AN ENGLISH WOMAN ABROAD
In the Californian outback, Emma and her sons take to the saddle and head for them there hills as ranch hands
I’m still in LA. On Thursday, my three sons and I rented a car, loaded it with America’s finest crisps (still disgusting), and drove north, through vineyards, canyons and mountains, past the village of Buellton, “Home of Split Pea Soup”, until we ended up in Parkfield, “population 18”, and checked into the V6 Dude Ranch.
This 20,000-acre estate is run by Jack Varian, a rugged and handsome 80year-old (think Robert Mitchum crossed with Grandpa Walton). Four times a year, he and his 78year-old wife Zee (Shelley Winters meets Mum in
Little House on the Prairie) protect the land from overgrazing by moving cattle from their valley up to the green, green grass of the hillside. Their children, grandchildren and neighbours all join in, with city-slickers like me paying for the privilege of being their ranch hands.
And oh, what a beautiful morning it was. Gathered in the shade to mount our steeds were 18 of us, mostly wearing check shirts, leather chaps and Stetson hats handed down by lonesome cowboys, not broad-brimmed hats from Zara. I do know this now.
We set off through fields of mustard as high as, I don’t know… an elephant’s eye. Whenever we spotted cows, Zee would shout commands, we’d encircle the cattle, head ’em out, move ’em up and, by high noon, we’d gathered 80 head. My family are shabby riders, but we emerged as outstanding cowboys, though my suspicion is that these quarter-horses are so gently nurtured, you simply sit there and they get the work done on their own.
For lunch, we stopped under a tree and ate some of the herd’s ancestors, now in sandwich form.
“Who are you voting for in the election, Jack?” asked my 14-year-old. “Well, Hillary’s people are no good for us farming folk, so I guess it’ll have to be Trump.” Silence.
By mid-afternoon, we’d wrangled 110 cows and moved them to the top of the valley; it was a magnificent team effort – and I cheered as we fenced them in. I now understand that cheering is not what cowgirls do.
Two hours of dusty riding later, we arrived at camp, pulled our weary bottoms off the rawhide saddles and piled into the corrugated tin wash shack.
“You did what?” roared Jack. “Mum said I had to have a shower,” squeaked my youngest, Spike. “Well, ain’t that the biggest waste of water I ever heard.” “I agree ,” said Spike. Actually I did too – we’d forgotten towels so I’d dried off with kitchen roll.
That evening was like hanging out with the entire Walton family at home on the range: we parked our smarting backsides on tree stumps around an old fire pit; the adults drank beer, a grandson showed us his rodeo medals, a neighbour taught my boy to shoot a rabbit and we bbq’d another cow with relish, and relish. Someone played a guitar, I remembered not to sing, and the only light came from the incredible, starspangled night sky.
Despite many tragic attempts, the Curtis family are pathetic campers. We went to sleep in pyjamas. By morning we were wearing every item of clothing we’d brought, had stolen blankets from other tents, zipped our sleeping bags together to maximise bodily warmth and were still freezing. On the way to breakfast, I passed a wooden building of six cosy bedrooms with fires and duvets. “Why didn’t we sleep there?” I asked Zee over bacon rolls.
“Because you ain’t wusses,” she replied. “We aren’t!” agreed my son. The thing is, I am.
The experience of herding cattle on horseback is everything I hoped it might be, but most striking was the integrity, kindness and genuine warmth and wit of the Varians and their neighbours. I do find the Trump thing baffling, but this is a community that looks after each other and is dedicated to the land they’ve worked for 60 years. I left V6 with a peaceful heart, a more open mind and a phenomenally sore arse.
‘That evening was like hanging out with the entire Walton family at home on the range’