The nail in my dairy coffin.

Back in Sicily, when I was staying at a carob farm down in the south, they used to always have on offer, fresh ricotta & a ball of provola.  I've never been a big fan of ricotta, but the provola was delicious.  It came in a large pear shape, tied with string at the neck & would be hung up in the kitchen.  I used to sneak in & cut slices off it, to nibble away at greedily, when I thought no one was watching.  It's a kind of rubbery cheese, quite salty, but honestly, so delicious, especially when melted over aubergine in a Melanzane Parmigiana.  Yum!

Both cheeses were handmade, by a small dairy farm round the corner & one morning, my host arranged for us all to go to the farm to watch them make the cheese.  I was so excited, 'cause I love that kind of thing, seeing things first-hand.  We had to be there at 7am, which was a bit of a drag & along with my tired eyes, my stomach was pretty grumbly by the time we got there.

I watched as this old married couple stirred the milk in this huge bucket on the floor (which didn't seem too hygienic) & sieved out the forming ricotta.  Then, whilst waiting for that to drain over another bucket, they began to form the balls of provola, out of the more solidified curd, they had in boiling water.  It was quite something to see.  Secretly, I would have liked to have got my hands dirty & given it a try.  However, at this point in my travels, I could barely do more than order food in Italian & these dairy farmers were Sicilian.  They spoke in the local dialect & even some of the Italian speakers I was with, struggled to understand them.  So unfortunately, I didn't learn much in the way of cheese making technicalities.

Whilst they continued molding the cheese, the rest of us headed for a look around the farm.  The first thing I saw through the gates was an emaciated guard dog, who was keeping watch of eight crates, stacked in two rows & stuffed with live rabbits.  My gut churned at the sight.  Entering into the cow shed, I came across one pen filled with calves, all stumbling over to see me & lick my hand.  I wanted to steal them & take them back with me, they were such darlings.

Finally, I ended up in the milking room.  In my naive, young mind, I had always envisioned Italian dairy farms to be small & tucked away in the countryside.  Cows out in the field, chomping away on blades of bright green grass, strolling in to be milked by hand by some old Italian man, sat on a wooden stool, squirting milk into a tin bucket.  He'd have probably given them all names, like Margherita.

Well, in reality, things were far different & I was not just disappointed, but really quite saddened.  Six cows, three on each side of the room, concrete walls & floors, all hooked up to machines.  One cow, to my right, her leg restrained by string, kept pulling at her ties, showing her discomfort.  She looked at me, right in the eye & I had to stop myself from bursting into tears.  One of the workers was standing nearby, filling needles with unknown substances.  I had to get out. 

Heading back up to where they had now set up a table & chairs for us, I sat feeling sick.  The farm workers brought out fresh warm ricotta, homemade bread & of course, the Italian staple, red wine.  Who wouldn't have wine at breakfast!  I ate some bread but declined the cheese & tried to ignore everyone's glares.  How rude of me to come here & not eat the cheese!  But honestly, I couldn't bring myself to have one bite.

Leaving the farm, the final nail in my cheese coffin, came in the way of one of the farmers.  Expecting a visit from an inspector, he was attempting to get the cows from outside into one of the sheds.  Slowly but surely they trotted along, but he kept shouting at them & would hit them on their hinds with a spiked stick.  The last cow in was this poor creature with a limp.  Hobbling along, this guy wouldn't stop shouting at her & started hitting her.  That was it I thought, however delicious, I'm never eating this cheese again.

I never did eat anything from that farm again, but the entire incident had rattled me & reminded me of why I had originally chosen to be vegan, all those many, many years ago.  Whilst I had returned to being carnivorous some time ago, I could feel myself longing to return back to a cruelty free diet.  At this time though, I wasn't quite ready to commit.

However, during my time in the monastery, many months later, a part of my meditation's focus, was directed at my diet, for which, at this point, was nothing but gluttonous.  I tried to envisage myself as a vegan again.  No more gelato at my local bar.  No more giant bars of Swiss milk chocolate.  No more fresh mackerel from the harbour.  Could I really live without all of these delights?

Persevering past  my greed, I eventually saw a slimmer, happier, healthier me.  Eating fresh fruit from the market.  Mixing delicious avocado rich salads.  Making almond milk salted caramel ice cream.  Nibbling on chunks of rich dark chocolate.  I realised, I wouldn't really be giving anything up, so much as gaining a broader, more diverse diet & feeling & looking better in the process!

And so, since the day I landed on British soil, I have not so much as glanced at a piece of meat, taken a sniff at a bar of milk chocolate & successfully turned my nose up at buttercrust mince pies, over the holidays & I can honestly say, I haven't missed a thing.