Piglets

Here in our new surroundings, I have once again the pleasure of porcine company. When we first came here there was the lovely, stout, friendly Henry, who loved nothing more than a scratch on the head and a barrel full of apples.

After his sad demise, a quintet of the most gorgeous little piglets arrived, and they eat apples for England and St. George. They are also the most talkative, sociable little things who apparently are “diggers and rooters” much to their owners’ dismay.

Despite being rare breeds, the babies reminded me of a time when I was young when we had a swine invasion, much enjoyed by the children but less appreciated by my father:

Down the road from us at The Old Parsonage, there was a farmer who particularly enjoyed breeding pigs. Clearly his delight and fancy, he was often seen delicately stroking the back of a sow, he was about to slaughter or take to market, in the manner of a P.G. Wodehouse character, which always seemed somewhat perverse to our young minds.

On one occasion, a large number of piglets, which were complete rascals, escaped. They ran up the road, into our garden, and then into the orchard where the trees were laden with ripe apples of many different varieties: Cox’s apple Pippin, Burnet, Bramleys and other old English varieties. The weight of the crop was bending the old, lichened branches near to the ground and the fruit was beginning to fall. If you were still and quiet, you could hear the thud of the apples as they hit the ground, as if in a perpetual action replay of the origin of the theory of gravity.

Squeak, squeak, squeak, they said as they ran through hither and thither; run, run, run, they ran on their little trotters; scoff, scoff, scoff, they said to the apples with the joy of piggy victory (food) and a truly excited look in their little eyes. By the time all twenty one piglets had been finally rounded up, every single one had an apple in its mouth.

As my mother said, “Ready for the oven”. I thought that rather cruel, but the sight was worthy of being recorded for perpetuity. Complete chaos, absolute abandon, and totally hilarious. Whilst we miss the stout and stately Henry, the naughty little pigs cried “Wee, wee, wee, all the way home” to a more secluded field, where they can root away to their hearts’ content. They can be thankful that they do not “go to market” as per the nursey rhyme, but are treasured companions – unlike our little pink piglets who invaded the orchard.