Monday July 9th, 2018, Day 4 back at the Gaec de Rochebesse in the Ardèche.
Manger est un sentiment (Eating is a feeling) is the title of one of François Simon’s books. For me, herding is a feeling (rassembler un troupeau est un sentiment). I don’t care how corny or ridiculous that sounds. I’m a city boy unapologetically enamored with country life. I dare say that the connection between us and farm animals is primal. For me, it’s enlightening and profound.
Herding goats feels exhilarating. Approaching the goats, I could perceive their obedient demeanor ready to follow me down the mountain and into the barn to be milked. Shouting “titouille” the magic word that corrals the animals from one enclosure to the next, I walk up the mountain facing the stone farmhouse. The sloping ridge is buzzing and ringing with crickets, grasshoppers, and countless more insects. The continuous noise gives the impression that not only the earth below my feet but also the air around me is vibrating. Foot-long shamrock green grass mixed with sharp dried yellow blades brush up against my ankles and itch my calves. With each step – stomp, stomp, stomp – the environment puts me in a hypnotic trance destined to make contact with the goats, to round them up, and to feel our mutual interdependence.
I am becoming a part of the goats’ world and nothing can stop me. I avoid the vibrant fluffy nettle leaves the stinging hairs of which have made me relinquish shorts for pants. But, I cannot escape the flies swarming around my arms and perching themselves somewhere in my thick bushy brown hair. So, what! They don’t bite. At first, it’s as if they’re trying to defend the environment from foreign human invasion. Flying directly in front of my face attempting to obstruct my line of vision, they test my perseverance. However, my cold indifference tells them that I’m okay and that there’s no need to put up a fight. And so, they cozy up to my hairy sun-burnt arms and make themselves a home in my shaggy nest of a head. I am tapping into some primordial energy existing in the physical surroundings. I am affirming my humanity by developing a kinship with goats. I am dissolving my need for paychecks and “work” into a bucolic daydream.
Meanwhile, back at the wooden deck protruding from the house below, Tom sits at a makeshift desk working on his article about artificial intelligence. My shouting “titouille” distracts him from AI, such an alien concept in my pastoral land of make believe. Nature beckons. His day of uninterrupted writing is over. After the milking and cheesemaking, the drinking hour before dinner begins. I’ll indulge in Sylvie’s homemade nut wine.
“I feel like I am inside a landscape painting” Tom admires the stunning deep blue ocean of a sky. He looks up toward the tall greyish rock formations cuddling together at the top of the low slanting mountain. Locals believe that those rocks are portals to the spirits, and the last time that I visited there were shamanic rituals being performed around them. Tom is lost in the puffy clouds. By the time his eyes seek the source of “titouille,” I have already guided the goats down two enclosures, between chestnut trees and cherrywood trees. We’re now on the driveway headed for the barn further down the hillside.
I am engaging with the stunning world inside Tom’s painting. I am drunk on the colorful landscape. Unlike the large expanses of wild nature in California, everything rural feels accessible here. The mountains are low. I feel like I could even touch the clouds. Despite the flies and nettle, nature in the Ardèche is inviting. It’s empowering and dream-inducing. It’s full of potential pasts, presents, and futures. Mr. Golden Sun is shining down on me. I am in a realm of hypotheticals that all feel liberating. Farm work gives me a purpose, as simple as it may seem it’s a profound metaphysical one. I question modernity though it’s thanks to air travel that I’m there in the first place. I get it. I understand the contradictions and hypocrisies, but I still dream and wonder what I could take away from this experience at Rochebesse.
Earlier that afternoon, Sylvie asked me to herd the goats down from one enclosure to the next. Over the past couple of days during the milking, two goats would be left munching nettle under a tree on the hill. And, I’d go get them and bring them down.
Today was my turn to bring down the entire herd, all 40 something of them. The job was done and I felt proud.