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Last September, my wife and I traded convenience for cows, moving to a small mountain in Ehime to live and help run a dairy farm.
We had stumbled across the job advertisement quite by accident. The photos showed an idyllic pastoral scene: cows grazing on lush green mountain pastures. It seemed almost too good to be true. We applied, never really expecting to be accepted. But three months later, we found ourselves unpacking boxes in the farmhouse.
Our new home was a modern log cabin, built 12 years earlier by a cheesemaker who had once partnered with the farmer. Sadly, illness forced him to leave, but the cabin and the cheese factory remained. There was one curious detail: every floor, wall, and door was badly scratched. The cheesemaker, it turned out, had a cat.
By October, it was time to work. The farmer’s wife began teaching us the basics—how to milk the cows and handle the daily cleanup. But disaster struck. One of the cows kicked her, and she had to be hospitalized for a month. It was a sobering reminder: even after fifty years of experience, she wasn’t safe from danger. When she finally returned, she decided to retire. Any illusion of a gentle introduction was gone. After just two weeks of training, we were suddenly thrown into the deep end.
For the next month, I worked side by side with the aging farmer, while my wife was away on an artificial insemination course. Even though we were apart, our shared motivation to tackle this new life together gave us purpose and energy. In the evenings, we compared notes, swapped stories, and encouraged each other.
The days were long and tough, but small joys carried us through. I loved driving the old, beat-up Kei truck, herding cows down the precarious mountain path for afternoon milking. The parlour reeked and stood open to the cold autumn wind, but from my milking stool I had the best seat in the house: a view of the sunset. My wife found happiness in brushing her cows after milking and—surprisingly—in shoveling dung at the end of her shift. By the time we got back to the cabin in the evening, covered in muck, we’d check each other for ticks and bruises and laugh at our
exhaustion.
exhaustion.
Autumn became a season of struggle and small triumphs. Farm life demanded patience, attention, and hard work, but sharing it with my wife made every challenge more meaningful.
Next: Part 2 Winter
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Useful Expressions from This Story
Vocabulary
•pastoral scene → peaceful countryside view
•cozy and welcoming → comfortable and inviting
•Kei truck → a small Japanese light truck
•muck → dirt, filth, or cow dung
•ticks → small blood-sucking insects
Idioms
•any illusion of a gentle introduction was gone → things suddenly became serious
•thrown into the deep end → put in a difficult situation without preparation
•a season of struggle and small triumphs → a time with both hardships and small successes
Phrasal Verbs
•come across (an advertisement) → find something by chance
•move into (the farmhouse) → start living in a new home
•check each other for (ticks or bruises) → examine carefully for something
•gave us a sense of (purpose and energy) → provided or created a feeling
Collocations
•handle the daily cleanup
•work side by side
•beat-up Kei truck
•covered in muck
•compare notes/share stories
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