Europe: Life on a German-Run French Hippie Goat Farm

Getting ready for breakfast

It’s day three of my time here on Le Jean de Moine Farm (named after John the Monk, who lived here about four hundred years ago). Since my first crazy meeting with Till, things have calmed down a lot and my days have fallen into a relaxed pattern.

The building bears the date 1634, so I assume that’s when it was built. It hides out on the side of a wooded mountain, brought to life smack-dab in the middle of the Thirty Years’ War. Made mostly of stone, the house has been plastered and re-plastered a thousand times, its roof supported with wooden beams draped in an impressive swath of cobwebs. Walking upstairs to my room is a careful exercise that involves ducking through the five-foot-tall doorways (people were a lot shorter back then) and feeling each foothold on the steep, uneven stairs. We get our drinking water from a shallow well in the cellar, and there is not much insulation anywhere in the house, making it feel like an airy, well-kept barn instead of a house. Still, we have the comforts of home, including electricity, wi-fi, and indoor plumbing.

Till has transformed the property from a picturesque old house to a hippie hideout. Random artwork crowds the walls, banners and bandanas flutter from every wire, goat skulls and rusted tools of unknown use pile up everywhere, and every day I notice a new carved wooden face peering out at me from somewhere I didn’t notice before— beside the sink trough, over the doorframe, behind the cumin on the kitchen shelf. Till often plays music, on the computer or on his guitar, and I fool around on the piano every once in a while.

There are six of us altogether: Till is most often found smoking a cigarette or making cheese with the goat’s milk. He is the kind of person who makes a pseudo-hippie-farm possible: laid-back, but willing to order people around and organize things.

Tomas is also German. He's a friend of Till's, and has paused here in his constant nomadic travels of the world. On my first day here he baked a huge batch of sourdough bread in the bread oven. He wears round wire-frame glasses and has a nice gentle sense of humor.

Christine is the third German. Petite and soft-spoken, she has curly brown hair and a nervous expression. She just finished her studies and is trying to make some life decisions about whether she wants to have her own farm.

Alejandra is from the Yucatan in Mexico. She dresses in bright patterns and pretty skirts, cooks amazing salsa, and has a friendly round face.

Shanie is Alejandra's girlfriend from Israel. She has a curly Jew-fro, a washed-out look like she's high all the time, and a sweet smile. They are a very affectionate couple. When both of them are in the kitchen, the meals are certain to be fantastic— so they do most of the cooking.

The kitchen (notice the spice jars with lids nailed to the ceiling)

My typical day is this: first thing in the morning, everybody (except me) drinks coffee out of mismatched mugs. Then we grab the milking pails and head to the barn where 20 goats mill around in the straw. We spend a good half hour milking them (that deserves its own blog entry), then haul everything back to the kitchen. Till makes breakfast for everyone while some of us strain the straw and goat hair out of the milk. We bottle some, leave some in a pot for cheese, and pour some directly onto the muesli.

We begin each meal by joining hands and observing a minute of silence. I pray during this time; I have yet to ask the others what they do. When we all make eye contact, we shake each other’s hands up and down and shout, “Bon appetit, grand et petite!” followed by giggling. Every meal is sumptuous: homemade bread and cheese, jams of all kinds, leftover hummus and bean spread, and the muesli. So far everything has been vegetarian, but I’ve hardly missed the meat.

The view out my window

The rest of the morning is dedicated to various kinds of work, from herding the goats down to pasture to making cheese to hauling wood to the porch. We have lunch around 3, usually some kind of hearty soup. I spend my afternoons trying to catch up on blogs, write to everyone, and wander the property exploring its nooks and crannies. Supper is often at 8:30 to 9, with the same ritual as every meal. Then everyone hangs out, playing music, working on their own projects, or doing dishes, until bedtime.

I’ve never been on a farm with this kind of relaxed routine, and it’s taken some getting used to. Once I figured out that I didn’t have to be helping every second, I started relaxing. This morning we ruthlessly pruned a jungle of raspberry bushes, and now my arms are striped with thorn scars and burning from the rash of stinging nettles, but the garden looks so much better, it’s all worth it. I have already decided something, living here: I am going to have a garden someday. Hopefully a big one. It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it, in so many ways.

Tomorrow, I hope to tell you all about my newest skill: milking goats!

One of the many birds at the farm

~~~