Auf Wiedersehen, darlings

Daisy had been a perfect angel. Twice a day, I brought her mother-in-a-bucket milk and brushed her often with an old scrub brush. She pranced around after like a frisky colt, smelling of warm milk and head butting me with her wet pink snout. Then, with an hour’s warning, we were waving each other goodbye. A jolly farmer had swung by in a truck with her new mother, #37. It troubled me, this lack of name for her new guardian, but at least they were from the same race. It’s un-PC to say, but racially similar adoptive families do have a better chance of success. I made the farmer promise to call Daisy by her proper name. And we shook on it.

It seemed a good time for me to wave goodbye, too. It was nearing the end of the season. The grass was nibbled smooth as a putting green. Milk production had gone from 12 cans to less than four a day. Five of the original 18 cows had been put out to pasture to prepare for calving. And I’d been having conversations with four-legged creatures and the occasional bunch of wildflowers for more than two months -- mushroom season was upon us, and what could we possibly have to talk about? Oh, and I’d run out knitting wool.

I dropped a dress size. I learned how smart a cow really is (not terribly, but all the more loveable for it). And I’d watched more sunrises than in my entire life. Now it’s time to get back to star-gazing, city life, and catch up on loads of crap TV. I enjoyed my life as a bovine au pair immensely and recommend you try. If you hurry, I know a nice spot…

With love and grass stains

Leslie xx

Hard times for the herd...

It was a sun-soaked fragrant afternoon on the alm when a tractor trundled its way up the hill. Within a half hour, a pathetic, lowing cortege of cows trailed behind the machine as it carried its cargo down the slope. A mother cow was dead, fallen down a steep slope, likely the night before. One of the neighbouring hut’s herd, everyone seemed to take it in their stride, explaining that years can pass without such incident, then two or three cows can die from falls or lightning strikes in one summer. Then just days later, nature filled the eerie void. An early surprise, a sweet tiny calf was born to one of our cows in the middle of night – and on the middle of the mountain. Mother doing well -- actually she was sold the next day but she looked in good spirits considering her world was being ripped apart. And little Daisy (my top name choice obviously) has her own bijou stable laden with sawdust and hay, and her surprisingly loud moo sounds more like a goat. She is up and running, drinking heartily from a grey plastic bucket with a pink spout, and wondering where her mother is. I told her it's you and me against the world. She seems happy as a goat.

Gold star for Blue Team

Well done, girls! A full action-packed month of eating, sleeping and running away from me has earned you the top category of organic milk measurement. Of the four grades of organic purity assigned by the official Austrian milk men down at the milkerei in Maishofen, you have achieved the highest mark! For those looking to taste the difference, the milk is sold as “Ja, Naturlich!” in Austria – and discerning stores around the world.

An open letter...

PS Dear Little Cows,

Whichever one of you was responsible for last week's reported but unseen-by-my-eyes GROSS infraction of entering the hut not by the barn door but the HUMAN door, running through the for-humans-only kitchen, slipping on the laminate floor and then managing to right yourself in time to squeeze through the for-humans-only three foot wide door (how did you do that?) ... whoever you are, you are in BIG TROUBLE. And, yes, I will try to keep the gate closed from now on.

Love,
Your Bovine Au Pair

O Canada!

HAPPY CANADA DAY!!

All's homemade here!

Meet the friendly purveyors of fine home made cheeses, butters, and milks from the Eggeralm. Katie can whip you up a pair of socks before your coffee’s cold. Alois’ pants have been handed down to him (possibly at arm’s length) from his great grandfather. And no, don’t be silly, of course they haven’t been washed.

You’ve got to love the English abroad

Most thrilled to have Miss A visiting from London. A woman of independent means, you might think Miss A to be one of the least likely candidates able to cope with hut life. In fact, she took it in stride and declared the outhouse to be “better than expected”. It’s all about expectation management. When thunder, lightning, and hail wailed down on us, she stormed out herself to collect a cup of ice for the gin, even offering to wash it which would have been a first for me. Hand-washed ice? Wait til Gordon Ramsay finds out. Later in the Krallerhof spa, I reminded her of the strict nudie laws governing sauna use in Euroland. She opened her robe to reveal a pair of big white pants. “But are these ok?” You’ve got to love the English abroad.

Ooh, ahh...

After four action packed weeks, a reprieve! Hurrah! Am having whole 24 hours off. Actually 29 – and am not wasting one of them.

Have high tailed it to the nearest four-star spa hotel I could find. I can recommend without reservation the Hotel Krallerhof in nearby Leogang – and not only for its numerous and splendid flush loos. Many other treasures are on offer, including a spa of infinite pleasures. The eerie blue spacepod room, or Laconium, is kept at 36 degrees and a lovely place for napping post massage and swim. The Oriental style relaxation room is ideal for a post-pedicure snooze also. Ditto, the chairs by the outdoor pool. All in all, I Goldilocked pretty much the entire wellness centre.

Time for Tough Love

Right, the kinder gentler au pair in me is history.

In the morning – after ME of the “never up before the mailman comes” philosophy – has gotten up at 4.30am and hiked uphill in the hunt for 18 hidden 600 kilo blue-striped bovines, the lazy cows won’t move. When they do finally haul their carcasses out of their grassy lairs they still wont go in right direction, preferring rather to resume what they were busy doing before they fell asleep – eating. Ceaselessly. Then all they do is bloody traverse endlessly across the slope, back and forth, back and forth with no discernible loss of altitude to show for it. Mr H Junior tells me I am not hitting them often or hard enough. Funny, yesterday my hand was numb all day – I suspected carpal tunnel from all the beating. Good news then. It must only be a stroke.

Top 10 Cow Songs

Courtesy of London hack, Frank “Scoop” Baldwin:

Moo-ve Closer - Phylis Nelson

Moo-n River – Henri Mancini

I herd it on the grapevine - Marvin Gaye

Slurry seems to be the hardest word - Elton John

Udder the Boardwalk - The Drifters

High on a hill laid a lonely cow turd - Julie Andrews

Cow's that? - (Can't remember band)

Fields of gold - Sting

Moo-vin and a groovin - Cliff Richard and the Shadows

Moomoo Chile - Jimi Hendrix

New Life

The next door hut farmers have been of immeasurable help to me in learning the ropes. Son Christian is out at 5am when we happily (for me) meet in the rounding up exercise. Christian is a pro and his herding dog Wolfie willingly barks my cows along their way, too. They have had two calves born on the alm this week. One’s called Max and the other one is the Other One for the moment – black and white and wobbly on its feet. The coat is soft like a dog’s and its wet pink nose is too big for its head.

Czech Mates

This must be what AA is like. A rough day. A good day.

One day at a time, riddled with constant prayer. Today, a triumph. During afternoon milking all was as normal -- cows behaving quite nicely and lots of gentle moo-mooing all round, then suddenly, masses of wild gesticulating from the Mr H department. What fresh hell might this signal? Seems the calves had broken through the fence and were running loose. We dropped everything and made haste to round them up. That lasted about 20 seconds, maybe less. Scampering wildly in all directions, it was patently hopeless (and would have been fantastically funny to watch if one were allowed to laugh, though managed to sneak private snicker in.). Mr H returned to the barn in stoic resignation, but I quickly hatched my own plan.

Czech this out. This week, living next door are four lovely young Czech guys, working in the forest on logging the paths with chainsaws. Martin, Martin, the others with the tricky names willingly sprang into action, never I believe, having previously attempted to round up eight frisky bucking calves in the Austrian Alps, which makes five of us. They were stars – and had obviously played high-level hockey back home. Not only that, but they willingly repaired the broken barbed wire fence afterwards. That small, far away country of which we know little breeds true gentlemen and top-notch cowboys. Afterwards it was beer, “schampoo” and sausages all round at the “greell parteey”. Conversation was flowing too, owing to the good English of one of the guys and my dog commands – come, sit – garnered from family friends in Canada, Dr and Mrs Svoboda, whose dog spoke fluent Czech.

Worth my Salt

They can’t get enough salt in this part of the world.

Not only has Mr H commented rather archly that I don’t use salt in my cooking (or meat in my cooking, for that matter) but now my latest, newest job (by the end of the summer I will be running the country) is to feed salt to the 21 calves, aged about one and two years. First they need to be hunted down within the yawning 400 hectares that is the alm. Then the games begin. The older ones – which are joined in a great moo-ing melee by the neighbour’s calves – are surprisingly pushy. The little angels also have horns. One moment they’re giving you big cow licks and kisses -- the next thing you know you’re dead and trampled on. Mr S next door cheerfully shouted across the fence at me “It’s dangerous!” as I staggered and nearly tripped face first into the barbed wire fence. No kidding. One way or the other salt will kill you.

Tears & Tea Towels...

That was fast. Much faster than I would have bet. Less than two weeks in, and have already been reduced to embarrassing gush of tears.

It’s the 4am fatigue talking no doubt, compounded by the occasional loud talking -- aka guttural shouting -- that has been emanating from a frustrated Mr H. His first unintelligible outburst came when I lost control of the cows, when I was meant to direct them in an orderly fashion from the barn. Oops. Then, yesterday my milk can overfloweth – and he failed to appreciate the aesthetic charm of the event. More shouting ensued. But there is indeed no use crying over spilt milk. I briefly chatted to Mrs H on the phone. She is the embodiment of maternal compassion. “Do you have any washing for me?” -- the hausfrau’s answer to the most intractable labour issue. She’s right of course: fresh tea towels make world a better place.

The Alm Diet

You heard it here first. Is only a matter of time until this Sennerin thing becomes the new Yoga. Less than two weeks in, and am positively wasting away. Can’t be bothered to try to patent it like Bikram, so here’s the regime:

- Two hikes a day in fragrant Alpine air for inner well-being and cardio function
- Heavy pot heaving for Madonna-like upper arm strength
- A bit of floor mopping for lower back flexibility
- Deep feather-bed sleeps
- As much full-fat organic milk straight from the cow as you like

PLUS, stay tuned for another TOP SECRET component to follow!

A Dip into Civilisation

All this hut living can take its toll on the complexion. Have engineered A Big Escape.

No one quite does the wellness hotel thing quite like the Austrians. Just over the mountain (you could hike in two hours – I called a taxi) is the four-star Übergossene Alm Hotel, just above the village of Dienten. In its many decades of hospitality, no one has enjoyed nor perhaps needed a spa treatment (read: bath) quite as much as I. A therapeutic and restorative facial was professionally administered by Nora, recently arrived from Frankfurt. (Do Sennerins have facials?, you may justifiably ask. In olden times, which was only a few years ago in the alm world, they actually bathed in milk.) Then I had a whip round as many of the rooms as I could. Laconium, Kneipp way, Stubensauna, even the mysteriously names Room of Sin… a dozen different steam and sauna and relaxation rooms are lovingly laid out for happy supine guests. A final rinse in the indoor-outdoor pool with a stunning aspect that gazes right on the mountain face should have cleansed most of the eau de cow away. Topped up with an excellent schnitzel, I return to the hut.

It is, I decide, a nice place to come back to.

Sex, Sort of

How thrilling. Today, one cow was locked in the barn all day in preparation, Mr H manages to convey to me, of her getting pregnant. Something about a bull and infinite togetherness – and it’s all supposed to happen tonight. So after Griffen spent the whole day preparing herself (OK, standing there, dumbly, in the dark) the vet arrives to check her over. And then, SQUIRT, it’s all over. In the less than two minutes there’s beer and schnapps on the table, and fags all round. The bull turned out to be a four-foot long, centimetre-wide lance, in and out in the blink of an eye. No fun, too fast, all for the bargain price of around 28 euros. Talk about a cheap date.

The Hills are Alive...

Stars must be crossing. It’s all happening. First, flew solo bringing in the team both morning AND afternoon. They cooperated beautifully, apart from Gams, that nose-ringed hooligan, who insists on at least one game of ring-around-the-rosie before giving in. Then made first excursion off the mountain in nearly a week, down to the big smoke of Maria Alm where there’s electricity and tables where you can ask for food, they bring it – and take away the dishes after. What a delight! It’s a picturesque village boasting the province’s highest church steeple atop a pretty Baroque church. Returned in time for afternoon duties, enlivened considerably by the surprise appearance of two men in leather pants who came to serenade me and the team with trumpets, zithers -- plus a bouquet of alm roses. Just what a girl needs at the end of the day.

What Not to Wear

It’s only a matter of time until Sennerin Style takes the world by storm. Here’s everything you need to make your summer sizzle with fashion-forward flair:

Rubber boots
Shown, imported from the exotic high-fashion climes of Lone Pine, California where horses rule. Am most pleased with surprise heel tab function, allowing hands-free removal of manure-caked footwear. Have nearly perfected the toe-to-heel double exit manoeuvre.

Blue overalls
From the classic collection of Lagerhaus. In a cheeky twist on the Henry Ford school of pigmentation, they’re available in any colour as long as it’s cornflower blue. Exclusive to Austria (probably wouldn’t travel well anyway).

Walking stick
The height of strolling elegance, representing a timeless blend of style and function. One local farmer claims the cows feel the full weight of the stick. I wonder. Today one cow stuck its horn up the rear end of another and the stickee didn’t even flinch. Bless her, I think she might have even backed up a few inches.

Hat
Audrey Hepburn meets Romi Schneider, yes?

Knee pad
If udders were on the top of cows’ heads, the world would be a different place.

Cheap Imported Labour? Bring it on!

We have neighbours up here. Apart from the hunter’s hut, three of the huts next door are rented out by the week to holidaymakers from across Europe. This week two families from southern Germany have come to get in touch with rural mountain idyll. “It’s important that children learn where food comes from,” explains Hedwig. “Too many of them think it comes from the supermarket.” Excellent news that husband Markus feels compelled to get in touch with his Inner Hut Man by chopping a huge basket of kindling for me. So too his niece Sonja is willingly pressed into action carrying my empty milk cans into the hut. Can’t think why there’s so much complaining over illegal workers in the EU. This is all developing beautifully. Time for a coffee.

In Good Company

The cows range from three years to well into their teens. The breed is called Simmentaler, fondly referred to as “Fleckies”. After years of happy summers holidaying in the high pastures – eating, sleeping, tanning, and making lovely rich milk -- by the time they reach their latter teens they are rewarded just like other teenagers all over the world. Admittedly their trip to McDonalds is one way but still, it’s a change of scenery. McDonald’s, H-Junior informs me, is the largest purchaser of aged beef in the region. These days, few farmers in the area raise what was the traditional all-beige Pinzgauer breed. Around a decade ago the tide turned toward Fleckies, despite their propensity for leg problems and sunburn.

Alm milk, the organic milk that is produced in summer from free-grazing on alpine flowers and verdant grasses, is substantially different from conventional milk. For a start it has a rich golden hue, and its fat content is a creamy five or six per cent. There are 400 cows up here in summer, across a large swathe of mountainside shared by four farmers.

Special Joke for the Folks at Home

Tonight we all three – Messieurs H and I – slept in the hut and had some light dinner before bed – a typical speck brot dish of cured ham and bread. Afterward, it was obvious that I am to wash not only the cow but the human dishes as well. Am averaging about a surprise per hour so far. My cow men might be thinking the pleasure of washing dishes is enough to make this foreign girl fairly chortle out loud. In fact, am thinking of how hard my friends and family would be roaring (bodily functions going in all directions, I figure) if they could see me acting the ersatz hausfrau. Still, is all about division of labour – I haven’t heard them asking me to muck out the barn yet, so fair’s fair. Getting the hang of lighting the wood stove too. Have used enough matches to burn Rome and discovered that Conde Nast Traveller works better than kindling. If it comes to it, could even use this week’s Spectator. On second thought, I think they sell the Mail on Sunday down in the village.

Portrait of a Farmer

Mr H lifts a 30-litre milk can like it’s a box of chocolates. And he has the patience of Job, perhaps like a good farmer must. He waits for weather, but acts before clouds roll in. He barks at the cows, but uses their names to good effect. He even may be waiting for me to figure out what I’m doing -- possibly even to learn more than 20 words of German-- but he is a measured and strategic coach. Today, he’s cleverly taken to pointing rather that repeating -- much less painful for all involved. Otherwise it tends to go like this:

Mr H: “The pails are on the other side.”

Me: “The other side, ok good. What’s a pail?”

Mountain Manners

As a beginner bovine au pair, I have to admit I had no idea of barn etiquette. Who even knew there was any? H-Junior tries to tell me today that each cow returns to its same slot in the barn for milking, by their own silent agreement (mostly silent, apart from the moo-ing). I sense a fast one being pulled on me. (Those Austrians, they do love a good cow joke.) Evidently it’s true. They are like gigantic well-behaved schoolchildren seeking out their assigned desks. I watch the procession in awe.

Twice a day we use a generator to power the milk machines. During those one-hour periods, I charge my laptop and phone. It takes two goes to charge the battery. I told them we need more cows so the milking could last longer. I feel like Ellen MacArthur on a mountaintop.

So far, the best chats I’ve managed have been with Ilse, who has soulful eyes and a head the size of a minibar. She peers straight into the kitchen in the manner of a Magritte painting as I do my Sennerin business each morning and afternoon. I have a series of proscribed tasks that go something like this: I light the fire, it goes out, then Mr H takes over. I bring in the milk cans, set up the filters, make coffee (one of my primary functions I can really get into), heat big pots of water for washing the milking equipment, and exchange full milk cans for empty as they go. Then end of it I wash the dishes and escort the cows back out to the playground. Freedom encore.

Snow?

It snowed over night. And now everyone is dead.

At least that’s my fear when at 4:30, then 4:45, then 5am, there is no movement from Mr H and his charming son, 22 year old H-Junior, sleeping in the next room. I bang pots. I mess with the stove (five tries using all available kindling). I shine the flashlight around spastically. Still nothing. In my limited 24 hours worth of the cow-milking world, 5am is nearing ground zero for full udders. Something must be seriously wrong.

Finally I brave peeking into their room. “Time to get up maybe?” The answer, loosely translated, comes back as “Leave it to the pros, honey.”

Ahh zo, as they like to say up here. Turns out there is a mysterious relationship between snow and sleeping in – just like on a good ski holiday. Indeed, I had heard the cows butting my wall occasionally in the night. And there they were, like a queue of homeless bums outside the Sally Anne, all huddled around the barn door, when they were finally let in around 6.

PS Is now 7am, the milking is going on at the hands of Mr H and H-Junior and I am busting for the loo. A big fat cow is blocking the door.

Joys of Solitude

Had a nap in the afternoon buried deep beneath heavenly featherbed, Austria’s finest home furnishing. After a 4pm replay of the Fetching Game, and evening milking afterwards, I’m left alone for the first time in the warmth of my charming wood-stove heated hut. In the absence of a shower (there is one in the hut next door but the key has yet to rustled up) I strip and enjoy a birdbath, to the reassuring sounds of battery-powered BBC World Service. The reception is best, I soon find, when I lie flat on the bench, stick my right leg in the air and put the antennae between my toes.

Initiation Blues

It’s 4.15 … AM. It’s dark. It’s early. Boy, is it early. A half moon shimmers across the inky green of the high pastures. From our height of 1450 metres, it’s just possible to make out the grey face of the Steineres Meer, the craggy Rock Sea Mountains across the valley. Despite the hour it is all very lovely. Smells fresh too.

Views are one thing -- but for a girl, of course, it’s all about the clothes. Indeed, the best part of my new life is getting to wear my brand new blue rubber boots, imported from that fashion capital Lone Pine, California (pop. 300 where the local feed store clothes each and every one of them). I clump out bravely into the gloom with Mr H – we’re off to fetch the cows from the surrounding pasture, one of the primary duties of a Sennerin. There are 18 of the darlings to tend – all mixed up in big bovine puzzle with dozens of others belonging to three other farmers who share the alm. Ours, I learn, sport fancy blue racing stripes down their backsides for ease of recognition. Matches my boots. Go Blues.

Ok. You may be able to spot them, but that doesn’t mean you can catch them. The Blue Team is impressively quick on their feet and must have been training with Austrian ski team all winter. Quite without warning, we are dashing about like angry parents chasing three year olds. It’s bedlam. Where’s the coffee?

Despite the naughtiness of a few, most respond to the most impressive and professional moo-sounds that Mr H is making. And more good news: the ones that don’t behave we get to whack with a big stick! One cow with a statement-making nose ring makes me chase her around the hut (twice) which was a very amusing pre-breakfast activity. Ha ha. Don’t know her name yet but already have got her pegged as a problem case.

A Bit of a Blur...

It’s midnight in Austria. The Jeep climbs slowly up the steep one-track mountain road, to the hut that perches high above the sleeping village of Maria Alm. We pull in. Home sweet home.

I’m with my new family, Pinzgau dairy farmers Mr and Mrs H. By the glow of the dashboard, I see the lips of Mrs H moving – yet I fear my ears deceive me. She assures me I can sleep in tomorrow, my first day on the job as a Sennerin. “Ja Leslie, 4:15, even 4:30 is fine,” she smiles warmly. You’ve got to love a woman who can deliver news like that with such grace.

Mooooh-ve it!

Welcome to Leslie's Bovine Adventure!

What better place than Austria to indulge a life-long love of cows, rubber boots, and what I am the first to admit is an unhealthy obsession with “The Sound of Music”.

Eighteen milk cows, one hut, and a view across the Austrian Alps that would make Heidi want to rip up her Swiss passport.

As experiments go, this one is bound to be interesting...