Koptelovo

Never in all my years as milk monitor did I imagine I would one day be standing in the frosty air in a Siberian village inhaling diesel fumes while observing fresh milk being pumped into a fleet of trucks, to be shipped to the nearest town (Alapaevsk) for processing. Despite the industrial quantities of milk involved, the cows seem strangely absent. No cowsheds, and no contented lowing from the surrounding fields – just the distant barking of an alarming number of stray dogs. Puzzling. Worrying, even – but the mystery of the unseen udders does not unduly trouble my very attractive guide (pictured above), who is utterly convinced of the health-giving properties of farm-fresh milk. She has come – bottles in tow – with the express purpose of purchasing six litres for personal consumption.

'You must try some,' she says to me and, before I can protest, an old babushka dunks a mug into a nearby vat and brings it over for me to taste. 'Mmm,' I say, sipping gingerly. Salmonella. E. coli. Listeria… What else can you get from unpasteurised milk? I pass the mug to our driver, who drains it gratefully, and turn and smile at my very attractive guide. As I can't think of the Russian for 'Do I look sexy with a milk moustache?', I wipe my mouth and announce instead that it was 'very nice, very rich and creamy'.

I suppose I needn't have worried about the lurgies in the milk. As honoured guests in the village, we are treated to a simple but hearty rustic meal for lunch, accompanied by a suitably strong local brew called Koptelovsky Balzam. After the first glass, I can feel the warmth slowly seeping back into my fingers. By the third, I can feel the fire in my belly, and am sure that any nasties in the milk have suitably been dealt with. My very attractive guide too is all aglow.
'Now we can go outside without any clothes,' she declares, given the warm fuzzy feeling that has descended upon us.
'Ladies first,' I think gallantly.