Ancient mule tracks lead to these centuries-old farms-turned-inns, which serve some of France’s most famous cheeses and reveal its pastoral history
I was trekking for five hours when a fine, cold rain started. I’ve heard May in eastern France’s Vosges mountains can be practically a festival or stormy and cold. The near-silence was broken by distant cow bells, and I unfolded my wet map, looking at a little dot that became real when I crested a hill and saw a tall stone structure with a crimson roof and bright windows. I spent the night at Rothenbrunnen, a ferme-auberge (farm-inn) among these lush fields.
European farm stays have become increasingly popular in recent decades, but the mountaintop fermes-auberges in Alsace near the German border stand out because they are some of France’s oldest, dating to the 1800s, and they are connected by well-marked trails that bring hikers like me to their doorsteps. After hiking along the grassy slopes and admiring the bucolic views of dark pine forests and red-roofed houses in the valleys below, these rustic inns offer a traditional repas marcaire (dairy farmer’s meal) with farm-made charcuterie and cheese and a bed for the night.
Since the 9th century, marcaires (dairy farmers) have led their cattle from the Munster Valley onto the 1,200m-high plateaus each spring to harvest rich pastures for local cheeses, including the washed-rind Munster. In 1872, the Club Vosgien, a trekking organization, turned local mule paths into well-maintained hiking routes, which they still identify and maintain today. These farmers became innkeepers in the late 19th century. Hikers quickly began visiting the marcaires since the group had developed an attraction.
“The marcaires, at the time, started serving a bit of bacon or a few potatoes to passing hikers,” said Alsace Destination Tourisme’s Sabine Naegel. “That’s kind of how it came to be.”
Local farmers formed the 1971 Association des Fermes-Auberges du Haut-Rhin to formalize the agreement.
Today, 41 farmer-innkeepers appreciate hospitality, simplicity, and charity. Members must be farmers first, and its charter includes environmental and tourism criteria
“You can’t be an inn and raise two or three cows,” Naegel said. “It’s the opposite: you’re a farmer, and then you showcase your products on the farm.”
Since 1970, Rothenbrunnen has been a family dairy farm making local cheeses, with seven individual bedrooms and a 15-bed hostel for hikers, cross-country skiers, and e-bikers. One of the few year-round fermes-auberges, the inn stands out from its neighbors.
“We were born into it,” said Valérie Schwebel, who bought the property from her parents in 2016 with her sister Christelle Fest, her husband Frédéric, and their son Kévin. “We never knew anything else.”
The long stone structure has a barn at one end and a rustic dining area with huge cow bells and pastoral photos at the other. Upstairs, my cozy wood-panelled bedroom with twin beds, an armoire, and a separate bathroom where I stripped and had a hot shower.
Many have hiked 7km from Metzeral, a Paris rail stop, to Rothenbrunnen. Club Vosgien’s well-marked trails from Metzeral train station go to the Petit Ballon, one of the Vosges’ highest summits. Unlike the tallest, Le Hohneck, which I ascended the day before, the Petit Ballon, overlooking Munster and Sondernach residences and with several picnic places, is easy for beginners, but the local tourist office can provide a guide.
At Rothenbrunnen, Frédéric, a retired truck driver who took over the kitchen some years ago, prepares breakfast and supper for overnight guests
Rothenbrunnen’s charter requires 55% of its meals to be produced from family farm goods. Charcuterie, including Rothenbrunnen’s beef sausage, started my set dinner. The meal included handmade pork pie, fresh vegetable salads, and roïgabrageldi, a slow-cooked potato dish in farm butter. I thought about the brimbelle (wild blueberry) bushes I passed on my way here and the baby chamois while I ate a wild blueberry tart.
After eating, I went outdoors, where Kévin had determined the weather was warm enough for their 60-cow herd to spend their first night of the season beneath the stars. They twinkled as I fell asleep in bed, the skylight amplifying the rain’s rhythm.
Breakfast included farm butter, jam, and cheese. Springy tommes with little holes were more appealing in the morning than Munster’s pungent soft cheese, even if I love its brothy, umami-rich flavor. Marie Fest, 21, makes the Fests’ washed-rind cheese every day in Rothenbrunnen. After breakfast, she asked me to join her in the dairy as she scooped creamy, compact curds into perforated moulds. She must wait for richer summer milk to make the family’s bigger tommes, Barikass and Marie’s favorite, Le Randonneur (the hiker).
“You add spices and things like that,” she added, adding spring garlic and sundried tomato to the mild-mannered Le Randonneur. “So it’s a bit more fun.” After draining, Marie’s father, Frédéric, will oversee the cheeses in the aging cellar. He painstakingly washes each soft cheese with brine to give it Munster’s trademark sticky, rusty rind.
While following the recipe, the family’s cheese cannot legally use the name of their valley since Munster is protected by PDO, the same designation as Champagne and Parmigiano-Reggiano. By charter, Munster can only be made in seven Vosges mountain departments with the milk of Vosgienne, Simmental, Prim’Holstein, or Montbéliarde cows, but farmers prefer the black-and-white Vosgienne breed to highlight the local terroir.
Valérie and Christelle’s grandfather adopted Tarentaises on his valley farm in Breitenbach in 1960 after losing his entire herd to Brucellosis [bacterial disease] and “fell in love” with seven russet calves from Savoie.
Nowhere in the ferme-auberge charter states which cattle farmers may raise. A fermier-aubergiste may grow Tarentaises and trout, as one did until his retirement. The PDO board is restrictive, and two years ago, it banned Fests from putting “Munster” on their packaging.
“My grandfather had Munster awards,” Christelle remarked. “They shouldn’t assess cow breeds. Around where they graze.”
“It’s a shame to have reached this point,” said Frédéric.
The family won’t change their cheese manufacturing, just its label, which says “M1ster” instead of “Munster.” Rich and brothy, it tastes like fried eggs. M1ster is saltier than it is smelly, with an almost feta-like crumbliness and a compact structure that makes it the ideal hiking sandwich.
As more urban travelers visit the hilly area, the family has made additional adjustments to their farm stay than cheese-labelling. According to Christelle, “They go graze with the cows.” Frédéric’s new à la carte menu includes farmhouse cheeseburgers and vegetarian omelettes, but vegans have few options. Indeed, the ferme-auberge charter’s need to showcase farm goods makes it impossible to serve much fresh vegetables, which is hard to cultivate at this altitude. “We tried,” Frédéric replied. “The temperatures just don’t allow it.”
That may not last long due to climate change. Rothenbrunnen has long been a favorite with winter visitors who come for cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, and dog-sledding. Warming temperatures mean Kévin keeps the cows at altitude all year, unlike his great-grandfather, who drove the herd up the mountain from Breitenbach in May when the snow melted. He said, “Winters aren’t as bad as all that anymore.”
The absence of snow has also affected water use. Signs throughout the inn ask visitors to save water, and shower and toilet pressure reducers assist.
Rothenbrunnen continues as the world changes, and the inn was filled on this dismal May day. Kévin and Marie are prepared to continue the legacy with enthusiasm and pride.
