She may need a housesitter from time to time. I will offer my services.
But what made me sit down here to write was not the beautiful property, overlooking vineyards in the distance and steep hills rolling into the Ventana Wilderness. But goats.
Because back in the seventies, the place was a goat farm, for the making of goat cheese. The cheese production facility still exists: one room with small drains in the floor (for cleaning up after the cheese has been made or packaged, I surmise), another room with hooks in the ceiling and full-room-length drains against two walls, for hanging the milk solids as they transform into chèvre.
A few years ago, I visited a working goat farm, Harley Farms Goat Dairy, in Pescadero. Here are a few photos from that visit, with the captions I posted on Flickr.
|Our guide, Connie, making a pat of pretty cheese, |
decorated by calendula, pelargonium, and viola petals.
I have a soft spot in my heart for goats. I attribute it to my heritage: my family name is Geissman, or goatherd. At least, that's how I translate the name. I also use it to explain my comfort hopping around on and climbing rocks, and hiking up steep trails. It comes with the territory.