How I got the best bacon in the world (or, an Eejit’s guide to beginning with pigs)
Written by Nick
Self-confessed "accidental pig-keeper" Nick tells the story of how he persuaded his family - and himself - that it would be a good idea to get a few porkers..
I should start by putting this item in context. My situation, requirements, experience and reasoning won't be the same as yours. However, I hope some of them overlap and the experiences I offer are of interest. I've got some land. Not a
lot, about 3 acres and most of the time, most of it does nothing
much. We bought it because it came with the house. I'd no
experience of small-holding, animal keeping, or even maintaining a
vegetable plot. It'd be fair to say I'm an accidental
pig-keeper. On the plus side, I'd always been vaguely aware and
discomforted by industrial farming techniques and everything along
the chain from the industrial sty right to the watery, plastic
meat sold in most of the High Street. Add to this the fact that I
have always been a keen cook and love my food. I want the best
tasting stuff. Always.
So, finding myself with a spare
paddock, a copy of the River Cottage Cookbook and a desire to eat
well, I thought about getting pigs. Pigs are better than most
things. They're cheaper and easier to keep than cows (pigs don't
get kept, in my plan, over the winter. We have no field water, or
shelter). Sheep, even at their most intensively farmed, are
decidedly edible and *everyone* tells you that they are lots of hard
work. And pigs give you pork. And bacon. And crackling. And sausages.
And scratchings. And black pudding. And salami. And ham. And so on.
If you could make beer from pigs, I think they'd be perfect
organisms.
Having broken the news to my family
that not only were we to obtain new animals (we had cats and dogs),
but we were going to eat them, I was bought a visit to Pig Paradise
to go on the course there, to give me a basic grasp of what to do.
This was a Christmas present from my wife and despite her
protestations, it struck me that was the permission I needed. What
was the worst that could happen? We'd spend a couple of hundred
quid and end up with weird pets because we couldn't eat them?
They'd get really ill and expensive? These were risks I'd accept
to be able to say I'd done it. I'd kept and raised and processed
my own food. And it would be the best bacon ever.
Right. So, what breed? Well, some
basic hunting on the internet and magazines led me to the conclusion
that Oxford Sandy and Blacks would suit me best. They were small (so
I *might* win an argument with them, if I ever needed to move them),
they were hardy and promised never to get sick, they weren't
bolshy, so the kids wouldn't get ravaged to death by them, they
were fairly attractive beasts (those pigs that look like they've
been chasing parked cars? No thanks!) and they promised to be great
pork and bacon. And stock was available reasonably near and
reasonably soon.
We decided (notice I've slipped from
'I' to 'we'?) that I'd build a fenced off area at the very
top of the paddock, so any smell wouldn't reach the house, and a
hundred quid's worth of posts, wire, hinges and whisky later, Jim,
my neighbour, local farmer and Saint had put up an area about 15m x
15m for the porkers to inhabit. A trip to the local scrap yard
yielded enough corrugated tin and timber to build a sizeable house
for them for under a tenner. A round bale of straw lasted me all
year as bedding. I had an old Belfast sink for water and aside from
the paperwork, I was pretty much set to go. Getting the paperwork
proved the easiest part. DEFRA gave me a registration number for my
land quickly and for free, and as soon as this bit of paper arrived,
I could ring them for a herd number, again free. A quick trip to the
Trading Standards people got me my stock book, so I could record all
movements of my herd. On the grounds that I was set to get two pigs,
and move them precisely twice, once on, once off, and this would fill
out two lines on a single page, they simply tore me out a couple of
pages, rather than charge me £20 for a 300 page, 2400 entry
book. They also gave me movement forms and explained exactly what I
had to do. Frankly, it struck me as a very simple, cheap,
intelligent system.
So the day arrived. All I had to do
was drive to Brecon and beyond, hand over some cash, sign a form and
I'd be a legal pig owner for the first time. My cherry would have
been lost and some terrified beasts would become my responsibility.
To say I was apprehensive was an understatement. Still, on I went.
Three hours after leaving home a carefree, pigless townie, I returned
as a Pig Farmer! I was the proud owner of a couple of 8 week old
OSBs, one of each sex. Within moments, they were in the paddock,
snuffling about, exploring their new home. Feeding and drinking took
place within moments, so I felt happy they weren't overly
traumatised by their relocation from Wales to England. The kids
arrived home from school and rushed up to see the new arrivals,
squealing with delight as they ran across the grass. The pigs
reciprocated and when noses had been scratched and tails laughed at
they fell in love. At that point I knew I'd just bought very
expensive pets, but the situation was saved when both kids asked
which bits were bacon and when we'd get to try their crackling.
For the next 7 months, the pigs
consumed a daily ration of pig nuts, apples from the orchard and
kitchen scraps. Water had to be carried up by the bucket until we
bought a bowser and then we could spare loads for them to create a
wallow. They grew quickly and became hairy, snuffling brutes. They
got checked on at least twice a day and the only preventative
maintenance I ever did was a quick check of their temperature by
feeling behind their ears. If this felt about right, they ate and
drank properly and had no problems with running about with no obvious
physical defects, then they were deemed to be OK. It became obvious
that these two knew far more about looking after pigs than I did and
they got on and grew. They withstood rain, sunshine, small children,
the dog running up and down outside their pen, people walking their
dogs past stopping and staring, a party of 150 people in the same
field, most of whom pointed at his testicles, either marvelling in
awe or remaining silent with jealousy, depending on gender and a diet
that ran from pig nuts through vegetables to cider apples. And then
we had to convert them into food. Apart from a single vet bill of £7,
to check they were worm free, there really was nothing else to it.
I'd already been in touch with the
local abattoir and been through the paperwork with them. Again, it
was really simple and they couldn't have been more helpful, even
though I'd only being giving them a minimal amount of business. My
only concern was to get it right. I wanted the day to be as smooth as
possible. The simple truth was I was going to bring two animals here
for the single reason of killing them to fill my belly. I *could*
live on vegetables, but I didn't want to. However, I was
determined that the price of my continued carnivorism would be the
knowledge that I'd been as close to the process of raising and
killing of my dinner. And I couldn't do that unless I did it right.
I couldn't afford to bugger things up at the slaughterhouse. They
were going to have a tough enough day as it was, without me forcing
them to hang around longer than necessary. So, at 6am on a dark,
cold, rain soaked morning, Saint Jim turned up with his truck and
trailer and we set about loading them. All the books and all the
experts tell you to load them the night before, let them sleep in the
straw in the trailer and have a lie in. So, naturally, we ignored
them. 45 minutes of falling over in the mud, the rain and 6 months of
pigshit means that next year, we'll do as we're told. Bloody
things. That said, the journey was uneventful. At the abattoir, we
tagged their ears, handed over the paperwork and returned home. I
held my breath when I left them, but honestly, it was surprisingly
easy to do. One week and one bill of £110 later, I had 188kg of
prime pork in my kitchen, looking for a pan of one sort or another.
I'm going to write another article covering that end of things, but
it's now March, the paddock is empty and I have 4 more pigs on
order. There are salamis and Parma-style hams hanging in the garage,
bacon and joints in the freezer and sausages in the fridge.
I've been a pig keeper for 12 months
now. It's fun. Really, really fun. After a busy day meeting
deadlines, attending meetings and sitting in traffic jams, you come
home and throw apples for the pigs to eat. Guess what? They don't
care about budgets, about contra-flows or how we can best outsource
and rationalise to maintain steady income steams. They're just
glad to see you and I've wasted many hours stood at the top of the
paddock relaxing and wondering how I got so lucky. There's masses
I don't know, but there's a huge number of people ready to leap
in and help, with information, with trucks and trailer, with recipe
books when things go wrong. If you've got room (and it doesn't
have to be a lot), I'd urge you to go on the course, to speak to
other people, and to buy a couple of pigs. What's the worst that
could happen? |