Secrets from Chuckling Goat Read online

  Praise for Secrets from Chuckling Goat:

  ‘From Brynhoffnant to Fortnum & Mason – an impressive story of

  risk and determination, but ultimately one of human fulfilment.

  This deeply personal story of a Ceredigion farm and its inhabitants

  will strike a chord with many families across rural Britain. And as

  for Chuckling Goat’s many products – I am a convinced convert!’

  MARK WILLIAMS, MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT FOR CEREDIGION

  ‘Shann Jones describes an almost magical journey from high-flying

  journalist to goat farmer and natural products entrepreneur.

  The book is a very powerful illustration of the healing powers

  of natural products, positive thinking and hard work!’

  PROFESSOR TOM HUMPHREY, PROFESSOR OF BACTERIOLOGY

  AND FOOD SAFETY, SWANSEA UNIVERSITY

  ‘I have enjoyed this book very much! It is written with wonderful

  warmth and humour. It is a story of revelation, transformation and

  discovery of the essence of life itself. I warmly recommend it!’

  DR NATASHA CAMPBELL-MCBRIDE MMEDSCI(NEUROLOGY),

  MMEDSCI(NUTRITION) AND AUTHOR OF GUT AND PSYCHOLOGY SYNDROME

  ‘This book is a refreshing reminder that the secret to the universe

  is always right in front of us. Shann’s book reads like a sleigh ride

  through the countryside and every page reveals a new landscape

  that delights our senses. An epic journey of one woman’s belief in

  her ability to rediscover the wisdom in nature and the goodness

  of life while facing the most daunting of circumstances.’

  PETER MEYERS, PRESIDENT, STAND & DELIVER CONSULTING GROUP,

  GLOBAL COMMUNICATION AND LEADERSHIP CONSULTING

  ‘Secrets from Chuckling Goat is a compelling account of one woman’s

  remarkable journey. Shann’s is an engaging, and at times poignant,

  tale of her life with Rich and their “blended” family, as they face the

  joys and sorrows of making a living from the land and developing a

  new goats’ milk enterprise. Shann chances to discover the healing

  properties of goats’ milk products, which, as well as saving Rich’s

  life, also launches her business into the world of natural medicine.

  This heart-warming account of finding true love in the face of

  adversity, and the healing properties of goats’ milk, is laced with

  a good measure of human kindness – I commend it to you.’

  WILLIAM POWELL, LIBERAL DEMOCRAT ASSEMBLY MEMBER FOR MID- AND WEST

  WALES, SHADOW MINISTER FOR FOOD AND FARMING, NATIONAL ASSEMBLY FOR WALES

  First published and distributed in the United Kingdom by:

  Hay House UK Ltd, Astley House, 33 Notting Hill Gate, London W11 3JQ

  Tel: +44 (0)20 3675 2450; Fax: +44 (0)20 3675 2451

  www.hayhouse.co.uk

  Published and distributed in the United States of America by:

  Hay House Inc., PO Box 5100, Carlsbad, CA 92018-5100

  Tel: (1) 760 431 7695 or (800) 654 5126

  Fax: (1) 760 431 6948 or (800) 650 5115; www.hayhouse.com

  Published and distributed in Australia by:

  Hay House Australia Ltd, 18/36 Ralph St, Alexandria NSW 2015

  Tel: (61) 2 9669 4299; Fax: (61) 2 9669 4144; www.hayhouse.com.au

  Published and distributed in the Republic of South Africa by:

  Hay House SA (Pty) Ltd, PO Box 990, Witkoppen 2068

  Tel/Fax: (27) 11 467 8904; www.hayhouse.co.za

  Published and distributed in India by:

  Hay House Publishers India, Muskaan Complex, Plot No.3, B-2,

  Vasant Kunj, New Delhi 110 070

  Tel: (91) 11 4176 1620; Fax: (91) 11 4176 1630; www.hayhouse.co.in

  Distributed in Canada by:

  Raincoast Books, 2440 Viking Way, Richmond, B.C. V6V 1N2

  Tel: (1) 604 448 7100; Fax: (1) 604 270 7161; www.raincoast.com

  Text © Shann Jones, 2015

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical,

  photographic or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording;

  nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or otherwise be copied

  for public or private use, other than for ‘fair use’ as brief quotations embodied

  in articles and reviews, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  The information given in this book should not be treated as a substitute for

  professional medical advice; always consult a medical practitioner. Any use of

  information in this book is at the reader’s discretion and risk. Neither the author

  nor the publisher can be held responsible for any loss, claim or damage arising

  out of the use, or misuse, of the suggestions made, the failure to take medical

  advice or for any material on third party websites.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-78180-470-4

  Interior images: 35, 55, 61, 71, 76, 93, 118 © Becky Thomas

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall

  For Rich, who promised me that he would stay… and did.

  ‘It may be that when we no longer know what to do,

  we have come to our real work

  and when we no longer know which way to go,

  we have begun our real journey.’

  WENDELL BERRY, NOVELIST, POET, ENVIRONMENTAL ACTIVIST AND FARMER

  Table of Contents

  2 September 2010

  14 September 2010

  16 September 2010

  20 September 2010

  24 September 2010

  30 September 2010

  1 October 2010

  4 October 2010

  7 October 2010

  20 October 2010

  9 November 2010

  23 November 2010

  26 November 2010

  6 December 2010

  8 December 2010

  14 February 2011

  27 February 2011

  16 March 2011

  22 March 2011

  26 March 2011

  30 March 2011

  2 April 2011

  5 April 2011

  6 April 2011

  15 April 2011

  25 May 2011

  26 May 2011

  27 May 2011

  30 June 2011

  11 July 2011

  26 July 2011

  24 August 2011

  5 September 2011

  30 October 2011

  2 December 2011

  22 February 2012

  12 March 2012

  14 March 2012

  16 March 2012

  17 March 2012

  22 March 2012

  24 March 2012

  25 March 2012

  26 March 2012

  27 March 2012

  30 March 2012

  2 April 2012

  6 April 2012

  7 April 2012

  10 April 2012

  11 April 2012

  12 April 2012

  13 April 2012

  15 April 2012

  16 April 2012

  19 April 2012

  24 April 2012

  27 April 2012

  1 May 2012

  4 May 2012

  10 May 2012

  13 May 2012

  10 July 2012

  5 September 2012
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  7 September 2012

  17 September 2012

  18 September 2012

  11 November 2012

  14 November 2012

  4 December 2012

  24 December 2012

  27 December 2012

  2 January 2013

  24 February 2013

  27 February 2013

  28 February 2013

  3 March 2013

  5 March 2013

  14 March 2013

  4 April 2013

  7 April 2013

  10 April 2013

  24 April 2013

  26 April 2013

  30 April 2013

  4 May 2013

  6 May 2013

  9 May 2013

  15 June 2013

  27 June 2013

  4 July 2013

  6 July 2013

  21 July 2013

  24 July 2013

  25 July 2013

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Photos

  About the Author

  Join the Hay House Family

  Foreword

  As someone who is passionate about natural products, I first came across Chuckling Goat when I received a sample of their gorgeous goats’ milk soap. I got to know the lovely Shann, and indeed I think it’s fair to say I encouraged her to write this book. It was clear she had a fascinating story. I’m delighted I did so – it’s a fabulous read.

  The book opens with Shann in her ‘former life’ as a news journalist and talk show host in America, leading a fast-paced, cut-throat existence. It’s hard to believe it’s not fiction when you read of her transformation to ‘mistress of a 25-acre farm’, creator of the most gorgeous skincare products and ‘healer’ – in more ways than one.

  The book is entertaining, moving, thought provoking and educational. Prepare to be amazed as Shann shares her knowledge of the benefits of goats’ milk and goats’ milk kefir – nature’s miracle, which can repopulate our guts with good flora and keep us healthy.

  Going back to a traditional way of eating, Shann and her family stumbled upon some truths. She says, ‘Like learning to co-exist with the world outside, we have to learn to coexist with the world inside – all the trillions of tiny living cells living on us and in us without which we could not exist. We are the planet. Literally.’

  She shares time-honoured recipes, too – interspersed through her story are recipes for pineapple marmalade, rye sourdough bread and, of course, goats’ milk kefir.

  Shann’s passion for her goats, her goats’ milk kefir and her family (not necessarily in that order!) really shines through. I can imagine this being made into a movie – I know she’ll insist on leading the goats down the red carpet!

  JANEY LEE GRACE

  AUTHOR AND MENTOR FOR HOLISTIC PROFESSIONALS

  I must be the luckiest woman in the world.

  I stand at my kitchen sink and look over the sunlit valley stretching out towards the ocean. The bracken is just beginning to change colour, adding rust to the patchwork quilt of the hills. In the distance, a tiny wisp of smoke escapes from the chimney of a white farmhouse. The clouds cast shadows over the cultivated fields and hedges, the rough gold alternating with tidy patches of green where the hay has been mown.

  Our own hay has been cut and baled, and I hold that fact in the back of my mind with the satisfaction of a squirrel contemplating its seasonal store of nuts. Rich went round and round the field on his tractor – mowing, turning, rowing and finally baling the hay during a lucky burst of bright sun, late in the summer. The whole family turned out to throw the bales onto the trailer, and then rode the wobbling load back into the shed, where we stacked it, fragrant and neat, ready for winter.

  Our goats will eat this hay through the winter, giving us their magical milk to make into healing probiotic drinks, soaps and skin creams.

  There’s a deep calm and contentment in my farmhouse kitchen, with its long scrubbed wooden table, the blue enamel Alpha range cooker humming in the corner, the apple-green walls framing the huge picture window looking out to the sea. In the corner, there’s an earthenware bowl full of milk and rennet, setting for cheese.

  There’s a Kilner jar of goat’s milk kefir working on the counter, and a bowl of sourdough bread rising. Simmering on the stove is a pan of the traditional Welsh stew called ‘cawl’, along with one of my own inventions, a sweet (bell) pepper chutney that the kids have dubbed Pecka Pickled Peppers.

  The entire bottom shelf of the refrigerator is full of milk from the goats – the two beauties that we’re milking at the moment give us close to 6 litres (10.5 pints) a day. That’s enough milk to experiment with, to try things with, and to feed the pigs. More than enough. It’s riches – wealth.

  The hay in the barn makes me feel wealthy, too – it’s enough to keep our goats well fed and healthy, without having to buy it from anyone. We know exactly what’s gone into our hay – it’s free from chemicals and full of herbs and flowers and seed heads, like the most marvellous kind of potpourri.

  I love to feed our hay to the goats – I love to watch them pulling it in contented mouthfuls out of the wooden hay rack that Rich made for them. Their coats are smooth and glossy, their long, almond-shaped eyes seductive. I lean my head against their warm flanks when I milk them, and smell their sweet breath as the milk foams into the jug under my hands. Riches. Happiness.

  I love my computer, too; it’s a fantastic, flexible tool. But it doesn’t make me happy.

  In fact, the more time I spend in front of the screen, the more jittery and empty I feel. The reason for this was once explained to me by Jaron Lanier, the computer science visionary who invented virtual reality.

  In 1991, decades ago and worlds away from this serene farmhouse kitchen, I was a cub reporter in the USA, at the San Francisco Chronicle newspaper. For one of my very first assignments, I was sent down to California’s Silicon Valley to interview Lanier. (This was back in the days before anyone had experienced the simulated, 3-D environment of virtual reality.)

  I waited in an empty conference room until the door opened, and Lanier walked in. He was tubby and unhealthily pale, with wild reddish dreadlocks and eyes that showed the whites all the way around. His tie-dyed T-shirt was faintly grubby.

  Lanier explained his invention to me. Virtual reality, he said, was an entire world existing inside the computer, with which you could engage as fully as you chose. (This was the original, high-octane version – not the watered-down one that would later hit the computer software shelves.) When wearing the full virtual reality suit, complete with headphones and goggles, you’d be completely plunged into the world of your choice, be it a castle, a desert, a moon station or a submarine.

  You could choose a ‘body’ to wear – a lobster, say, – and then move it as if it were your own. So, if you looked down at your arm, you’d see a lobster’s claw. Your choice of body was as infinite as your choice of setting. You could be a warrior, a space monster, a princess, a demon – whatever you liked.

  Once these initial decisions had been made, you were free to play. You existed inside the virtual world, as fully as you did in the real world. You could turn corners, walk, run, leap over walls. And here’s the real kicker – other people could meet you there. If someone in Tokyo logged on wearing similar apparatus, you’d see their virtual self appear in the setting with you – looking however they’d chosen to appear. You could interact with them, even though their physical body was across the ocean.

  And then – if you got bored – with the sweep of a virtual paintbrush, you could erase your entire world and start over. Dump the moon station and set up a mossy bank by a river. Get rid of your demon outfit and change into a hawk. There was no limit to the possibilities except your imagination. Needless to say, the military was interested.

  After I was sure that I’d understood the unbelievable parameters of what Lanier was telling me, I asked the pressing question that had just occurred to me: ‘Aren’t you worried that people will
get addicted to this virtual reality? If they can look any way they want, in any world they choose, why wouldn’t they just stay inside the computer world forever?’

  Lanier shook his head. ‘They won’t,’ he said. ‘For one reason – texture.’

  ‘Texture?’ I asked, baffled.

  ‘I can make the world inside a computer look any way you want it to look,’ he went on. ‘I can create any scenario. I can make things move the way you want them to move. But I can’t put texture inside a computer.’ He knocked on the wood of the meeting table. ‘I can’t make you feel the hardness of wood, or the softness of leather, or the wetness of water. At least… not yet.’ He cracked a radiant, lopsided, mad-genius grin.

  ‘And it turns out that we need texture. We crave it, because we’re biological animals. And that’s why no-one will stay inside a computer forever.’ He sounded vaguely regretful.

  I thanked Lanier and drove back to the newspaper office to write my story. It ran. I went on to write other stories. But his words about texture always lingered in my head, as something important. I didn’t understand exactly how important until many years later.

  I worked at the newspaper for five more years, and then went into radio, diving cleanly into the surreal, icy-plastic world of American media. The day that I was hired as a talk show host at San Francisco’s number one radio station, my new boss leaned towards me and shook my hand over the polished oval table in the conference room. He stared at me with hard blue eyes.

  ‘I want you to dance on the high wire,’ he said. ‘I want to feel like you’re always about to fall off. If you really fall off, I’ll fire you. And I can’t tell you where the edge is. Good luck.’

  This radio station had dominated the ratings for decades. And this particular job had only come open because my predecessor had thrown himself off the Golden Gate Bridge at three in the afternoon, in the midst of busy traffic.

  Wilfully closing my eyes to the implications of this fact, I cleared the dead man’s sticky desk, threw away his photographs, emptied his littered drawers and bought a small, spiky pot plant to settle any restless lingering spirits. I was on my way.

  Every night as thousands of San Franciscans streamed home from work, I drove the opposite way, into the city to man the night shift on the radio. I worked at night and slept during the day. I sat in a glass booth and spoke to invisible listeners. Heavy, soundproofed doors opened and closed; red on-air lights whirled in the long beige hallways. We were meant to become ‘personalities’ – arrogant and wildly eccentric. Diva-style temper tantrums were not only expected but actively encouraged.