Jessica trying in vain to get into the castle
Train station in Virieu Le Grand
The 14th century castle that both Jessica and I were in love with
We hoped we might find eligible bachelors here... but were sadly disappointed.
The goats on the hill pasture
Jean-Yves himself
Lucie, an agriculture student who came to join us at the farm a few days later for a school project.
The lookout spot on top of the hill (near the castle)
beautiful view of Belmont and surrounding area
The dome for the greenhouse
The beginnings of the dome
Christine, Jean-Yves' girlfriend, making a special sunday treat
cocoa powder, oatmeal, tea and malt syrup: what else would one eat for breakfast?
Jessica holding a baby goatI just got back from a week spent on a farm in Belmont, a tiny village in the department of Ain, situated in the south-eastern part of France near Lyon. I went through a program called "wwoof," short for World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms. If you turn "wwoof" into a verb you get and action, wwoofing, and that is what I did all last week. I heard about the organization from a friend after having expressed my interest in visiting some farms in France. The idea of the program is to allow travelers stay on organic farms all over the world, where they work for a few hours every day in return for food and housing, and where both farmer and visiter learn something from the cultural exchange. Sounds great, right? I signed up, paid the 15 euro access fee online, and instantly had in front of me all the addresses of French farms participating in the program. All I had to do was choose a farm and contact them to see if I could come.
The past two weeks were Sarah Lawrence's February break. It's also the main ski break for most schools in France. It seemed like the perfect time to try out this thing called wwoofing. I talked about my plans quite a bit with other people in my program, and even got some of them interested in going. In the end, though, my friend Jessica and I were the only ones who ended up going. The first farm I contacted (I emailed several) was the only one that got back to me saying they were accepting wwoofers. It seemed like the perfect place, though, so my friend and I bought our tickets and left early Friday before last.
We got of the train in Virieu Le Grand, a small two-track station in the middle of the country, and were soon greeted by a girl in a very large sweater and hippie pants. This was Lucie, the farmer's eldest daughter. It was she who had replied to all my emails earlier in the week. We hopped into the car where her dad, Jean-Yves Martinal, was waiting and drove up to their goat farm nestled in the tiny midieval village of Belmont. Lucie was I think 18, and it was her idea to participate in Wwoofing. She was inspired after spending a summer wwoofing in Bulgaria, and they had only been signed up since January.
Jean-Yves seemed a little like the gruff and silent type, and our conversation in the car was awkward. It wasn't until later that I found out that he could become quite philosophical and talkative when sitting at the kitchen table. His two other children, Estelle (16) and Albin (15) also helped out with the farm. Jean-Yves cared for around 20 or so goats. since it's spring, many of them had just had kids and the spunky baby goats greeted us from their enclosure as we walked into the barn. Along with goat cheese, the farmer also produced and sold apple juice, beer and chicken eggs. The apple juice was delicious, and we drank it at every meal.
We did quite a variety of little jobs while we were there. Having no precise working hours, we really just did whatever Jean-Yves needed or thought we were capable of doing that day. We gathered and cleaned eggs for the market, fed the goats before milking in the evening, helped out with lunch and dinner, glued labels onto bottles, and took the goats out to graze on sunny days. Some of the more interesting things we did were sort grain and grind it into flour, and create a dome-like structure out of young hazel shoots for a green house the farmer was constructing. I even made pasta on Sunday with their home-ground flour and a pasta machine.
