At the request of the other wwoofers, Dennis scheduled a trip for us to take a short drive to Saint Saturnin Wednesday afternoon to visit Ferme Clavel, where they make three of the local specialty cheeses: Salers, Cantal, and Saint Nectaire. Ferme Clavel was an established dairy with multiple generations of history. The cheese comes from the milk of different species of cows whose milk has a different makeup at different times of the day. The Salers traditional is also very unique in its flavor due to the high percentage of fresh grass in their diet. These cows also don’t give milk unless they feel the presence of their calf, so the calf is brought to the cow daily to initiate the milking. We toured the milking barns as well as the fromagerie, where the teenage sons of the farmer were expertly molding, salting, and pressing the cheeses. The tour was in French, so I tried to pick up what I could from our guide, but mostly just watched. The cleanliness and efficiency of the fromagerie was quite impressive, but the product that they made showed their true expertise. Some of the cheeses they make sell for 50€ per kg in Paris.

On the way back to La Ceppe, Dennis pulled the car over all of a sudden and told us to get out. Alexia and I gave each other the “what the hell is going on?” look but obliged. The others got out of the car as well and we followed our big German host without an explanation. We hopped an electric fence, walked across an empty pasture down toward a creek. There, we saw a bridge going over the creek. Dennis explained that the bridge was likely two-thousand years old and built by the Romans. He might be full of shit, but the bridge was pretty cool regardless.

After dinner, we wwoofers once again retreated to the caravans to drink, to listen to soul music, and to share stories.

Thursday morning was spent shoveling more manure and the accumulated bedding from the goat pens with Antoine and Alexia. This chore is obviously not done very often as we were removing up to a yard of densely packed feces. None of us really minded the work because it gave us a chance to chat and pass the time. Rather than hang around the farm any longer than necessary, Antoine invited me to go with him, Laura, and Alexia to visit Salers, a medieval village with lots of summer tourism. Since we were there in the off-season on a rainy day, the shopkeepers were eager to welcome us into their stores, explaining the wine, beer, and cheese and giving us samples. We found a shop selling an array of products made from the horns of cattle. The shopkeeper was about as eccetrentic as you would expect from a horn-molder. We browsed through the shelves of bowls, spoons, jewelry, and buttons as he explained the history of each everyday item that was originally made from horns and eventually replaced by plastic. Antoine picked up a beard comb and I bought shot glasses and a guitar picks because they’d fit in my carry-on.

After our shopping, we ran into the other wwoofer of La Ceppe, Estelle. At forty-five, Estelle is a bit older than most wwoofers, but was doing the same thing as everyone else. She had quit her demanding job as a financial advisor to seek a life outside of her career. She plans to tour different farms in France for one year as she writes a book of memoirs. Estelle joined us for dinner at an empty cafe serving the local specialty, aligot. It’s basically mashed potatoes mixed with a little garlic and enough cheese to form an elastic semi-solid paste served with a local sausage. It wasn’t the most culinarily complex dish, but it was good, fatty comfort food.

Saturday and Sunday we spent more time touring and eating and enjoying each others company outside of the farm. I bid farewell to my new friends at the train station in Clermont-Ferrand and promised to stay in touch.

13. More memories from La Ceppe