This Italian Village Has No Supermarkets and Makes Its Own Cheese

Tucked into the green folds of the Italian Alps is a village that feels like it stepped out of a different century. No supermarkets. No fast food. No delivery apps. Just quiet cobblestone lanes, clinking cowbells, and the rich, creamy aroma of something incredible simmering in a copper pot.

Welcome to Rima San Giuseppe, a tiny mountain village in northern Italy where people don’t just live slow—they live deliciously. Here, cheese isn't bought. It's made. By hand. By heart. And by people who’ve been doing it for generations.

Getting There Feels Like a Secret

First things first: this place is not easy to reach.

Rima San Giuseppe sits deep in the Valsesia valley in Piedmont, near the border of Switzerland. After winding up narrow mountain roads for what feels like forever, you arrive at a village of just a few dozen year-round residents. And no, there’s no Coop or Carrefour waiting for you. The closest “store” is a 30-minute drive down a mountain.

Instead? You’re greeted by slate roofs, stone houses, alpine air, and locals who really know their dairy.

Why Cheese Rules Everything Here

In a place where winters are long and markets are far, self-sufficiency isn’t just a trend—it’s survival. And for centuries, the people of Rima have relied on cows, grass, and some serious cheesemaking skills.

Their specialty? Toma, a semi-soft mountain cheese made from raw cow’s milk. It's rich, nutty, slightly tangy, and aged in cool stone cellars that smell like history. Many households still have their own aging room beneath the kitchen.

And it’s not just about Toma. Some locals make ricotta, butter, and even yogurt—all from milk they gathered that morning from cows they raised themselves.

Cheese here isn’t a product. It’s a relationship.

No Supermarket? No Problem.

You’d think a village with no grocery store would feel limited. But walk through Rima, and you’ll notice something: everyone has a garden. Tomatoes hang from wooden trellises. Herbs dry in the sun. Chickens wander across courtyards.

When something is needed, people trade. Eggs for bread. Herbs for cheese. Firewood for cured meat. It’s a mini economy based on trust and tradition.

And once a week, a van rumbles into town with essentials like flour and soap. That’s it.

The result? A lifestyle that’s quieter, cleaner, and built around what the land offers—not what the shelves dictate.

A Day in the Cheesemaking Life

I stayed with a local family who welcomed me like a lost cousin. At dawn, we walked out to the pasture with buckets in hand. The cows—calm, shaggy, and a little sassy—lined up for milking.

Back in the kitchen, the milk was filtered, heated, and stirred with a wooden paddle as old as the stove. Rennet was added. Curds formed. Whey was drained. And soon, a golden wheel of Toma sat pressed in a mold, ready for its nap in the cellar.

All before 9 a.m.

That afternoon? More milking. More stirring. More laughter. Making cheese is work—but here, it’s joyful work.

The Taste? Unreal.

We sliced into a three-month-old wheel with thick rind and a creamy center. It smelled of hay, milk, and stone. It tasted like the mountains—grassy, rich, and impossibly fresh.

No plastic wrap. No barcode. Just cheese, a knife, and a story behind every bite.

What Else Happens in This Village?

A lot, actually—just not in the way you’d expect.

- Locals gather at the tiny chapel for Sunday mass, followed by espresso at the single bar in town. - Kids play outside until sunset, climbing rocks and chasing chickens. - Neighbors visit each other without texting first. - Festivals celebrate seasons, cheese, and saints—with polenta, music, and wine from someone’s basement barrel.

And yes, sometimes the Wi-Fi goes out. No one panics. People talk instead.

Why It Feels So Different

Because nothing’s rushed.

Meals last two hours. Walks stretch into conversations. There’s no rush to monetize every moment or optimize every habit. Life is seasonal. Cheese ages slowly. People know each other deeply.

In a world that’s obsessed with convenience, this place chooses connection instead.

Can You Visit?

Yes—but please do it respectfully.

- Stay in one of the few guesthouses or agriturismos run by local families. - Don’t expect luxury. Expect warmth, clean sheets, and soup made from the garden. - Ask questions. Locals love sharing how cheese is made—but maybe not while they’re milking a cow. - Buy local. That wedge of Toma supports more than taste—it keeps a way of life alive.

What I Learned

- Simplicity doesn’t mean lack. This village may have fewer things, but it feels richer than any city I’ve been in. - Food tastes better when you know where it comes from. Especially when you helped stir it. - You don’t need a supermarket to eat well. You need cows, grass, hands, and time. - Slowness is a gift. Not everything has to be fast or efficient to be meaningful.

Rima San Giuseppe isn’t trying to be trendy. It’s not a curated slow-living aesthetic. It’s just… how things are. And in that quiet rhythm of cows, milk, gardens, and shared meals, you realize something simple but powerful.