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Story, video and photos by Reb Stevenson
Now this is green living.
Yeah, yeah, it’s organic and all - but that’s not what I’m talking about.
It’s the moss. The glorious emerald eco-carpet that sneaks its way onto every stone surface and infuses this landscape with a soft hint of neglect.
It’s everywhere, anywhere. And it’s enchanting.
My overuse of the word “moss” rivals that of the English tabloids (they, of course, are referring to Kate) as my cab navigates through Kendal and into the tiny village of Burneside, Cumbria. The taxi driver silently indulges my blathering.
It is my third week on the WWOOF (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms) program, a global network of farms that allows you to exchange labour for accommodation and food.
You can WWOOF all over the world, but I’m doing it through WWOOF U.K.
Sprint Mill Farm jumps out of the handbook because it lists “fun, variety, fulfillment and new experiences” as the work themes. Also, it is located in The Lake District, one of the U.K.’s prime tourist destinations.
A defunct mill, the farmhouse is damp, stony and clings to the bank of a gushing river. The whole place heaves with fertility.
Acland quickly ushers me into a kitchen that would make any Ikea enthusiast lash out with contempt.
It is furnished with a long wood table, a haphazard collection of glass jars stocked with mysterious contents, and a wood-burning stove most often seen in sepia photographs. This kitchen is truly the heart of the homestead.
Sprint Mill Farm is his 15-acre experiment in complete sustainability. He dabbles in coppicing, animal-rearing, vegetable/fruit farming and traditional woodcrafts.
None of it is for profit.
“It’s about living off the interest and income of mother earth, but not using her capital,” Acland explains. “We try to avoid using anything that we can’t replace.”
“It’s jolly hard work, but very fulfilling,” he says passionately.
As it turns out, wwoofing at Sprint Mill barely even qualifies as work.
After brief morning stints pitching in on the farm, I have the afternoons off.
“You can go for a walk, cycle, write, sleep…whatever,” says Acland. “It’s not about exploiting a wwoofer as a slave or labourer. It’s about giving them the opportunity to experience a way of life.”
And so Acland dons the mantle of mentor, not shift supervisor. He teaches me how to cut comfrey with a rusty old piece of machinery, how to forage for acorns and eagerly shares his knowledge of green woodworking.
As we trudge through the sopping landscape, Acland explains the cyclical processes that govern Sprint Mill.
For example, willow branches are fed to the goats, who gnaw off the leaves and bark. The stripped wood is used for fuel, and the goats produce milk, cheese and meat.
On the first day, bolstered by the altruistic urge to delve right into this earth-appeasing lifestyle, I eat the goat cheese, pour goat milk into my tea and lavish my toast with goat butter.
But, to borrow from Acland’s earlier statement: it’s jolly hard work.
By the second day, I’m wincing as I sip the tea, and gagging on the butter. To put it delicately, the flavour is evocative of an unlaundered athletic sock (to be fair, the meat isn’t bad).
But at least it’s not a rodent: once a Moroccan wwoofer insisted upon making good use of a squirrel that Acland caught.
“But it’s a resource! It is organic!” he argued when Acland suggested a basic burial.
So the wwoofer whipped up a casserole and they had it for supper.
“I wouldn’t rush at eating squirrel again,” Acland laughs. “But there were messages there and I was thankful for that.”
After a few days of digesting goat, I figure it’s time to milk the situation. Literally.
Just the word “teat” makes me squirm (I’m a heterosexual female – I don’t know how to manhandle someone else’s mammaries!).
Nonetheless, one morning Stringer leads me out to the shed for my virgin milking. A bit squeamish, I reach into the nether-area and grasp a fleshy protrusion.
“So I just yank?” I ask.
“They tend to be fidgety with strangers. You’ve just got to be firm,” she says.
I squeeze. The goat kicks a bit. But the teat squirts.
Actually, it’s kind of enjoyable (does that make me weird?).
Sprint Mill isn’t in town, but Acland and Stringer provide wheels for their wwoofers (bikes of course). I take full advantage of a Brompton, a London-made folding bike.
I ride into Kendal, a favourite launching-point for hiking the nearby fells. A visit to 13th century Kendal Castle is rewarding – for a full hour I have the ruins all to myself. Sweet!
Even sweeter: The Famous 1657 Chocolate House, where I self-medicate my goat-stricken palate with a sickening dose of chocolate. 20 chocolate beverages (embellished with spices, violet and the like) and 14 gateaux constitute the menu.
Sprint Mill Farm values symbiotic relationships between man and nature. It also achieves that between host and wwoofer: I relish my experiences both on the farm and off it.
“I have this ridiculous belief that humankind could actually one day be a benefit to the planet rather than ravaging, pillaging, raping, despoiling,” Acland muses.
He doesn’t clobber you over the head with his philosophies, but his message grows on you. Like moss.
Reb Stevenson is a Toronto-based writer who spent three weeks Wwoofing in England. She hasn’t eaten goat butter since.
A one-year WWOOF UK membership costs $40 Canadian, and grants access to a list of participant farms in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales.
WWOOF UK: www.wwoof.org.uk
WWOOF CANADA: www.wwoof.ca
Visiting Kendal: www.lakelandgateway.info
Hill Top: www.nationaltrust.org.uk/hilltop
Read More:
INTRO: Wwhat in the Wworld is Wwoofing?
WEEK 1: Diary of a Lone Wwoofer (Essex)
WEEK 2: Wwoofing and Goofing Around (Nottinghamshire)