I showed up with vague directions to the shepherds' summer camp, which was deep in the valley. That's a theme: the cheeses I find are always far out, made by hermit types sticking to the old ways out of sheer stubbornness. It was drop-dead gorgeous, just me and my backpack. The valley ends on an abrupt cliff, with deteriorating medieval stone towers. Shepherds build their camps from the decay. I saw how these guys milked sheep by hand with wooden pails, rustic-style. It's a feta-like cheese called Tushuri guda, aged in inside-out sheepskins. At the end of the season, I walked about 130km (81 miles) back down the valley with them and 300 sheep. The herd has done this for generations – they know where to go. The shepherds just coordinated, and it created this crazy lawless feeling with dogs barking and me, chasing stray sheep down ravines.