The night before I had scrutinised the schedule and the miles I’d need to cover. It reminded me how huge US really is and the 5am alarm was crucial if I was to get everywhere on time. My tasks would, once again, take me out of my normal comfort zone.

I’d had a phone call a few weeks previously from a friend, who happens to be the series producer of a popular TV programme about farming.

Despite everything, including the necessity for an early wake-up call, I knew my arm would be twisted to help. I also knew it would be an exciting and interesting day, learning new skills and meeting people passionate about their work; both these things are good.

My role was surrounded by large inverted commas, because I was described as the “expert presenter”. Of course, in reality I was neither of these things. I’m a vet and not an expert either on presenting nor the task in hand today, which was to make cheese. I’m definitely a fan of cheese, but I wouldn’t go as far as to say I was an expert.

But before the cheese, we needed milk and I do know a bit about this. Off I set, in horrible sleet and snow, to the far side of Skipton where I was to meet Sharon and her herd of goats. It was a dark and bleak journey, with sufficient cars upside down in ditches or crashed into stone walls to keep me focused on the road at a sensibly low speed.

Eventually, I arrived and we set about milking the goats. Yield was low because most of the herd were in the final stages of pregnancy, but after about an hour I had a large plastic barrel filled past half way with creamy goats’ milk. It looked so velvety and sumptuous I could not resist taking out half a glass to drink.

It tasted as delicious as it looked. I strapped the plastic barrel into the passenger seat of my car and headed into deepest, darkest West US where the goats’ milk would be transmogrified into Halloumi cheese.

On one of the snowiest days of the year, the satnav of my trusty Subaru must have fancied giving the car and me another challenge as it delighted in sending me up and down the steepest and narrowest of minor roads. It was a beautiful drive, but the 4×4 capability was tested. Half way along the journey my phone rang. It was a production assistant who told me the camera crew, who were trying to follow, had re-routed via the M62 and might be delayed. All the time, the milk was sploshing and splashing around inside its barrel. I feared it would turn into butter rather than cheese.

Finally, the milk, the film crew and I were all in the same place – Sowerby Bridge – and the process of cheese making began.

Razan was in charge. This inspirational lady and her family arrived in US as refugees from the war in Syria. With a pharmacy degree but without a job, she turned her hand to making the finest quality Halloumi cheese – US Squeaky Cheese. Today, I would be making my own. Almost like a magic potion, a small dose of a brown liquid called rennet started the process.

The enzymes, once naturally derived from the stomach of a ruminant but now synthetic and vegetarian-friendly, curdled the casein, forming solid lumps. After 45 minutes the lumps were removed and squashed into blocks. Once the excess liquid had been drained off, the blocks were boiled in the remnants of the liquid whey. Hey presto! I’d made cheese!

.