When at the Goat Farm, I took a walk.

The other day I took time to walk around the goat farm. I discovered a dirt road leading toward Arles -- to explore further with my bike on my next visit. I visited the horse, who was in with the goats nibbling away, hiding beneath the trees when the heat became too strong. When Filou ran up to her barking louding, she simply charged him and put him in his place. But, as she didn't really want to come close to me, nor is she truly dangerous, she stopped after a step or two.

Isabelle was sleeping, her new quilt upon her knees. The others were busy in each his own way, and my particular skills -- cooking and cleaning -- weren't really in need at that moment. So, I wandered, I looked, I took in the evolving spring. The fluff along the ground dropped form the polinating trees. The butterflies posing gently upon a bright magenta flower, the rosemary in blossom.

Each spring I see anew. I revel in this beauty, the last spring for Isabelle. As with many who are in the midst of this path towards death, it seems she has stayed with us till this moment. Now that the flowers are opening. Now that the warmth has returned, now that her little grandson can explore this marvelous outdoor world on two feet, she is ready to depart. A last spring lived, sensed, seen, felt.

In the beauty of her sphere. Aware of this magical moment of grace, I am.

And the fire is lit

It is the third day having a fire in my cast iron stove.

It is a new sensation, this radiant heat. Coming in from the chilly winds outside, brisk, sunny, and intense, I am greeted by a toasty warm kitchen. I'd forgotten this feeling. The brilliant sunlight of my front window is replaced by the forged, heavy metal hearth. From white to black, from brilliance to coziness. Truly, there has been a shift.

Yesterday, I set up camp on the chair before the fire, tea in hand, Filou roaming between his cushion and my feet, and wrote, read, explored. No doubt way too much. My eyes were aching when at last the boys walked in the door with Erick.

The only drawback of the situation (that of my stove) is that I've only these two chairs in front of it, and not the room to put a love seat or some such object upon which two people could easily be seated together. When first I moved here, I had visions of small over-stuffed English arm chairs. But these were unfindable locally, and bringing one from home (i.e. the US) completely prohibitive. Yes, my English roots were speaking there, painting my image of what is right and proper before a flaming chimney. Put in a few floor to ceiling bookcases, a purring cat, and I'm right at home.

Thus, Jonas simply climbed onto my lap (a large 7 3/4 year old now) to watch A River Runs Through It with me while Leo claimed the other chair last night. As his lids grew heavier he sought just the right position to curl up and possibly sleep. But, though my lap is not getting smaller, his limbs are stretching to new lengths, and try though he might, it was never quite right. The last few moments were best spent, legs out-stretched, under the covers, up in my bed.

Day Two making cheese

The milking part is pleasant, warm, clean and easy -- or relatively so. Goats are clean and intelligent animals. From what I've seen of cow dairies, there is no comparison. To put it simply, tales of being shat upon, or filthy teets at a cow dairy are not exagerations. Plus they are large and stubborn animals, cows. Sheep, I'm told are quite stupid. Should your lands flood, goats will find the high land, climb a stair well or a tree, what-have-you. But sheep will simply baaaa and drown. So, here I am amidst a range of goats of different ages and races, and what a pleasure it is. They leap quickly into place for their feed and milking. They make room for you to put the suction cups on their teets. No kicking, relatively minimal farting, and perfectly at ease with the handling and manipulation of our hands upon them. The milk flows quickly and smoothly -- numerous hygienic measures are followed sensibly and not onerously -- and a short hour later, we've milked all 36 and are ready to head to the dairy.



Just a note. Before milking, the goats are given some fresh hay to pump them up a bit. Then they munch away on their grain while they are milked, and afterwards they can head out to the pasture, or eat more hay in the manger. Salt licks are on the walls in the barn. And, should you try to milk them dry, it is nearly impossible. We milk till the teets are softened and supple, but even then, if we hand-milked there would be more. So, you stop when there is far less.




Today I helped flip and return to the molds the cheeses poured into their molds yesterday morning, and already flipped once yesterday evening. I didn't maul them too badly, and after a hundred or so, the gesture began coming naturally. As with any repetitive gesture, be relaxed. Tension makes everything worse.

We then moved onto the tiny cheeses -- much appreciated by restaurants and makers of toasted goat cheese salads. Again, we had a metal guide for 90 molds. However, we had to place these 90 molds on the stainless tray before placing the guide on top. Getting the spacing right is an art, and in each instance a bit of fiddling and putting back in order necessary. With these guides, you can practically dump your curdle on top and simple smooth it around into the molds. I tried to do it a bit more elegantly than this, but truly...

Then our clean up, prepping cheeses in paper for selling to Aurelie's various clients, and back out the door. Tonight, we'll turn the tiny little cheeses I filled today. As there are 580 or so, I should get some good practice with that flipping wrist action, don't you agree?

Meantime, Filou got a nasty little weed in his paw -- what the locals call espégao, or la folle avoine -- resembling a tiny shaft of wheat. It is pointy and akin to an arrow, it wants to go in, further and further, and is terribly difficult to remove. He has had these twice in the past years in his ears, but this time it is between his toes. Shepherds are good people to bring sick dogs to. Aurelie helped me remove a bit of the points of this nasty thing, and to disinfect the wound. But, 24 hours later, he is still limping and the wound is weeping. The verdict is to keep disinfecting, and let the wound abscess to push out what is clearly still inside. If we've not accomplished this by tomorrow, I do have a veterinarian beside my home in Avignon and will see if he can help.

Mon brave chien accompanies me nearly everywhere, lying so calmly at my feet (or at the feet of the head of the household). He enjoys the goat barn and has made friends with the resident mama cat who's a master huntress of rats, rabbits, mice and more. However, when I disappear into the dairy for an hour or more, he wines at the door, not accustomed to my abandoning him in this manner. Perhaps he'll get accustomed to this just like his mistress?

Filou and one of his best friends, Bonzo.