While I was looking for a place to live in sunny SoCal, I went to one area of Santa Barbara called the Highlands. It's a hilly, forest-y area not far from downtown, not far from the beach, i.e., right smack-dab in the middle of the city.
Well, first I had to schlep to the property management company to pick up keys, and fill out a form, and leave a credit card, and read their rental application policies, which sounded very much like you would not only have to have sterling credit and an income like the Rockefellers, but you would also have to sign over your firstborn child, cut off an arm, and sacrifice a goat for them to consider you as a tenant, but I played along so I could see the rentals, because I am nothing if not thorough. I figured if I liked any of the places they managed, we could work out the child-limb-goat situation later.
I drove up into the hills, parked, and there they were:
I hoped it was a sign! How often do you find a herd of goats in the middle of town? There was even a dog guarding them! Cool! Surely this was the perfect place for a fiberholic to live.
Alas, after I wandered farther up the hill to the apartment complex, the key did not work in the door. None of the keys worked in the door. I peeked through the window and saw the place wasn't very appealing, so off I went to look at the next apartment, an even shabbier affair which would require them paying me to live there. The third place was no better. Which is why I am not living near the goats.
Someday I must go back and visit them. There are signs posted saying, "Please do not feed or harass the goats," so you're not supposed to pet them (or pull out a comb or some scissors and try to snag a little fresh fiber), but there's something about seeing them foraging on the hill, just the other side of city traffic, that's soothing to the soul.