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.

Annie's flock at Camarès

Annie Bernat has been welcoming the public to her sheep farm in France since long before it was trendy, and decades later she still loves it.

Annie and her brother's property is in between the narrow roads at Camarès, in central southern France. They've got about 600 Lacaune ewes - the sort of sheep that produce milk for Roquefort cheese.

The soil in this area looks really strange. It's red like ours, perhaps a bit more maroonish, but instead of being made up of soft lumps it's rocky and shard-like. (A bit of research tells me it's a clay saturated with iron oxide, and it's full of the skeletons of corals and marine critters from 250 million years ago).

The dirt seems to grow good grass though, because the ewes are excellent producers (350 litres per girl per season) and the barns are packed with giant fresh-smelling bales of hay.

When we got to the farm the school holiday crowd was taking off its blue shoe protectors after touring the sheep barns, and was headed towards the soft and squeezable animals.

As the mothers gathered up their young and the squishy protectors, Annie tossed grain about for the chooks who came running for the finish line from the ground floor of the stone farmhouse.

Around the corner we stopped to get out the rabbits, and once everyone under 10 had held one we poked our heads into the stable to say hello to the horses.

Then up we went past the tractor sheds, past the Jenny Craig Shetland pony pen, into a simply, but  rather nicely, restored barn.

Annie told me (through my translator and friend Marion) that she got some funding to help with the glass windows and doors, and also for the three-legged stools around the tables.

As the parents lifted the kids onto the stools, Annie rushed about putting baskets of bread on the tables and started sharing the cheese. The chunks of Roquefort were the size of lunch plates and had the ripe smell of room temperature. Jam was also passed around, and the weary parents welcomed the red wine that was poured for them.

There was a lovely feeling of chaos - a bit like a flurry of warm wind between us - but Annie had done this hundreds of times and knew what a lovely feeling it was.

After the families had paid up (a tiny five Euros per adult), Annie sat with us and the left-overs, talking about how she and a handful of women sheep farmers had got together to organise the farm tours. They got some help with printing brochures, and eventually convinced the cheese companies to let them sell Roquefort from their farms (albeit at a higher price than at the factories).

Annie makes barely anything from the tours, and she doesn't have a farm shop to divert the visitors through on their way to the car park, but you can see she just loves sharing her lifestyle and animals with families who are willing to drive out to Camarès and get a bit dirty.

Annie's flock at Camarès, France, a set on Flickr.

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.

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 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?

Ten more (slightly restless) sleeps

In the same way a woman goes on maternity leave as her due date looms, Guy and Dane have been coaxing pigs with swollen bellies out of the herd paddock and into their personal farrowing paddocks.

They haven't got a hospital bag or a new nightie, but their pen has a muddy wallow and a shed filled with soft barley straw.

Through luck - and a tiny bit of planning - we've got a number of sows due in the week of our Rare Day Out.

Who wants to see a fresh, silky piggy, or ten?

The muscovy ducks that have been sitting in the barn have surprised us with their timing, and brought out their waddling clutches a little earlier than anticipated. At least the ducklings will be a bit more robust for enthusiastic handling at two weeks old.

The guinea fowl has also got babies. In the past we've had rotten luck with getting the chicks past a week old, but as we check these ones through the binoculars, they seem to have outlived the riskiest time.

Part of that's because the weather's a bit like dry Africa, where the fowls originated.

A year ago, as I looked out this kitchen window, the grass was a brilliant green and there was a paddock of smiling clover ready for the pigs to be moved into.

Today the grass that clutches the dirt is dead and waiting for the autumn break to bring it out of dormancy.

But as the wind blows, and the pigs rotate their bodies in the mud wallows, we are thankful for the  hardy shelter belts that divide the paddocks like green oasis strips.

It's dry - certainly the driest season we've had since we came to Mount Gnomon in 2009. But the old farmers across the north-west says it's been decades since we've had a year like this.

I'd love it to rain before our open day. I'll order a day where the cloud hangs low over the mountain and the water trickles slowly into the ground over hours. And then I'll order warm, overcast weather for the next day, and then the sun can come out and coax delicate shoots from the soil.

Dry weather or green grass, we're starting to get excited about the 2013 Rare Day.

Last year we fell off our hay bales when 650 people turned up to see our patch of piggies.

This year, we've got a few extra attractions, including music from the Doctors Rocksters, artisan wine from Blue Penguin Farm, Lost Pippin Cider, and cheesecakes, platters and smoothies from our friends at Red Cow Dairies.

They'll join Seven Sheds Brewery, enthusiastic coffee-making friends Theresa and Beau, and our team of Mount Gnomon taco and sausage cookers.

Head over to our registration page to let us know how many people you're bringing - you could win a voucher!

And we'll get back to running around like headless farmers as we prepare for your arrival...