Chapter 255: Life at Duckworth Farm

June and July: After Hanna left to go back to Sweden, I took the bus across the Golden Gate Bridge and went to the city of Sebastopol, Sonoma County, to wwoof at Duckworth Farm.

Duckworth Farm is a small, family run farm that grows organic hay and organic blueberries as it’s main business. They also grow other berries, fruits and vegetables and keep animals for private use. When I arrived, they had just baled their first cut of hay for the season, and there were bales of rough, golden hay in huge piles everywhere on the farm. But the blueberry field was were I spent most of my working hours together with the other wwoofers, the farmer Lorri and her daughters Snazzy and Lauren.

The days started at fifteen minutes to seven, so that we could make it out to the stables in time for the morning stable chores at seven. Almost every morning was misty, cold and raw.

They had a very special micro climate in the small valley where Duckworth Farm was situated. The weather was very much affected by the Pacific and the exchange of air between land and ocean. In the mornings, the mist covered everything like a thick blanket. At around ten thirty, the sun had made the mist disappear, and we got a couple of hours of heat. Then, at about two or three, the wind started blowing, first just like a slight breeze, then more fiercely, until around seven, when the wind had made it cold again and you really needed something with long sleeves when going outside. And this happened almost every day. Sometimes, the sun was shining in the morning, and other days the wind didn’t become that bad in the evening – but most of the time, it was the exact same cycle, over and over. And all this due to the differences in heat capacity between soil and rock on the one hand, and water on the other. I find it fascinating.

I made it into a habit to get out a couple of minutes before seven every morning, so that I could walk up to the strawberry patch and have a couple of fresh, morning chilled strawberries before the day started for real. It woke me up and filled me with that sweetness that made my skin tingle, and made me feel like I was ready for the new day, despite the mist and cold.

The Duckworths had ten horses and a donkey in their stable, and they all had to be let out into the fields and paddocks in the morning, and then we had to clean the stables and fill up the waters and give them new hay. This usually took about an hour, and us being so many (three to four wwoofers and one of the Duckworth girls) it didn’t really feel like that hard work.

 

So, at around eight, we all walked up to the main house. I slept in a cozy room in one of the barns together with another wwoofer, but we had all our meals up in the main house with Lorri. Sometimes she made blueberry pancakes for us, and sometimes American biscuits or blueberry pie – but mostly we ate oatmeal porrige or cereals or scrambled eggs. Then, at nine, we picked up our hats and scarves and sunglasses and waterbottles, put on thick layers of sunscreen on our noses and our arms, and walked up to the blueberry field.

Some days we picked berries, others we weeded. By noon, Lorri usually called it a day and we were free to do whatever we wanted.

 

Almost every day, that meant going down to the big pond to swim, play catch with the dogs and read. The water was refreshingly cold. I could’ve spent all of my days by that water, reading and swimming, but by threeish the wind had usually become too strong and chilly for it to be really comfortable to stay. So we returned to our rooms and read some more, or took a nap. Some days Lorri taught us how to bake and cook different things in her beautiful kitchen. Other days we took the bicycles and biked for thirty minutes into Sebastopol, where it always, without fail, was atleast five degrees warmer than at the farm. Sebastopol was in another valley, not at all as affected by the ocean air.

 

Sometime between seven and nine, depending on when Lorri’s husband Oscar came back from work, we had dinner. Lorri liked cooking and she did it well, so despite my huge appetite I never had to go hungry at the farm.

Then, at last, at ten thirty I crashed into bed and slept like a log, every single night of my stay at Duckworth Farm. It was a great place and I had a great time. Northern California is one of those really wonderful places on earth, there’s just no point denying it.