Would you try ‘goat yoga’?
Forget downward dogs – now goats are taking over the scene, says yogi Boudicca Fox-leonard
Hands are being stamped on, ears nibbled and hair pulled. My yoga mat, the place where I usually find calm in my daily life, has become toxic – invaded by fourlegged eating machines hell-bent on destruction.
Oh, how I laughed when videos of goat yoga in the US started circulating online in 2016. Another attentiongrabbing novelty trend to file alongside doga (dog yoga, of course) and beer yoga, I thought.
More fool me. Goat yoga has got legs. So much so, that it’s leapt over the Atlantic and on to Countryfile. It’s even a storyline in The Archers. And, earlier this month, actress Kate Beckinsale was pictured on Instagram performing a “downward dog” pose with a pygmy goat on her pelvis – presumably to keep her tailbone up. I can’t imagine any other benefit to doing yoga with the threat of a goat doing its business on your back.
Yoga is, in the words of the second-century sage Patanjali, “chitta vritti nirodha” – Sanskrit that roughly translates as “stopping the thoughts of the mind”. While Patanjali couldn’t have foreseen goat yoga (or goga), he would probably have agreed it was an obstacle to reaching enlightenment. Yet, some think there are benefits. Lainey Morse, the woman who kick-started the craze on her farm in Oregon, began practising yoga after being diagnosed with Sjogren’s syndrome, an autoimmune disease. She has described how being outdoors with her animals offered relief, saying: “It’s hard to be sad and depressed when you have baby goats jumping around.” Encouraged by the uplifting effects, she started “goat happy hour” classes, which led to goat yoga. Soon, she had a 500-person waiting list.
Animal therapy has been recorded as helping to decrease blood pressure and cholesterol levels, as well as feelings of loneliness, according to the Centres for Disease Control and Prevention. On Skylark Farm, near Bawdsey in Suffolk, goat farmer Emma Aldous knew how comforting the animals could be. So when friends sent her videos of Morse’s classes, she agreed to give it a go – asking local yogi Diana Malone to teach them. Now they’re on their second season, with no intention of stopping. Other UK goga destinations include Mucky Bucket farm in Hampshire, which runs classes with pygmy goats, while Simply Soulful Yoga, on the Dartington Estate in Devon, invites you to get in touch with your “inner kid”.
As I arrive at Skylark, the goats are already behaving like boisterous teenagers, butting heads and chewing anything that dangles their way.
A mixture of Boer and Anglo-nubian, they were born in March and are, by now, too big to balance on my back. But, says Aldous: “They love humans.” Nor are they mere circus animals; each is destined to either be milked or meat.
I’m one of 15 students, some old hands, others new to yoga and tempted by the goats. Student Tigerlily, 21, has seen goga online. “I wanted to try it because yoga is good for connecting the mind and body,” she says.
Malone concedes that the goats are the stars and “the yoga is secondary”, but she’s a serious practitioner and hopes that, even though people are encouraged to do a lot of petting, they’ll feel some of the benefits of her gentle breath-led movement, too.
Rolling out our mats (pre-chewed) in the paddock causes the goats to buckaroo and run into the foam playfully.
The brave close their eyes. Malone instructs us to put our hands on the ground. The goats roam around, descending on food that’s thrown down near our mats. We stay low, all the better for the goats to get up close and personal. There are shrieks as one relieves itself on a mat. It won’t be the last time.
As a serious yogi – and sometime teacher myself – I’m conflicted. Do I stroke the goats, or focus on my poses?
According to the Bhagavad Gita, the sacred yogic text: “Those established in self-realisation control their senses, instead of letting their senses control them.” So, cute as they are, my challenge is to ignore them. On cue, a goat sneezes three times in my face.
When Malone instructs us to adopt a “wild thing” pose, I find one animal pushing up underneath to give me a hip lift. The class ends seated – lying down is just asking for trouble.
Afterwards, I need a shower; not because I’ve worked up a sweat, but owing to the fact that I smell more than a bit goaty and my hair has been licked wet. It has been chaos, but fun. Even better, not a single person has checked their phone in more than an hour.
Goga might not be for purists, but does it matter if everyone is happy? Including Tigerlily: “I am definitely in a better mood,” she says. “I’m considering joining a normal yoga class now.”
I hope she does. Charming as goga is, it’s definitely acting the goat compared with the real thing.