I wrote a small article a while back on laluminata.co.uk when I first encountered this interesting way of travelling. This summer, with a gap between finishing my degree and franticly job searching, I decided to try it out. Wwoofing is an acronym for ‘Worldwide opportunities on organic farms’ and the idea is that in exchange for a few hours work a day- farming, jam making, general helping out- you will earn free bed and board pretty much anywhere in the world. Having my love for travel often quashed by my student budget it seemed the obvious solution to letting me see more of the world without ridding me of all my savings.
Having to sign up to each country separately meant that I automatically initially signed up to France, it being a country I frequented as a child and yet managed to see very little of. After scrolling through lists of farms, guesthouses and eco hotels, with the odd nudist retreat thrown in, I found a B and B just west of Paris that sounded perfect. Set in the countryside with home grown fruit and veg and horse riding on days off. I promptly emailed the couple who owned this rustic looking place and received a swift and friendly reply offering me a placement in August.
A few months later I began my journey in true eco style- via train. Having never got the Eurostar before, I now feel as though I have found my new favourite way to travel. Although I ended up wedged amidst a sea of pensioners, apparently on some kind of coach/train trip, I used the time to plan my holiday. Always having been one of those people who like to lean against the train window gazing out at the scenery speeding by, I think it’s a really lovely way to see a country. I had planned to spend a couple of days prior to my placement in Paris- as I had to go though there anyway to get to my placement-and visit a friend who had recently moved there. So after three hot and busy days in Paris which included randomly meeting a lovely French boy on the steps of Sacre Couer, eating crepes by the Seine and watching ‘Le Orange Mechanique’ in the open air cinema, I set off for Moutiers au Perche. Again I took the train and napping under a huge scarf I watched the tall grey buildings melt into trees and pylons as I entered the French countryside. Only a little over an hour from central Paris this sweet little country town greeted me with temps maussade (gloomy weather).
At the station I was met with a light rain and Pietro, the husband of the couple who run the B&B, who greeted me with smiles and a torrent of French. After realising my French was pretty thin on the ground he slid fluidly into perfect English before telling me he was actually Italian, leaving me feeling slightly ashamed at my poor language skills.We wound our way through tiny rural villages, chattering all the way, until we reached ‘the ends of the earth’ as Pietro called it, a beautiful plot of land set in thick woodland. The garden sat high up overlooking the house, a big colourful mass of wildflowers interspersed with bright tomatoes and pumpkins. In the centre a proud looking sunflower gazed into middle distance.
Upon entering the kitchen I was confronted with a bookcase lined with gnomes, walls covered in art deco clocks and 50’s Belgian film posters and was informed that Carol, Peitro’s wife was an avid collector. Being the kind of girl who loves anything vintage or kitch (I have a huge and pointless hat collection) this particularly tickled me. It later transpired that both her parents were antique dealers and had given her the contents of the shop when they retired, however the gnomes on the bookcase and the mass of mottos surrounding the door were entirely her doing.
I had arrived just before lunch and after a quick tour of the house and grounds, which included meeting the resident horses and saying hello to the cows, we sat down for lunch. Over a huge cheese omelette I was informed that I was to be part of the family for the following week, to help myself to food and to take breaks whenever I fancied. My jobs whilst I was there were to weed and water the garden and then sand and paint all the shutters and outside doors. I would have two days off a week and was only required to work 5 hours a day.
After this I was showed to my room, Carol eying me with amusement as I took in the 50s adverts and posters the covered the walls and the art deco furniture, and the wooden sledge in the bathroom. This room was my idea of heaven, and I didn’t have to pay for a thing.
That evening I met their son who, like his father, seemed to be trilingual and spoke to me in a bizarrely thick American accent. I later found out that this was mainly due to him watching a lot of Denzel Washington movies. Over the next few days I got to learn a little more about my hosts, Carol was previously a food photographer and an artist. Later in the week she showed me her beautiful illustrations of fantastical plants and the drawings she had done for her friend’s children’s book.
Due to a family emergency Pietro had to take off back to his hometown in Italy in the early hours one morning, only three days into me being there. Myself and Carol were left to our own devices and we ended up into slipping into a kind of routine over the next few days. In the morning we’d meet each other in the clock adorned kitchen, drink bowls of black coffee (something I’ve missed since being back in England and drinking from cups) and crusty bread and discuss our day. I would then go off to my jobs, mainly tending to the garden and then tackling the spiders who live behind the shutters, then sanding and painting them (the shutters, not the spiders). I spent the days in the sun, with headphones in humming away and stopping occasionally to chat to the cows and stroke the horses. In the evening after dinner and after the guests had been fed, myself and Carol slumped back on the sofas with teas or wines and watched films.
On my first day off I set off into town, being led by a map that Carol had lovingly drawn me, with such instructions as ‘turn left at the cows’ and ‘straight on past the farm with the white dog’.I found my way to the local church up a steep and winding hill and sat on a bench for what seemed like a whole afternoon just watching the world go by. On my next day off, the Saturday before I left I took up the offer of free horse riding at a nearby school. With my pidgin French I managed to articulate who I was and why I was there to a lady who spoke a similar amount of English to me and was assigned to a sweet white pony. After tacking up we began our way up towards the church. After the first car passed us on the road and the horse I was on veered deftly towards a barbed wire fence, I realised id been assigned the skittish one. Scared of cars, bikes, and any loud noises we had an interesting trip up to the church on top of the hill.
On my last night we were joined by my replacement- a lovely chatty girl who had visited before. She had proclaimed that Carol was her new ‘Wwoofing mum’ and you could tell by their energy that they were great friends.
The main make up of Wwoofing, the combination of free accommodation and food and the chance to cheaply wander the world had led me to believe that this was a predominantly student-ish way to travel. However, on voicing this opinion my hosts went on to explain that they have all sorts of Wwoofers, from couples to women in their 70s. Having only male children between them, Carol told me that they often have female Wwoofers to balance things out. It occurred to me that she probably misses having female company and this is a great way to have another girl around the house.
This whole experience has made me begin to think more about this notion of kindness and the welcoming nature of the people I’d stayed with. On my return I wrote them a letter of thanks and received a swift email reply saying to keep in touch, and I will. Maybe it’s a cultural, uptight, British thing, but it seems such an alien concept to invite people you’ve never met into your home, welcome them into your family and share your world with them. As alien as it is, it is also particularly lovely. We are so used to feeling sceptical about people who are so warm for no apparent reason, other than that they are good people. To me it seemed bizarre that a few shutters and weeds would warrant me such a gorgeous room and wonderful meals and yet this couple were so thankful for me being there. When I got home a friend of a friend from France came and stayed in my musty flat in Brighton. Whilst she was here I showed her round the sights, got her to try Marmite and introduced her to Hollyoaks in a bid to share my culture with her and felt, in an odd way, that I was repaying the favour. I quite probably didn’t do anywhere near as well as Carol and Pietro but even just trying felt good.
