Walking with a Shepherd

Winding through sleepy ancient villages of the Portuguese countryside, morning light ignites the unkept, dew laced vegetation along the narrow lane. If I did not know any better, I would presume we were driving back to a simpler time. GPS guides us to an unsuspecting portion of stone wall to park next to at a slightly wider spot in the street. We have arrived at our Portugal Farm Experience. A spirited young woman greets us in English at the rose bush framed gate and ushers us to her car. “The shepherd is just a bit down the road,” she explains. We spot the great brown guard dogs first and pull off the dirt road, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. It is deep into spring, but a cold front plus altitude at the foothills of the mountains is quite crisp with a nippy breeze. A warm, joyful man calls out to us in Portuguese. I have no idea what he is saying, but you can hear his smile long before you can see it. He is far younger and more handsome than what I expected of a sheep herder. His strong, leathery, yet gentle, hands are that of a laboring man that holds great care in his work. Our hostess provides translation for our passionate conversation about his work, which clearly runs through his veins. His family makes up the nearby community of about 60, where all the men are shepherds and have been for generations. Coming from the United States and having seen the evolution of farming, my immediate question, after “Where do you outsource wives?” is “Why?” “Why do these generations continue to wander through countryside with a bunch of sheep in all weather conditions?” Obviously, there is a more delicate way to find the answer than to ask brashly, so I keep that to myself and ask more questions about the type of sheep and what their milk is used for. As it turns out, this collection of shepherds is an incredibly important piece of Portuguese culinary culture. There is a high value cheese that comes only from this mountain called Serra da Estrela and is a Protected Designation of Origin (PDO) in the European Union and UK. There are a couple variations of the product starting with a fresh, or soft cheese and progressing toward aged cheese wheels, which bring the big bucks at fancy restaurants and grocery stores. Elements that make this cheese so distinctive are the high fat content found in milk from the Bordaleira sheep and their diet primarily comprised of aromatic brush and wild herbs.  Most people picture fields of green grass sprinkled with white fluffballs, but these brown, curly horned sheep are selected for their high-quality milk and ability to endure the mountain climate and terrain rather than wool quality.

The landscape is hardy with scotch broom bushes, wild lavender, varieties of sage, and a bit of coarse grass scattered in between. After their morning milking, he leads them out to forage, keeping them moving as to not overgraze any one area. The land is leased and there are no real fences away from the barn, except part of an old stone wall here and there marking remnants of old property lines. Many of the sheep wear thick leather collars with bells that make a distinct clanging, helping to locate the herd as they blend in with the scenery. This year has been particularly harsh with little rain for vegetation. It has forced the shepherd to sell a large percentage of his herd, meaning far less milk production and income for his family. Predators generally consist of foxes, coyotes, stray dogs and now even wolves that have been moving down the mountain in search of food. The gentle giants that guard them resemble small bears, much like the Great Pyrenees we see in the U.S. but with a brown coat and are simply referred to as Portuguese Mountain Dogs. They may take their job seriously, but they know a dog person when they smell one and lean in for a little love as I squat down for photographs. An extra layer of pride for his hard-working dogs beams across the shepherd’s face as he announces that the pair are due to have puppies in a month or so.

As we continue to wander through the brush with the sheep, it is fascinating watching him direct the herd with a series of whistles and calls. We pass by a pile of rubble and remains of an old stone building. He explains that it used to be a home and was wiped out by the wildfires a couple years prior. My curiosity cannot resist peeking inside the haunting little structure. The walls and cold floor resemble a museum display and tell a story of hardship and survival. How far back in history did we go?

The farther on the grazing route we get, the deeper the stories of the shepherds go. “Who makes the cheese while the shepherds are busy tending to their flock?” I ask. He describes an interesting business model controlled by the nearby cheese factory. Each shepherd must produce a minimum yield of milk for the cheese factory to retrieve it a couple times per week from a refrigerated holding tank in the barn. They pay by the liter, but those prices have barely been adjusted for inflation in decades. During Covid shutdowns, the factory claimed that cheese purchasing had slowed, so they dropped the price below $1/liter. Statistics have shown that cheese consumption had in fact increased with more people dining at home. I am outraged, but, unfortunately, not surprised to hear this. The shepherds are modest men of service to the animals they govern and know no other lifestyle. Nor do they have other options for the sale of their milk. The cheese factory can pay what they wish to keep their own pocketbooks increasingly padded. I ask if the shepherds have any sort of organization that could wrangle some leverage to improve their rate. It is clear they have not even considered fighting for their worth.  Further insult is the government “incentive program” that “offsets” the cost of tending to the sheep and provides a laughable amount of funding annually. The lump sum is not even enough to cover vet bills for the flock. The government knows that newer generations have been moving away from agricultural professions, which poses a threat of losing a significant historic piece of their culture. They know this, but do not back their concerned words with action.

Approaching summer, the sheep are near done with their milking cycle. He will give them a few months off to dry up (stop producing milk) so that they can focus their energy on growing next season’s babies. With no milk, this means no income. I ask how he offsets cashflow for those few months. He sheers other herds for extra money in the spring, but he is about done with that for the season. I ask about selling the wool. He laughs and shows us a lean-to filled to the ceiling with trash bags packed with wool. The current rate for wool is $.10/ton. He says he would rather keep it than give it away for that.

Appalled at how delicately his fate balances with the increasing threat of natural disasters and extreme weather, my mind runs through a series of actions including how to help change policy of this foreign country or influence the managers of this greedy cheese factory. I feel helpless in the matter, but then I ask our hostess how our paid experience affects him. A glimmer washes over her as she explains that the partnership between the farm she works for and the shepherd is new and that he receives half of each farm experience. She further explains the impact on him, recalling the first time he received his cut and the tears that filled his eyes. The short answer is, immensely. On a hard year like this one, it is an answered prayer. The long answer is that by driving into the countryside to follow our own curiosity about the life of a shepherd in the mountains of Portugal, we are able to help sustain a cultural culinary gem for the world to taste. It sounds far-fetched, but it is quite literal and applies to small farmers in all parts of the world. Farmers are the doers with the ultimate ripple effect. By consciously supporting them, we support everything they work for, thus enabling their ripple to resonate.

Our visit with the shepherd is nearing an end as we approach the simple, cozy barn his flock calls home. A couple exceptionally soft, black lambs are penned up in preparation for their sale tomorrow. As we walk behind the structure, he opens an unsuspecting door. Inside is a basic white refrigerator and the stainless steel refrigerated holding tank with fresh milk. After a bit of hand sanitizer, he hands me a 2oz paper cup to dip into the tank and sample his pride and joy. I am a kid on Christmas, and my mouth is already watering at the beautiful sight inside the tank. It is incredibly creamy and delicious with a bit of sweetness to it. What a culinary dream. He impatiently asks “Bon?” meaning “Is it good?” and flushes bright red at my dramatic excitement. He then opens the fridge and pulls out a wheel of cheese. The hostess says “this is not part of the tour,” but he pulls out a knife and begins slicing away, eager to share. This is an aged cheese made from his milk along with the milk of other shepherds in his family. Now, a cured pig leg appears, and he begins shaving slivers of that too. Our hostess objects, concerned we will be too full for her part of the experience, but he smiles and opens a bottle of fizzy white wine to accompany the picnic. He explains that “he may not have money, but he always has food. Usually he eats alone, but today he has friends.” We cheers and he insists we continue to eat, replenishing the meat and cheese along with strips of a quince paste he makes and freezes. He shows us the best way to eat it, stacked on a slice of cheese. His joy in sharing is overwhelming and fills the air. It is pure magic. We wrap it up after much laughter, and he takes us for one final gem. Surprise twin lambs were born yesterday out of the ewe he bought earlier this week. These are a different breed with bright, shiny white wool and pink noses. They are absolute perfection. He beams as he hands me one to hold. I show him pictures of my baby goats and llamas back home, and it all makes sense. “You are the same as me,” he exclaims in Portuguese. I smile, “I guess so.”