On Sunday morning my adventure at CROP Farm came to an end. It was a good week full of sawing, picking, cooking, cleaning, and relaxation.
I sawed and sawed what seemed like a few trees that ended up being used on a daily basis as our wood for the ole' school wood burning oven. The oven was home to many a conversation, many loaves of bread, a few cakes, numerous soups, and a few stir fry dishes as well. Many of these meals accommodated our vegan or vegetarian guests, which meant this guy didn't guy too many servings of meat in his time on the farm. The adaptation process to vegetarian life was a fairly easy one, though returning to the city on Sunday made the appetite desire for something meaty. What I enjoyed most was the peace and quiet (when Mr. Chatty wasn't around) that came with being around the oven in the great wide open underneath the stars.
I did spend a great deal of time pickin' and pickin' too. Sadly enough, I do not spend any of my time pickin' on guitars or banjos though. This pickin' that I am relating to is of the many wild plums and blackberries on the farm. The plums were yellow and red, and had multiple uses. Some were used to make compote. Some were used to make juice. Some were used to make Rakia, which is a famous Bulgarian style of brandy. The ladies even used a few of the plums to bake in the cakes as well.
Now blackberries just may be the most daunting fruit of any to pick. Blackberries are guarded by the "thorniest of thorns", as my Grandpa quoted it a few weeks ago. I spent a few mornings before breakfast reaching under thorns, over thorns, on top of thorns, and yeah, you get the point. The scars obtained from pickin' berries have all healed up thankfully. The blackberries themselves were very rewarding in taste. Trade a little blood for a little berry taste, and you get a pleasant feeling in your taste buds.
One thing I was not aware of when I arrived at the farm was that I would be doing a little grunt work. Grunt work when you are working on a farm is called cooking and cleaning. I did not mind at all pickin' veggies from the garden. Pulling onions and 'taters from the soil reminded me of a treasure hunt in some ways. Mr. Ian, the British farm owner, is not the domestic type (as he warned me right away). So along with the other farm guests (who represented Germany, Poland, and England), I did my fair share of cooking and cleaning. According to my other guests, usually you are not asked to perform these tasks when working on WWOOF farms.
Overall, the experience was something my soul was in desperate need of. I felt very at home, though the shower and toilet were both outdoor facilities - of the hippie kind (as some may suggest). I gained a lot of perspective on some traditional methods of farming, as well as a few traditional means of living too. I would definitely want to work on another farm somewhere else in the world, but under one stipulation. Next time I would want to make sure I am on a farm owned by a native of that country, instead. This is no attack on my Mr. Ian, who is an extremely smart dude, who is an Agronomist, and who seems to know everything about everything. Well, almost everything, except for sports and rednecks.
the home of my morning meditation
some of our bread cooling off
that's what we call an oven
wild plums fermenting
I sawed and sawed what seemed like a few trees that ended up being used on a daily basis as our wood for the ole' school wood burning oven. The oven was home to many a conversation, many loaves of bread, a few cakes, numerous soups, and a few stir fry dishes as well. Many of these meals accommodated our vegan or vegetarian guests, which meant this guy didn't guy too many servings of meat in his time on the farm. The adaptation process to vegetarian life was a fairly easy one, though returning to the city on Sunday made the appetite desire for something meaty. What I enjoyed most was the peace and quiet (when Mr. Chatty wasn't around) that came with being around the oven in the great wide open underneath the stars.
I did spend a great deal of time pickin' and pickin' too. Sadly enough, I do not spend any of my time pickin' on guitars or banjos though. This pickin' that I am relating to is of the many wild plums and blackberries on the farm. The plums were yellow and red, and had multiple uses. Some were used to make compote. Some were used to make juice. Some were used to make Rakia, which is a famous Bulgarian style of brandy. The ladies even used a few of the plums to bake in the cakes as well.
Now blackberries just may be the most daunting fruit of any to pick. Blackberries are guarded by the "thorniest of thorns", as my Grandpa quoted it a few weeks ago. I spent a few mornings before breakfast reaching under thorns, over thorns, on top of thorns, and yeah, you get the point. The scars obtained from pickin' berries have all healed up thankfully. The blackberries themselves were very rewarding in taste. Trade a little blood for a little berry taste, and you get a pleasant feeling in your taste buds.
One thing I was not aware of when I arrived at the farm was that I would be doing a little grunt work. Grunt work when you are working on a farm is called cooking and cleaning. I did not mind at all pickin' veggies from the garden. Pulling onions and 'taters from the soil reminded me of a treasure hunt in some ways. Mr. Ian, the British farm owner, is not the domestic type (as he warned me right away). So along with the other farm guests (who represented Germany, Poland, and England), I did my fair share of cooking and cleaning. According to my other guests, usually you are not asked to perform these tasks when working on WWOOF farms.
Overall, the experience was something my soul was in desperate need of. I felt very at home, though the shower and toilet were both outdoor facilities - of the hippie kind (as some may suggest). I gained a lot of perspective on some traditional methods of farming, as well as a few traditional means of living too. I would definitely want to work on another farm somewhere else in the world, but under one stipulation. Next time I would want to make sure I am on a farm owned by a native of that country, instead. This is no attack on my Mr. Ian, who is an extremely smart dude, who is an Agronomist, and who seems to know everything about everything. Well, almost everything, except for sports and rednecks.
Shoe the farm cat
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