pick up speed and I just hoped the locals in their constant road rage were used to navigating around sore-bottomed tourists.

In the castle cellar, 1.5m below the ground, it was cool and the low-set lights illuminated the culatello like religious figurines. Giovanni was getting hungry, so we talked briefly about the opening and closing of the small windows, and of the fog that drifts in from the nearby river, tenderising the meat.

Still in the depths, we sat in front of a stone wall where a projecting screen unraveled. We watched a very nicely crafted film telling us about the Spigaroli family history, the black pigs that forage in the wilderness, and the artisan production of culatello.

We were hungry now too, and we took the steps up to the restaurant where the white tablecloths awaited our crumbs and greasy fingers.

Lunch was fabulous of course, with attentive service, handcrafted crockery and cutlery, and delicious food. I had pasta filled and topped with parmigiano reggiano and a cream sauce; 150-day aged pork loin seared on the outside, but pleasantly raw in the middle, served with vegetables; and small sweet treats gifted from the kitchen.

Massimo’s a chef, and you can see that it’s the restaurant that makes Antica Corte Pallavicina special. But I couldn’t help but be disappointed with the pigs. Perhaps the pigs were about to be cleaned out, and perhaps in the heat it was better for them to be in the shade than in the flat, baking paddocks outside.

But on the sleek website that drew me to the business, the pigs appeared outside grazing, eating the nuts and plants that make their meat unique. Yes, they do go outside – but only for a couple of months in the autumn.

It is very hard to run all parts of a business perfectly – we know that full well, as we juggle the animals, butchery, farmers’ markets, restaurants, festivals and endless paperwork – but perhaps I naively thought there were people on the other side of the world that could.

Mount Gnomon's photostream on Flickr.

Banging on about black pigs in Bardi

There's one thing that's really confronted me in Europe - not the languages, or the right-hand driving, or the complicated shower fittings - but simply the empty paddocks.

At home I look out the window and see pigs, cattle, sheep, ducks, the neighbours' horses, goats and alpacas. At night you can spy wallabies, possums, rabbits, and the occasional owl or devil.

After a few days in Italy I got pretty desperate to see some black pigs, but they were hard to track  down.

The black pig that's native to the Parma area has a similar story to the Wessex Saddleback - it lost popularity when agriculture became more intensified, but has had a come-back in the last decade or so.

However, finding a market for the meat hasn't been easy, and many farmers have given up on their black pigs.

So I was thrilled when we made contact with some free range black pig farmers who were very willing to spend time talking pigs with us.

Thank you to Yoli Meneghetti and Giacomo Belli from Agriturismo Ca del Fuoco. Film production by Bronwyn Purvis.

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.

Lean beef and lean times in Italy

Beef production in Italy, a set on Flickr.

I realise I’ve been taking grass for granted. It’s hay-making time in Italy, and every valley, meadow, and road verge is being baled to feed stock. If you think Australian farmers take their tractors to dangerous places, you should see the hills they’re working on here. I’ve been wondering how many round bales bounce across the roads and end up in the rivers.

I have actually seen very few animals grazing outside: a flock of Cornigliese sheep, four horses, five Friesian bulls, and a herd of black pigs. I think it’s for a few reasons. Firstly, some areas get a lot of snow in winter, so there’d be no grass and the animals would get thin in the cold. If the animals grazed, farmers would need bigger farms to rotate the paddocks – but the farms are mostly small and there’s little room to move. And I think some of it is because of tradition and tastes. 

Andrea Mongiorgi has a large farm business at Castelfranco near Modena. It’s a mixed farm, growing grass and maize for fodder, grain for pasta flour, vegetables, grapes, and beef. 

When I visited his stable, he told me Italians don’t like the flavour of grass-fed beef – so the cattle are fed only hay and maize. Dairy cows used for Parmigiano Reggiano production cannot be fed fresh feed because it can cause fermentation in the milk and ruin the cheese.

Andrea’s main operation is producing fodder for farmers who are part of the local Parmigiano cooperative. There are 1,300 cows in the cooperative and their milk makes 70 wheels of Parmigiano every day. The good thing about the cooperative is that farmers with tiny farms can participate. In the mountains, we drove through villages with tiny stables right on the road with less than 10 cows in them. Whether these businesses are profitable, is another question.

In Andrea’s region, the Bianca (white) Modenese is the local breed of cattle. It’s a dual-purpose breed (meat and milk), but in the past was also used for farm work. Andrea keeps these, and a few cross-breds, just for beef production. The cattle are killed when they are at least two years old. The Bianca Modenese is considered a rare breed, but I had trouble communicating with Andrea about this. He didn’t seem too worried about its future.

I was a bit surprised at Andrea’s cross-breds. He had a number of Belgium Blue crossed with Friesian – producing a very lean beef. He told me that Italians want lean meat, but the locals want more fat. Andrea suggested that people in the cities don’t have a great understanding about the different kinds and qualities of beef.

Andrea sells all his beef through his farm shop. The animals are killed off-site, but his butchery is large and clean and he showed me the carcasses hanging in the coolroom. People can come to buy cuts of meat, parmigiano and preserves, but they can also order large mixed boxes. The economic crisis, that everyone we meet talks about, has had an impact on sales. Andrea says people are preferring to eat cheese, or are opting for cheaper, imported beef. The beef comes from France, Germany, Holland, Ireland, Argentina and Brazil, and sells for about half the price.

It’s clear that eating Italian beef is a luxury for people who live in the cities, and that there is a huge industry growing the fodder to feed the animals. We are so lucky in Tasmania that we can grow grass easily, and that we have enough land to graze our animals outside. And fortunately, our tastes are moving away from grain-fed to grass-fed beef.

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?