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.