The Edge of Nowhere

Coulda been a contender. . .

2011-10-15T21:02:00.000+01:00

The Pig Farmer celebrates
becoming European
Heavyweight Champion

Here's something you don't hear everyday.

"Audley Harrison looks just like you," said Sally as she settled down for the latest installment of Strictly Come Dancing*.

"Eh? Wha..? Come again?"

"He's got a big body and long thin legs."

"And that makes me just like him, does it?"

"Sort of. You know what I mean."

"Reckon I'd have lasted a bit longer against David Haye."

* Strictly Come Dancing is a BBC TV reality show in which celebrities "go on a journey". They also do a bit of dancing.

Let's get ready to rubble

2011-09-24T21:34:00.000+01:00

The front bedroom after we removed the old roof

There comes a time in your life when you stand on top of the walls of your home and come to a sudden realisation.

"Oh crap, I've spent £X,000 on a pile of rocks."

That was me last April after our neighbour Bruce the builder and I had taken advantage of what turned out to be the only decent fortnight of the year. I stood on the (impressively thick) wall of the house, just where the front bedroom used to be, and tried very hard not to get upset.

Having said that there was a cracking view over Westray Firth towards Rousay and Orkney Mainland from where the box bedroom had been until a few hours earlier so it wasn't all bad.

Easily the best view from a box bedroom in the UK

The construction of a new living room at the front of the house (complete with big windows for enjoying sea views, birdwatching, checking who is going to and from the ferry and so on) and of a new roof for the whole house has dominated our lives for the last 18 months, right from the moment I started the planning and building warrant applications to the point now where the extension is built and Bruce is attaching slates to the roof with extremely expensive copper clout nails.

I can't say I'll be disappointed when it's all over.

A hell of a lot's been done, but we still have some considerable way to go - small luxuries like ceilings, plasterboard on the walls, flooring, a light in the bathroom - and you can see why one builder asked us when we moved in: "Have you not thought of knocking it down and building a new house?"

Frida inspects progress in the utility room

The phrase "It'll be worth it in the end" is in danger of being worn out, but, now that we can at least sit in the extension and enjoy a book, cup of tea and the view, the optimism is a little less forced.

The old walls are, as I've already said. A metre thick, they are made largely of stone stuck together with red clay which apparently was beaten to a creamy consistency - a regular pain-in-the-bum (or arm) job given to the youngest workers on the site.

Over the last 150 years that's become damp and perished so it has had to be picked out and modern cement pointing applied before the walls can be lined with insulation and plasterboard.

The whole building process is satisfying, frustrating, infuriating, exciting and depressing all at once, but it IS going to be worth it - really it is.

The farmer has another wife

2011-09-18T21:38:00.001+01:00

The Westray Wife - 5,000-year-old Barbie

I hurried from the back room to the front desk of the Westray Heritage Centre, put on my most winning smile and greeted a rather damp couple with all the usual "hello, how are you, are you having a good time in Westray, how long are you staying?" guff.

"Are you open this afternoon?" said Mr Damp Tourist, rather more abruptly than was strictly necessary, although our weather this summer has been enough to give anyone the hump.

"Yes we are, from two 'til five," said the pig farmer/morning duty person at the heritage centre, trying very hard not to take it personally.

"That's good. We'll go for a walk, have some lunch and then come back before we get the bus for the ferry," said Mrs D Tourist - clearly a woman with a plan.

And off they went in their brightly coloured anoraks and waterproofs, leaving me wondering if there was something wrong with my deodorant.

I've had a little part-time job this summer down at the island heritage centre. For three or four mornings a week, I help out doing everything from cleaning the toilets to burning CDs of Orkney dialect poetry. It also involves taking care of The Westray Wife (you may remember her from this), the 5,000-year-old-plus figurine found a couple of years ago up at Links of Noltland. I also take the money for Westray Wife keyrings, Westray Wife postcards, three different Westray Wife replicas and Westray Wife shortbread (really).

The job has been a real tonic. It gets me away from the "farm" for a while and I get to talk to real actual people as opposed to pigs, dogs and chickens. I'm also finding out all sorts of interesting stuff about the island. . . invite me round for tea, I'll be fascinating.

However, just lately I've noticed a disturbing trend. We don't exactly have to fight visitors off with a stick at the centre, but there has been a steady flow and by the end of the month (when we stop daily opening) the best part of 3,000 people will have come down the fuchsia-lined path and through the doors this summer. But for the last three or four weeks they seem to have been avoiding me.

The only shifts where no visitors have been recorded have been when I've been on duty (six out of my last nine, in fact). And that leaves a hell of a lot of time for dusting.

What's the problem?

Is it the wellies. . . the ruddy complexion. . . the vague whiff of pigshed? I need to know.

And the mouse police never sleeps

2011-09-12T21:50:00.003+01:00

Reasons why you shouldn't go barefoot into the barn, No.435.

I only had to nip out to the freezer to get something for my tea. I couldn't find either socks or slippers and there was no way I was going to put my bare feet in a pair of wellies that get more unpleasant with each passing day.

As I was about to open the freezer door, I felt something moist, squishy and a bit furry under my toes. Looking down, I felt at least some of my appetite drain away.

"Oh triffick, a headless rabbit."

Frida, now top cat on the "farm" since Trevor handed in his dinner pail, likes to leave something hanging around for a snack to fill the gaps between the four square meals she has a day. Still, mustn't grumble.

With the possible exception of Mrs Pig Farmer and Molly the sow, she's the hardest working member of the household and mice are a rare sight around the place while rabbits have to keep their heads down or face the consequences.

Which isn't bad for a little feral cat who turned up one night a couple of years ago, bedding down next to a totally unconcerned old Kim in the pig shed before deciding she was going to live in the barn.

She steers clear of the dogs - who wouldn't? - and rarely ventures into the house, finding it pretty much impossible to settle when she does. But she seems to like my company and, while most farmers/crofters have a dog that follows them around the fields, I have a cat.

There are times when I think I can't do anything right.

And here's the song.

Back home

2011-09-12T21:10:00.000+01:00

So, the new place wasn't right and we're back here. Please disregard the previous post and fingers crossed that I can rediscover some enthusiasm for the blog in the process.

We're moving. . .

2011-01-23T19:24:00.000Z

Not us - we're happy and staying put - but the blog is packing its meagre belongings in a red and white spotted hanky and moving to pastures new.

You can now find The Edge of Nowhere at theedgeofnowhere.wordpress.com - I hope you'll follow us over there.

I'd better think of something to write then.

There's no place like home

2010-12-07T21:09:00.000Z

The snow was belting in at a 45-degree angle, but nothing puts Alfie off his breakfast, so I duly obliged with a mixture of pig feed, barley, potatoes and turnips, adding an extra scoop to help keep him warm.

I've never seen snow stick on a pig before.

The Kims (the older Kim still hasn't gone for sausage and I'm kind of hoping nobody notices) harumphed and grumpfed at me and ploughed their way through the rapidly deepening snow to get their share.

Those three are the only pigs in the herd still outside and as long as their huts remain dry and warm that's where they'll stay.

I've been away in England for a while and, after disrupted flights and long hours spent in airports, it was great to be home, whatever the weather.

The weather perked up by lunchtime, allowing a short walk. . .

. . . to the Skelwick shop. . .

for cat food, pop and a natter with Wilma and Norman. Like I said, it's good to be home.

Dances with sheep

2010-11-25T11:51:00.000Z

I'm no big sheep expert, but I could see something was up with the smallest one of the three who are currently on groundskeeping duty in our top field.

He was staying some distance from the other two, not moving around much and looking a bit sorry for himself. The pig rule - the one that says if a pig is keen on its rations and vocal in demanding said rations then everything is OK - doesn't exactly apply to sheep who don't seem to get enthusiastic about much at all, but it doesn't take a farming genius to work out when an animal is below par.

While dropping Sally off at the ferry, I met our neighbour Marcus who diagnosed cobalt deficiency - apparently it's common in our part of the island - and thrust a bottle of vitamin B12 into my hand with orders for an immediate injection.

Fair enough. I got home, fetched out a syringe, unwrapped a new needle and marched out to confront the sheep who was lying down, chewing half-heartedly. As I approached he got up with just enough urgency to avoid me reaching him.

The pair of us then got into the sort of elaborate routine more often seen on BBC on a Saturday evening. I've learned that being quiet and patient is the best way to deal with farm animals and, in any case, I wasn't about to started running around after a poorly sheep, least of all with a syringe and needle in my pocket.

After a couple of laps, we reached a stalemate. I tried pulling up some grass and offering it to him. It wouldn't fool a pig for a minute, but sheep joined the queue for brains rather late and he fell for it.

Injecting a pig of any size is a risky business. They get quite miffed about the whole subject of needles and it's recommended that you have at least two sturdy bodies and an old door or a gate to hold pig down/hide behind. So this operation was a doddle.

Grasping the sheep by the scruff of the neck I realised just how small he was. He put up little resistance as I quickly injected the stuff and trotted away.

Mission accomplished, I reported back to Marcus who said the next part of the treatment would be a cobalt "bullet". I don't know why I used inverted commas there because a bullet is exactly what it is with a kind of tube device to stick down laddo's throat and fire the thing in.

So the pair of us started up again across the field and back, the occasional motorist slowing down to work out what the hell I thought I was doing, and there was no way he was going to fall for the grass trick again. Eventually I had him cornered and with a move that was surprisingly quick for my size and age I got a hold of him, shoved the device into his mouth and pressed the button, holding his head up for a few moments to make sure the bullet had gone down.

I let go and he collapsed on the ground and couldn't or wouldn't get up.

"Bollocks, I've killed the sheep," I muttered, but he was very much alive, just not in the mood to go anywhere. He sat there for a while, chewing thoughtfully, and eventually got up and moved around a bit.

He perked up considerably, but this morning he was down in the dumps again, sheltering from the cold in the long grass in the far corner of the field.

I'll be keeping my fingers crossed.

Who said romance was dead?

2010-11-21T18:17:00.000Z

Sometimes you have to learn the hard way.

A couple of weeks ago it was feed-time on the what I like to think of as "the farm". The sun had sunk below the horizon, but there was another half-hour of light left as I trudged out with the bucket to feed the outdoor pigs.

Instead of going through the gate into the field, I climbed over the stile from the vegetable garden, thereby reaching Alfie's paddock first instead of Annie and Tina's. Obviously I put Alf's grub out first - why the hell not?

I'll tell you why not. Annie - a Tamworth and therefore livelier than the average pig - went spare in a way a student might on learning Countdown has been replaced by a Lib-Dem party political broadcast. She bust through the electric fence and, with Tina following in her wake, headed straight for the old fish box that doubles as Alf's trough.

Now Alf may be only seven months old, but he's a well-built lad, knows where everything goes and this was easily the most exciting thing that had happened to him all week. So, as Annie got stuck into his tea, Alf climbed aboard.

Fortunately, by the time the pig farmer had wheezed onto the scene, Alfie's first two attempts to hit the target had been just wide of the mark. There was nothing for it but to drop the shoulder and barge the lad off.

You'd have thought a 15-stone pig farmer thumping into the side of you just as you were about to do the honours would be off-putting. Not to our Alf, it seems. He rallied remarkably well and was lining up another go as, with the help of a plastic fence post prodding her backside and the incentive of the feed bucket in front of her nose, Annie was persuaded back into her paddock.

At that point Alfie turned his sights on the previously unnoticed Tina and learned an important life lesson. As he hoisted himself onto her back, she complained loudly, snapped at him and set off briskly for the other side of the paddock.

Pretty much the reaction you'd expect if you tried it on before the coffee and mints had been served.

Alfie hurried off in pursuit. Tina started running, Alfie following with the pig farmer - doing his best to put dodgy knees, heart and blood pressure issues out of his mind - trailing in the bronze medal position.

With a little diagonal running, I hoped to head off Tina and divert her back into the paddock where Annie was still scoffing away and then hold Amorous Alf at bay while reinstating the electric fence - how hard could that be?

Ten minutes later all that was missing was the Benny Hill music as I gasped for air, Tina kept up an impressive pace and Alfie showed signs of flagging. Making one last desperate attempt, I cut across the paddock, got down as low as is possible for a 49-year-old crock and shoved Tina back in with Annie, hurriedly reconnecting the fence, turning round and tripping over a panting and slobbering Alf to land in what I hoped on descent was mud.

It wasn't.

Dig this

2010-11-13T18:34:00.001Z

A year or so ago one of the teams of archaeologists who swarm around Orkney during the summer uncovered something pretty special at the dig near Westray's golf course*.

A small - and I mean REALLY small, it's about three inches at most - figurine was found, clearly marked as a female. . . well I think those are boobs and the archaeologists seem to think so too.

There might even be a belly button.

Or something else.

Oh for heaven's sake, use your imagination.

Anyhoo - it's said by people much smarter than a pig farmer that what they call Orkney Venus and everyone in Westray calls The Westray Wife is 5,000 years old. That's several hundred years before Stonehenge.

Now this may not be important on a kind of end-world-hunger, wake-the-Lib-Dems-up, get-Wolves-out-of-relegation-trouble scale, but it's big news for archaeology buffs and has given a fair boost to the island's tourist economy with a considerable number of folk coming over to see the Wife at the Heritage Centre in Pierowall.

Wifey is now in Edinburgh being examined for heaven knows what, but fear not, a stand-in has been found.

While sorting and bagging the last of this year's potato crop, a Westray crofter made a remarkable discovery (right).

I can reveal that it is almost 5,000 hours old, the seed having been planted in mid-May.

Extensive study, peeling and chipping has confirmed it is an accurate representation of a pig farmer. . . fat, very tasty and satisfying.

The official name is Orkney Potatohead, however locally it will be known as the Peedie Tattie-man o'Westray.

I am available for lecture tours and big, fat grants.

* Westray's golf course, long-time readers may remember, is the one with a 10ft deep bunker with a cow's skeleton in it.

Danger - low-flying swans

2010-11-08T22:21:00.002Z

Half-a-dozen mute swans heaved their wings out of the water, smacking the surface several times as their bodies lumbered into the air above the small loch at St Mary's on Orkney's East Mainland.

The pig farmer, enjoying a brief birdwatching break before heading back to Westray, felt lukewarm winter morning sunshine on the back of his neck as he watched them recover their poise and circle gracefully over the water before heading inland just above head height. . . towards the main road between St Margaret's Hope and Kirkwall.

Having watched Wolverhampton Wanderers for many years, the pig farmer has a keen nose for an impending disaster, and he didn't like the look of this at all.

The swans swooped low over the road on the Kirkwall side of the bend by the B&B, turning to head back to the lake. Five set out over the reeds that surround the loch, but the last of the six turned with the speed and agility of an Eddie Stobart truck and was straightening up just in time to make contact with the front of a builder's van heading towards the town.

Van stopped dead and swan went plummeting into the reeds. The pig farmer/birdwatcher hurried over to see what, if anything, could be done. The swan was sitting, looking a little startled (well, wouldn't you?), but obviously still alive. The pig farmer/birdwatcher/animal lover wondered whether to approach and check the damage, but he'd heard something about swans being good at kung fu (or was it jujitsu?) and he decided to wait and see.

Sure enough, after a few trial flaps, he stumbled off towards the water, barging a group of widgeon out of the way as he did so.

"He looks all right," the pig farmer/birdwatcher/animal lover/insensitive oaf called over to the van driver who had just emerged.

"Oh that's good. . . really great," he replied, leaning on the back door of the van. He sagged visibly and went a little green around the gills. "Have a look at this," he said, taking me around the front of the van where there was a lot of dent and fresh air where the windscreen and bonnet had been.

Do swans have insurance?

Not just a pig farmer

2010-09-27T12:22:00.001+01:00

I looked at them huddled by the fence in the top field. They stared back with a "you haven't the first idea what to do" look.

Which just goes to show how right sheep can be.

Last spring I foolishly mentioned to our neighbour Marcus that I thought it was about time we had a few sheep, partly for ground maintenance and also for the freezer. Fine, the best thing was to wait for autumn and pick up some of the smaller lambs not going to market.

So he turned up the other day with three fairly small (but not that small) sheep in his trailer. I climbed in and hauled them out one-by-one and. . . well, that's about it so far.

They're quite settled in the top field, spending most of their time by the fence near Alfie the boar, but I can't help feeling there's something I should be doing.

Pigs need attention, shelter, feeding and watering. Sheep need. . . well, not much it seems, so long as there's grass. Not that there's much chance of me doing anything with them. They haven't let me within ten metres of them yet.

Morale-booster on a rainy day

2010-09-22T13:25:00.001+01:00

A Westray September is a moody companion. The equinox brought strong winds, first from the southwest, then from the cold north. Heavy rains have forced many of the pigs indoors. We've even had hail.

Yet there have been sunny days that have felt like small miracles as summer fades into the memory.

We've dragged ourselves out for walks on some of the island's best beaches, but only one of us has been in for a swim.

Left a bit, down a bit

2010-09-19T22:48:00.007+01:00

"Stand over there and let me know if I need to stop," said Bruce, clambering aboard a digger the size of a Tiger tank and firing up an engine that could be heard 150 miles away in Inverness.

"Whaaaoooo!!" I shouted about seven seconds later, adding some frantic, flagless semaphore just in case Bruce hadn't got the message.

Pulling over a decrepit, old lean-to at the front of our house to make way for a lovely new extension with big windows to enjoy the view over the sea to Rousay and Orkney Mainland sounded simple enough - large cracks had appeared and the thing was already edging away from the house.

We hadn't bargained for one piece of timber not being quite as rotten as it looked. It was wedged under the strip of concrete (can't remember what it's called) at the end of the kitchen roof and began levering a good part of the roof into the air.

Fearing Mrs Pig Farmer's reaction to a large hole in the kitchen and, most important, damage to the Sky dish at such an early stage in the football season, I thought it best we went for plan B. A little use of the saw and we were up and running again, the solid concrete coming down surprisingly quickly.

What I hadn't bargained for was what was left. Somehow you don't notice pink when it's on the walls of a "room" used only for bringing on veg seedlings and sorting out the recycling bags.

Even more worrying was Sal's reaction. I can't imagine how the planning department is going to react to this one.

It's cuteness time again

2010-09-04T21:50:00.004+01:00

The pig farmer strolled into the pigshed on Monday morning, whistling a happy tune, full of the joys of late August and so on.

Little Kim - due to farrow on Friday - was having a lie-in, the black and white cliff-face of her back to the door.

There was a little blood near her back end. "Uh-oh," thought the pig farmer, hurriedly clambering over the wall and discovering that Little Kim had been full of surprises. Twelve of them, to be exact.

They were all clean and feeding well, getting that all-important first milk. Despite this being her first litter, Little Kim had done everything by herself. Pigs never cease to impress and amaze me.

As the piglets tucked in, mum gave a little grunt and the second afterbirth slithered out (sows give birth in two batches) and I made myself feel a little less redundant by cleaning up before putting food out for Little Kim and introducing the little ones to the heat lamp and cosy, clean straw where they settled in for a snooze.

As the week's gone on, they've grown in strength and confidence and now, at five days old, they are exploring the shed and even trying out Little Kim's food.

The video is all-too short and the quality a bit ropey - what do you expect from a secondhand mobile phone? - and the sound in the background is Little Kim enjoying her breakfast. Pigs may be amazing, but they have no table manners.

Eye eye

2010-08-14T01:16:00.002+01:00

"That's excellent," said the optician. "This is going to be a very quick eye test. Your sight is up to pilot's standard."

"Does that mean I'll be able to fly a plane after this?" said the pig farmer.

"Absolutely!"

"Funny, I couldn't before."

*drum roll* *cymbal* "Thank you, I'll be here all week, try the pork."

As it happens, my sight is degenerating. That's the bad news. The good news is that it's degenerating slower than it should be for my age.

I can't tell you how grateful I am to be a 49-year-old with the vision of someone aged 47.

After a good 40 minutes ("quick"!!) of lenses, computer read-outs, a strange thing that squirts air at your eye-ball, ever-so-slightly uncomfortable places to put your chin, the upshot seems to be that I need reading glasses.

I've ordered some of the half-lens thingies which will let me look sternly over the top of them should I hear something that displeases me, such as a failure of the hop crop, a drop in the price of pork or a new album by The Killers. I may even post photographic evidence.

About a boar

2010-08-06T22:10:00.005+01:00

The lad emerged from the trailer, snuffled around the paddock and went over to the fence to introduce himself to the four remaining porkers - all clearly very interested in the newcomer.

Our new boar arrived home this week and has already charmed us all. After much debate over his name - during which time the female members of the family firmly overruled any attempt by the pig farmer to call him Brian O'Driscoll, Derek Dougan, Robert Plant or Che Guevara - he's ended up as Alfie.

He's just over three months old, so won't be ready to 'work' for while yet, but he's a smasher and I'm chuffed to bits with him. I just hope he's as fertile as he's good-looking. ("Good-looking" as far as pigs go, that is).

Tatties

2010-08-01T16:36:00.002+01:00

It's been a slow year for the veg. Spring was cold right up until late April and even then the wind kept swinging back to the north, bringing a chill from Faroe, Iceland, even the Arctic.

And there hasn't been what you'd call a lot of rain, although we are a long way from being under drought conditions as some further south are.

The carrots are a good month behind schedule - let's hope the Autumn King variety lives up to its name - while the salad crops are in the process of bolting and the beetroot has been a virtual dead loss.

So it came as a whopping great relief this morning when I took a gamble and lifted the first potato plant of the year, finding a clutch of firm, pale cream tatties begging to be scraped and put in the pot.

That is where they are now, with the smell of roast pork filling the kitchen, our own cabbage in another pot, a few small neeps ready to be roasted alongside the joint and a handful of baby carrots, thinned out from the rest of the crop this afternoon. I love Sunday dinner.

We've the best part of two-thirds of an acre set over to potatoes and turnips, the hope being that there will be enough to feed us and to make a decent contribution to the pigs' feed as well.

Last year I planted 100kg of seed tatties by hand. Well, when I say I, I mean it was me, my son Will, stepson Pat and Sal's brother and sister-in-law Martin and Kathy, who were foolish enough to believe that a trip to Westray was in any way a holiday.

This year I planted about double the amount in a patch of the bottom field where the sows had spent most of last year. Well, when I say I, I mean Jimmy and Alistair from down the road did the ploughing, rotovating and allowed me to help with the actual planting, sitting behind the tractor on a precarious sort of stool affair above a sort of plough thingy and next to a tub for the potatoes and a chute to drop a tattie down every time the little bell on a wheel at the back rang.

The snag was, as Alistair advised me, that the bell often gets clogged up and won't ring. There was nothing for it but to take a leaf out of the Captain Mainwaring drill manual, so I was bumping along trying not to fall off while muttering: "One-two-three-plant-two-three-plant-two-three," and so on.

Still, the result is a lovely patch of dark green plants that have not yet, touch wood, succumbed to blight or mildew. And, of course, the pot of fresh new tatties that will go down a treat with a hint of salt and a little butter.

Anniversary

2010-07-30T04:40:00.006+01:00

Three years ago, pretty much to the day, a worn out sports reporter from the West Midlands stumbled his way onto a croft on the island of Westray, carrying some vague (VERY vague) ideas of making a better way of life.

I look back at that man and wonder what the hell he was thinking.

Still, more by luck than good judgement, I'm doing all right. The derelict, unloved farm we bought is now semi-derelict and much-loved. The Stoneyhall herd of Saddleback pigs is registered with the British Pig Association, my two big girls Molly and Kim continue to produce prime porkers, while Kim's daughter, Little Kim, is expecting to farrow for the first time on September 3, the day war broke out (and my parents' wedding anniversary, as it happens).

Westray Pork is available on a regular basis at Dounby Butchers on Orkney Mainland.
We've got chickens and ducks too - and before winter we'll have a decent roof on the house and maybe even a second bedroom.

So, late/early on this Friday morning with Arnold Layne seeping from the speakers, the pig farmer watches the light struggle to heave its way into the sky, and he's a happy man.

This has been no escape to "The Good Life". We're not the Tom and Barbara that I suspect may folk south who know us believe. I'm still the grumpy old cynic and I'd rather be a real farmer than a hippy, while the whole thing would never have worked had Sally not been happy (so she assures me) to carry on her career.

Nevertheless, there'll be pork in the freezer this winter, with tatties, swede, cabbage, carrots and leeks to go with it. I'm really quite proud of what we've achieved so far.

My great grandfather James Bews left a small Orkney farm in 1879 to seek his fortune in England. I can't help but wonder what he would have made of my occasionally ludicrous attempts at farming. I can only hope he would understand that I've finally found a place where I feel truly at home and where I plan to spend the rest of my days.

Incidentally: Kim is very much better, almost frisky by her standards. The ankle problem disappeared as quick as you could say "trip to abattoir". Quite who's fooling who I'm not sure, but the Wolf-pig will sort it out when he comes here next month.

Incidentally 2: I'm not suggesting that my parents' wedding had anything to do with Hitler's decision to invade Poland. . . that was more the result of an unwise bet at my great uncle Heinrich's 20th birthday party - we'll never hear the end of that.

Moll's hols

2010-07-04T18:56:00.001+01:00

I had a feeling it was a bad idea, but blundered on regardless. After all, Molly needed a good seeing to and I needed to make sure we had pigs ready to go to the butcher next spring. She was off to see the boar.

There had been a snag - quite a bit one. Garry's boar Boss's back legs had gone and he was off to the great pigsty in the sky. Gaz has shipped in a replacement, but he's less than a year old and the L-plates are still on, not to mention the fact he's a bit of a shortarse.

Still, we decided to give it a go - what could possibly go wrong?

Molly harumphed and grumped her way down to the ferry, drawing alarmed looks from tourists in the queue as my girl whiled away a few minutes banging at the walls of the trailer.

Later that evening I received a call from a weary-sounding Garry. Molly had arrived no problem. She'd gone into a paddock with the young boar and two other females. She picked a fight with the boar and then beat the living snot out of the two females.

Garry got her out into a paddock of her own, but she quickly broke out and waded in for round two. Somehow Garry broke things up again and doubled up the electric wire which seemed to do the trick.

So, Molly's over there on an extended holiday, enjoying the lovely views of Scapa Flow, Hoy and Graemsay from Garry's place and it looks very much like a wasted trip.

What she doesn't know is I have the wolf-pig lined up to put her in her place. That'll teach her.

Prestcombe Dinah 47 (Kim)

2010-07-03T08:49:00.005+01:00

Kim poked her nose out of her hut as she heard the gate into the top field rattle and the unmistakeable shake of sow nuts and barley in a bucket.

She eased herself out of the doorway, carefully put a front foot on the ground then decided she couldn't manage the second. She went down onto her knuckles and shuffled towards me.

I hurried over and put the food down. She tucked in - so clearly nothing wrong with the appetite. She quickly got back up to her feet and, as the morning wore on, she moved easier around her paddock, if still a little stiffly.

This has been going on for a couple of weeks and - if I'm honest - Kim hasn't been right since her last litter nearly a year ago. While the ground was soft it wasn't a problem, but we have had a long dry spell in Westray with cool northerly winds so the soil is packed hard as concrete.

The vet came by on the monthly tour of the island and gave Kim a thorough examination. The old girl was good as gold, but didn't really want anyone touching her ankles. The vet's diagnosis came as no surprise. Kim has arthritis, it's unlikely to get any better and she almost certainly won't be able to stand up to the strain of carrying and nursing piglets.

So the decision I've been putting off for several months now looks unavoidable. Kim's been a real pal and taught me more about pigs than anyone else. I'd love to keep her as a pet, but she's in pain so it's probably time to say goodbye.

Sometimes I hate farming.

Rogue male

2010-05-25T21:26:00.002+01:00

He knows, the clever little bastard.

Every time I turn a corner there he is, about three or four yards away, keeping one exceptionally beady eye on me, judging the distance perfectly, absolutely confident the pig farmer has neither the speed nor the agility to catch him.

He's the last of the holdouts, the Outlaw Josey Wales of the chicken world. If he had a middle digit he would undoubtedly raise it skyward in scorn at farmers in general and small-time pig farmers in particular.

Much as I loved having hens all over the place, they were becoming more numerous and a threat to our veg garden - not to mention the fact that there was chicken shit everywhere.

So I built a hen run next to the small stone building which until recently had been a winter pig house. I'm pretty pleased with it - it's got a gate and everything.

Biting down my terror of chickens, I grabbed hold of the 17 hens one by one and transferred them to their new quarters. Most seemed happy enough. That left the five cockerels.

Adam - the oldest of the bunch and as close to a nice guy as cockerels get - was tempted into the hen run and quickly settled in. I caught two of the young ones and pulled their necks. Another was allowed in with the hens and behaved himself well enough to earn a reprieve.

Which leaves us with Josey Wales.

Reckon I'm gonna need to round me up a posse.

What we did on our holidays

2010-05-19T08:12:00.003+01:00

"Have you remembered it's our wedding anniversary?" said Mrs Pig Farmer.

"Err. . . cannot tell a lie. . . no," I said. "But don't go getting all superior - it's 5.30 in the afternoon so you forgot too and the middle of traffic gridlock in Galway City Centre is no place to discuss this anyway."

"Good point. Happy anniversary."

"You too, now can we get the bloody hell out of here? It's like driving round Stoke."

It wasn't a holiday as such, we were in Ireland to meet up with Sal's brothers and say a final farewell to their parents at the Cliffs of Moher in County Clare.

As my brother-in-law Martin pointed out, his dad Ray was not one for the big romantic gestures - unless you count lifelong belief in the communist cause - so it had come as some surprise to find that his final wish was that his and Marion's ashes be scattered over the coastline of the west of Ireland.

I strongly suspect that the cliffs were a little different when they visited 20 years ago. The natural beauty and the spectacular seabird display remain, but the place is a tourist magnet with a whacking great car and coach park, underground restaurant and gift shop. Still lovely, but hard for someone used to solitude of Orkney to cope with. However, that wasn't the point - Ray and Marion's memories of the place are what mattered.

Sal and I scouted the location on Saturday and, at 2.30 in the afternoon, it was a heaving mass of humanity. Fearing the repercussions of a coachload of tourists from New Hampshire getting covered in communist remains, we got up there good and early the next day.

Sally, Martin, Alan and Steve went past the "Do not pass" sign, opened the end of the long cardboard box Mart had packed his mum and dad in and tipped them over the edge, wisely keeping their mouths shut as the onshore breeze ensured some ash, at least, was scattered inland.

"From here you can see the Atlantic, the Aran Islands and the Connemara mountains," said the fella, opening the patio door of the rented cottage with a flourish.

The pig farmer looked at the sea about three miles away and, shrugging off a moment of homesickness for Westray, made a valiantly polite attempt to appear impressed. He would have said something, but yer man was up and running. I'd completely forgotten how the Irish can talk - which is odd considering I have a Dublin-born mother who learned to talk some time in 1930 and has hardly paused for breath since.

We stayed in Doolin, a fine spot on the Clare coast with a couple of good pubs and boat trips out to Aran and the cliffs. But - and I never thought I'd say this about the west of Ireland - it was so busy. I reckon I've been spoiled.

We were in O'Connor's in Doolin. Outside the rain was hammering down and inside damp, unsmiling tourists were steaming nicely as they tried to decide whether or not they liked (a) Guinness and (b) traditional Irish music.

The pig farmer and friends were having no problem with (a), but (b) was leaving him a little cold. I like a little traditional music, the pipes especially, but you can't help but get the feeling in a lot of pubs that once the tourists have left, the locals breathe a sigh of relief, happily close the blinds and get out the karaoke machine.

"We have made very good progress," said the pilot, casually ignoring the fact that, thanks to the Icelandic volcano, we were the best part of a day late. "Such good progress that we have completed the journey in 45 minutes and Kirkwall airport isn't open yet."

Terrific. You finally arrive home and Orkney is shut.

Once the ground control team had finished their breakfast and we'd been on a sunshine tour of airspace above the islands, we landed to the most beautiful, warm day yet this year.

Later, kicking my heels around town, I noticed the Norwegian flag flying above the town hall. Things seem to have changed while I've been away.

Mrs Pig Farmer counts her blessings

2010-05-10T10:11:00.002+01:00

"Little Kim and the Wolf-pig have done the deed," said the pig farmer as he was handed a mid-morning cuppa.

"How do you know? Was he smoking a cigar?" said Mrs PF.

"No. She's got muddy footprints and slobber all over her back."

"Nice."

"Yeah. Just think yourself lucky."

New faces

2010-05-08T10:02:00.005+01:00

The last chords of Led Zep's Misty Mountain Hop died away and I heard the clicking of trotters on concrete behind me.

I removed the earphones and turned around to see a little ginger pig looking very hopefully at the bucket I was holding.

We had one of those "What the hell are you doing here? How the f**k did you get out?"-"Groink" conversations as I led her back to the shed, unbolted the barrier, put food on the floor and let her in. I tied a pallet to the barrier for extra height and bolted it back on.

Annie the Tamworth gilt is our latest acquisition, the hope being that she'll produce lots of little Tamworth/Saddleback cross piglets. Tamworths have a reputation for being lively - skittish even - and very vocal. On neither score does Annie disappoint. It's an interesting contrast with her room-mates, the laid-back Saddlebacks Martha, Aretha and Tina.

Four of our ducks have been sitting on eggs for a while now and yesterday, the most attentive of them hissed like hell at me when I went over to give her some food. Sure enough, there was just a glimpse of a couple of little yellow fluffy balls under her. I'll be making a duck nursery today.

And, finally, Dotty the mare - now with my stepdaughter Amy in Essex - had her foal this week. Touchstone Optimistic, a colt, arrived on Wednesday night and is big and healthy.

He's called Smarty Pants - that's going to take a bit of living down in the playground.

Here he is with Dotty and Amy.

The big, bad. . . pig?

2010-04-24T22:27:00.009+01:00

Chris pulled the door to his shed aside and what I'm reliably informed is a pig trundled out and strolled into my trailer.

I drove back the mile or so home and had a proper look at the fella from the safety of outside the trailer. I peered in and found a face peering back at me. Not just any face, but. . . well, this. . .

Apologies for the lack of quality, but Ifor Williams rarely fit their otherwise excellent pig trailers with studio lighting.

And I was a bit scared.

What (or who) came to mind was the great Lon Chaney junior, star of the 1941 film The Wolfman.
I'm right, am I not?

"Blimey," I thought. "Little Kim's not going to be happy."

Little Kim is the best part of two years old and has yet to have a litter. She's about a year late starting working, but she's kind of a pet, Molly and Kim have been adequate for our needs so far and the pig farmer couldn't organise a smoothie in a juice bar.

So the Tamworth boar from up the road has been called in. As it happens, he seems amiable enough, but Little Kim wasn't having any of it.

First she tried a head-to-head confrontation, leaving himself with a cut behind the ear and Little Kim with scratches and a nick on her leg. Since then they've been mostly avoiding each other and are in separate beds, a state of affairs that will probably go on until she comes into season.

I'm just popping out to check if there's a full moon.

Seconds out

2010-04-19T16:01:00.002+01:00

It all started so well. I was up out of bed at 7 o'clock sharp (why sharp?) in a particularly good mood, washed, dressed in my best going-tae-the-toon clothes and ready for a day out.

Coffee and toast made and consumed, I loaded up a bucket with barley and tatties and went to see the sows. At this point things started to unravel.

The first sign that something was wrong was that Little Kim was where Molly should have been. She was snuffling around the hut while Molly cowered inside. Then I noticed a loose strand of electric fence wire. . . and a couple of broken plastic fence posts. . . and a twisted section of stock fencing.

I put some food on the ground (in two separate places - sows aren't good at sharing) and the girls tucked in. Then I spotted the blood on Little Kim's ears. And on her cheeks. And on her back. Molly had a cut on her ham and scratches on her face.

You didn't have to be Sherlock Pig Farmer to work out that Little Kim had bust her way through a line of electric wire, a stock fence and - from the lacerations on her back - a barbed wire fence. The lengths some people will go to to start a ruck.

With only 15 minutes until the ferry left for town, the day out was abandoned, purple spray was liberally applied and the rest of the morning spent repairing fencing and adding extra security measures.

I'm now going to Kirkwall on Wednesday. . . possibly.

Cough please

2010-04-03T20:20:00.004+01:00

It wasn't a terrific day for Merlin the pony and the pig farmer found himself surprised that he had quite a bit of sympathy for the croft's cockiest and, at times, most troublesome resident.

Merlin is not what you'd call a prime specimen. . . hardly in the class of a Badminton winner or a Gold Cup contender. Come to think of it, there are donkeys on Blackpool beach that compare favourably.

Not only has the lad got short, fat, hairy legs, but he has a pronounced "underbite". His bottom jaw sticks out so that his teeth don't line up. This means, as horses' teeth keep growing, the two sets don't wear each other down.

So the vet - out from Mainland on his monthly tour of Westray - came to call, brandishing a large file. Merlin was good as gold at first and vet and Mrs Pig Farmer were able to cope comfortably. However, Merlin finally decided enough was enough and started playing his face.

"We need to hold him in the corner," said the vet. "Do you happen to know any fat bastards?"

A fat bastard was humming along to The Undertones' Here Comes The Summer while he did some repairs to a pig shed which has had a hard winter. Summoned to help a damsel and a big hairy vet in distress, he shoved Merlin into the corner, leant over him and pressed him to the wall while trying not to wince as the filing continued noisily.

Job done, there was one final conversation - will gelding him (Merlin, not the fat bastard. . . or the vet) improve his behaviour. See? I told you it was a bad day for him.

"Probably," was the answer. The fat bastard squirmed in sympathy as Merlin had a thorough examination.

I daresay there are places where you can pay good money to have your bollocks squeezed by a 6ft 7in Scotsman with a beard, but it's not my thing and it's certainly not Merlin's.

The vet departed with a promise to send us an estimate for the job. I'm finding it hard to remain objective and, just for once, I'm standing shoulder-to-shoulder (in reality shoulder-to-knee) with Merlin on this one.

I'll play the joker

2010-04-01T00:14:00.004+01:00

The back of Geordie's old lorry was tipped up about as much as it was going to go without removing the roof of Marcus's nice new shed, but about a quarter of the barley was refusing to budge.

The pig farmer happened to wander in at that moment, seeking a minor favour.

"Malcolm's young and athletic," said Marcus with a remarkably straight face, "maybe he can help."

So it was that 15stone of pig farmer, shovel in one hand, rope in the other, was slithering up and down the virtually grip-free floor of the back of lorry, set at 45 degrees. Having landed on my arse several times, I managed to reach base camp and, with a few shoves of the. . .err. . . shovel, dislodged the recalcitrant grain.

As I swept the last out (Marcus hates waste) I was reminded of two sounds - Stuart Hall's laughter and the click of a Health and Safety Officer's red pen.

Charmed, I'm sure

2010-03-12T00:49:00.006Z

Mrs Pig Farmer fixed me with a "what-the-bloody-hell's-he-on-about-now?" expression and said: "Come again?"

"Nobody says 'how do you do?' any more."

"You mean 'howdyado'?"

"No, the full 'how do you do?', preferably in the manner of a late 1940s British matinee, while raising a hat."

"You've got a hat."

"I don't think a grubby woollen hat counts. I was thinking more along the lines of a trilby. . . a tweedy one. . . who was it who wore one?. . . Harry Worth! I just think the world would be a better place if everyone said 'how do you do?' once in a while."

"Are you all right?"

"You mean, how am I doing?"

"Bugger off."

Radio 7 are rerunning an old Harry Worth series - sadly it hasn't aged well.

The pig masseur

2010-03-09T18:49:00.004Z

Pete the pig let out a sigh of contentment, let his back legs slowly sag and lowered himself into a sitting position - on my left foot.

I wondered whether to stop scratching his back, but it was kind of peaceful. Westray was bathed in warm sunlight, birds were singing, daffodil heads showing for the first time, the sea looking good enough to swim in.

So, ignoring the numbness creeping around my left toes, I gave him a tickle behind the ears and, as he rolled over onto his side, a good rub on his belly. I've never had a proper professional massage, but I like to imagine the bloke's version (Turkish? Finnish?) is a bit like going to an old-fashioned barber.

"And how would sir like it today?"

"Groink."

"No problem, did you see the football last night?"

Or something like that.

Pete finally got up and I led him back into the main pigshed where he was reunited with his brothers. I was supposed to be sorting the lads out with the biggest three due to go for slaughter today. It wasn't at all easy with quite a bit of scrapping going on, while Haka tried to mount everything as if the future of the species depended on it.

Pete was easily the biggest, but he was also the quietest and most easy-going, making no attempt to molest his brothers and generally minding his own business.

Trying hard to ignore the alarming sight of Haka with a whopping great erection heading for me, I lifted the barrier, shook the feed bucket and got Giorgios, Boss Junior and Haka (a late replacement for Pete) through, quickly slamming the barrier down to stop Pete and Tip following.

A little feed on the trailer ramp got the lads heading in the right direction, but Haka had a sudden change of mind, decided he needed to give Pete another seeing-to and jumped the wall back into the pen, getting stuck halfway.

The pig farmer made a grab for his back legs and got a handful of tail, at least I hope it was tail - he didn't squeak anyway. And there we were, a pig balanced on the wall and a pig farmer with not enough grip to pull him back. After a few quiet moments, I let go and he scrambled back over.

A little later I repeated the process, this time making sure I was behind Haka, gently shoving him onto the trailer in a "pig farmer ain't gonna take that kind of crap again" way.

Back in the shed, Pete was snuffling through some cabbage leaves, blissfully unaware how a little bonding over a back-rub had earned him an extra month.

Pony trotting

2010-02-27T22:29:00.004Z

I rarely run. I don't really see the point and never have - even in the days when I turned out for various incompetent rugby and hockey sides. A brisk stroll from scrum to line-out is all the exercise a man needs.

So it came as some surprise to find myself hubba-hubbaing up Westray's main road in wellies and padded boiler suit, puffing, wheezing, hoping the heart attack would decide not to arrive at this particular moment.

Our Shetland ponies, Teddy and Merlin, have been a little fidgety since Dotty the mare left. They were jumpy as I led them out of the bottom field, across the road and into our lane.

I noticed Merlin's headcollar was loose, made the mistake of trying to sort it out one-handed and he wriggled out of the thing altogether and took off up the road. It wasn't the best time to find out that the clip on Ted's lead rope had broken. He headed north as well, a breathless pig farmer in pursuit.

The lads headed half-a-mile up the road where they met our neighbour Chris. He parked across the road and herded the boys onto a track. The track led over the spine of the island. The pig farmer collapsed into the passenger seat of Chris's car and (with scant regard for the vehicle's undercarriage) we set off in pursuit.

Relieved not to be stuck in mud at some point, we found the boys socialising with Hannah's (another neighbour) horse. Chris blocked the exit while the lads and I had a frank discussion about lead ropes, running away, the pig farmer's knees and suchlike.

Securely tethered, the boys followed me the mile or so home and I was quietly satisfied to see both looking pretty knackered by the time I led them into the stable.

I managed to keep it together until I collapsed in the kitchen, hand reaching out for a reviving mug of tea.

Sunshine on Westray

2010-02-21T23:47:00.002Z

It was a beautiful day in Westray today, even allowing for that Orkney rarity, a hard frost. The sun shone and what snow showers there were passed to the south-west and east.

Molly the sow, now painfully thin after feeding 13 piglets for eight weeks, was more than relieved to be moved to her own pen. I kept an eye on the little ones for much of the afternoon, but they seemed unfazed by the sudden departure of their mum/milk ration.

Molly will now have a few weeks of rest and food, then, once she's back to fighting weight we'll see if The Boss has a window in his diary and the whole thing starts again. It seems like a hard life for the old girl, but she thrives when she is in-pig and a sow at the top of her game should be able to produce two litters a year.

Away from the pigshed Sally and I enjoyed tea and cake on the patio, watching the sunshine shimmer on the sea between Westray and Rousay, chatting about the extension we will get built this year, working out who the occasional passers-by were before admitting it was a bit chilly and seeking the warmth of the kitchen.

Later I went through one of my favourite annual rituals. Unlike previous years where I've spent hours poring over catalogues, we put a list together and did the whole thing on line, Sal persuading me to try some new ones (bok choi) and some that haven't worked for the last couple of years (parsnips).

She'd obviously been doing some research as my Wolverhampton-born-and-bred wife had left in the Google search box 'how to grow yam'. She wonders why I laugh.

The Barnet

2010-02-13T09:53:00.004Z

The scissors gave a tug and my head jerked to one side. I suppressed urge to cry out, felt my heart sink, closed my eyes and prepared for the worst.

I hadn't had my hair cut for more than four months and it was a little wild - somewhere between Marge Simpson and Mel 'Braveheart' Gibson. Not really a problem when you live on a small island where nobody seems that impressed by the cut of your clothes or your hair, but when you feel it pushing the hat off your head, steps must be taken.

I was visiting Kirkwall and booked myself in at the hairdressers where Sal gets her locks seen to. It was 10am, I hadn't had any tea or toast and I wasn't feeling exactly communicative. I don't like going to have my hair cut - any length of time staring at my face is very disturbing, just ask Mrs Pig Farmer - and I'm not keen on small talk that early in the day. Maybe that counted against me.

The hairdresser (for want of a better description) approached my head like it was a bomb about to go off. I'm not sure she'd ever cut a man's hair before. I'm not sure she knew that sharp scissors are available in many good shops. I think she might have wandered in off the street and fancied a go. Barbering. . . how hard can it be?

I gave clear instructions (half-an-inch on the sides, a little longer on top, tapered at the back) and she dived in. The trouble is with a bad haircut is you can't exactly stand up halfway through and storm out, especially if you're in a town that has no such thing as a walk-in barber's shop you can run to to repair the damage.

So I'm left with hair short at the back, several different lengths on top and wierd wispy bits that I'm having to tuck behind my ears to stop me looking completely insane.

I shall be on the phone later to Lauren, who runs a hairdressing business in Westray, to arrange a repair job, at the same time apologising for not going to her in the first place.

UPDATE: My brother-in-law Mart has asked for pictures. I'm a little reluctant to reveal the full horror, but in the interests of openness. . .

. . . looking good, I think you'll agree.

Essex girl

2010-02-10T22:35:00.003Z

Dotty the mare (pictured, left) let out one last - very loud - whinny, disappeared over the brow of the hill and was gone.

At the fourth attempt, Dotty has set off for her new home in Essex where she will be cared for by my stepdaughter Amy. Bad weather prevented her travelling on the ferry to Aberdeen for two weeks, then the lack of a trailer left her kicking her hooves at our place for another week.

Everything finally came together today and, surprisingly considering our somewhat fiery relationship, she was good as gold. She was happy to let me give her a rubdown and put a light travelling rug on. Then she hesitated only briefly before trotting calmly into the horsebox.

Regular readers (Mr and Mrs Wainwright) will remember Dotty and I have a love-hate relationship. I hate dealing with her and she loves to make my life difficult.

I put it down to the Irish temperament - you can take the girl out of South Armagh, but you can't take South Armagh out of the girl. This morning, for instance, I was walking her out to the field when Little Kim came harumphing out her pighut, ready for breakfast.

This happens every day and has done for the last four or five months and Dotty never pays the least attention. Today, she decided she was scared of pigs and came to a standstill, nostrils flared, eyes ablaze, before turning round and making for the stable again with pig farmer in tow.

It took a couple of carrots and an armful of haylage to calm the nerves (Dotty's, not mine) and the second attempt proved more successful - Little Kim being busy inspecting the mud in the far corner of her paddock.

The whole episode summed up our relationship - a concerted power struggle involving stubbornness, bloody-mindedness and moments of genuine terror.

Nevertheless, I'm going to miss her and - considering she's due to give birth to "a future Badminton winner" in May - glad she'll be in far more competant hands than mine.

Round-up

2010-02-04T18:14:00.001Z

I lay on my back in the mud and reflected that I hadn't had an afternoon like this for some considerable time.

I hadn't missed it a bit.

Mid-afternoon I'd discovered that Haka the pig (he's all-black) had decided the nice stone building to which I'd moved him and his brothers wasn't quite like home so - no doubt whistling the Great Escape theme - he had bust through the electric fence and returned to the main pigshed where he was busy saying hello through the barriers to his sisters and to Molly's piglets.

I got the feed bucket out and tried tempting him out. It was only a partial success and, after half-an-hour, we'd made it about three feet down the alley between the buildings.

At this point Haka had second (or third) thoughts, turned round and skidaddled back inside and to square one. I tried again and spent another 15 minutes or so trying to shift the stubborn little sod.

Pat came out to help and, at about the 14th attempt, we got Haka to within a couple of yards of where he should have been, only for him to turn round and attempt to make a break for it. At which point I did the wrong thing, let frustration take over and grabbed him by the front feet. He wriggled a lot and managed to knock me over backwards.

So there I lay, hoping the dampness seeping through the layers to my bum cheeks was just water. I took time to tell myself off for skiving out of bucket training, took a deep breath and we decided to leave the lad in the pigshed, hastily throwing up a quick barrier to keep him in.

Bucket training starts in the morning.

Briefly. . .

2010-02-04T12:06:00.003Z

It was a lovely day yesterday.

But some on the farm chose to sleep in.

Jarvis Cockerel

2010-02-01T23:09:00.002Z

The old stager and the young pretender stood head-to-head, then circled cautiously, beady eyes locked on their opponent.

The older fella started deliberate dancing moves in and out while his rival - his son - made fluid steps to one side, then the other.

Both fluffed their neck feathers out, crowed silently. . . and started knocking seven bells out of each other. There was blood and, if cockerels have snot and saliva, there was that too.

We have been building up to the big fight between Adam and his lad Jarvis for some time; both have been strutting around like David Cameron on one of his more obnoxious days for some time. It was just unfortunate that the showdown should be in the middle of the pen occupied by Molly and the piglets.

Not that they were bothered. Moll had her head firmly in the feed bucket, while the piglets, having taken to solids with some gusto over the last couple of weeks, were equally oblivious.

The pig farmer wandered over to break it up before things got out of hand, deciding at the same time that a transfer for both birds was long overdue.

Neighbours had agreed to have Jarvis so I fished out an old cat box and started stalking the boy. I have partly overcome my chicken phobia after sending three younger cockerels to meet their maker last week, but I still need to wear gloves to pick them up (feel free to point and laugh).

A little barley was put on the floor and as the chickens gathered around, I positioned myself behind Jarvis who promptly proved to be not as daft as he looks by edging around to the other side of the group as I reached out to catch him.

Half-an-hour later patience was wearing thin and something of a chase ensued, Jarvis moving effortlessly and gracefully around the pigshed, the pig farmer tumbling over gates and walls, tripping over buckets and getting covered in fertiliser futures.

As Jarvis popped out into the veg garden I remembered an important rule of mine: if rounding up and animal starts to resemble a Benny Hill sketch, give up and have a cup of tea.

That was yesterday. I finally got my man today, Jarvis dropping his guard while I pretended to be sorting out bedding for the pigs. He was stuffed into catbox and driven round to the neighbours where he immediately got into a fight with two other cockerels.

I hope he's all right.

Cockerel cowardice

2010-01-21T00:36:00.003Z

OK, I admit it, I'm a big, fat Jessie; a cowardy custard of the deepest shade of yellow.

We have far too many cockerels and a cull is long overdue, but I'm finding all sorts of reasons not to do the deed.

I don't know if it's because I'm soft. It's certainly not because I like them. With the obvious exception of Adam and Jarvis - who both seem secure enough in their status to be relatively easy-going - they are total bastards.

Five of the younger ones are especially deserving of a well-wrung neck. They have teamed up and now go about the place gang-raping any hen unfortunate enough to cross their path. I've got to do something, but I'm finding all sorts of excuses not to.

I've always been scared of chickens, so just picking one up is an achievement. I managed it today. I stood quietly behind him as he pecked at a few grains and quickly lifted him up. I should then have pulled his neck, but he looked at me, I looked at him and put him down.

Pathetic.

The piglets are growing fast, just as their mum is shedding weight - lots of it. Poor Molly always struggles when nursing piglets; her backbone is sticking up and she is more grey and white than black and white.

Feeding her reminds me of shovelling coal into the Flying Scotsman at top speed. She's getting between 15 and 20lb of feed a day, but still can't seem to get enough.

The good news for Molly is that I'll wean the piglets as soon as possible - in a couple of weeks when they are six weeks old and she can get some well-deserved rest.

Cabin pressure

2010-01-15T13:49:00.007Z

"We are currently about 30 miles south of Wick and will soon begin our descent to Kirkwall. The knocking sound you can hear on the fuselage is ice coming off the propellers. The aircraft body there is triple thickness so there is no need to worry, this is perfectly normal."

The pig farmer removed his nose from his book, having been previously oblivious to any knocking sounds, perfectly normal or otherwise.

The descent was on the bumpy side, but no worse than the bus ride from Edinbirgh city centre out to the airport.

The landing, however, was way more interesting. A 40mph south-easterly with 60mph gusts meant we had to swing over West Mainland and head in to the airport over Kirkwall town, the pilot taking us in almost sideways before straightening up only a few feet above the ground.

As a rule, I'm neither a nervous flyer nor a religious man, but there was a brief "if you're up there" moment before wheels made contact with tarmac.

As we left the plane the pilot emerged from the cockpit looking for all the world as if he does this sort of thing every day. . . which I suppose he does.

Pure gold

2010-01-13T11:41:00.005Z

The bubbles settled to form a precise, quarter-inch head. The rest of the pint was a pale gold with the sparkling clarity of a Highland stream.

I gazed at it for a few seconds, revelling in the anticipation of the drink to come. It was a thing of beauty.

The pig farmer had settled himself down in Edinburgh's Oxford Bar and, it being mid-afternoon, he was one of three customers in the place and the only one sat on a stool in the front bar.

The Oxford is five minutes from Princes Street and has become relatively famous thanks to Ian Rankin's crime novels. It's the favoured watering hole of both Rankin and his fictional DI John Rebus, but trades solely on its excellence as a traditional pub.

I swopped smalltalk on the snow, the absence of tourists (pig farmer excepted) and Hibs' chances of winning their first Scottish Cup in 108 years with the barman before turning back to the pint.

Cool, but not cold, fresh, slightly malty. Deuchars IPA is an ordinary pint made extraordinary when it is served properly.

I love the Oxford Bar.

Sleigh bells and sandwiches

2010-01-06T21:59:00.002Z

Mrs Pig Farmer was off to Edinburgh and she had plans. "We can go out on the Sunday and have a picnic," she said, happily ignoring all relevant weather forecasts.

Oh deary me. Don't you just love an optimist?

Sal is training for a new role at work and that involves three of four sessions of a week or so at Edinburgh University. She travelled down on Monday and I'm joining her on Friday.

It'll be just the thing as I've not been at my best since Hogmanay.

Maybe it's the sight of David Cameron prancing around like he's already in charge without going to the trouble of asking us if it's all right.

Maybe it's the knowledge that I'm never likely to have a sporting year as good as 2009 (Ireland's rugby Grand Slam, Wolves' promotion to the Premier League, Wolves speedway team winning their league, the pig farmer beating his son at pool).

Or maybe it's just lingering disappointment at a 48th consecutive Christmas where I didn't get Scalextric.

So I'm packing my bags - or I will once my freshly-Dazzed undies have stopped steaming on the radiators. At least, I hope that's steam, you know what they say about pants on fire and nobody likes singeing around the gentleman's zone.

Tomorrow I depart on the 8.55am ferry to Kirkwall where my wonky knee (now pretty much numb thanks to Dr Karl's painkillers) will be examined. Once the team of experts from the Mainland have taken the scaffolding down, the day is pretty much my own. I will probably spend it window shopping for power tools. How times have changed.

Assuming I'm not snowed in, I'll be on the Friday lunchtime flight to Edinburgh where The Boy has bought tickets for Saturday's Scottish Cup tie between Hibs and Irvine Meadow, who appear to be a North Ayrshire Sunday League side whose name got into the bag for the draw by accident. Even Hibs can't mess this one up.

Some old mates are escaping from England (snow permitting) for a couple of days of light refreshment in some of Edinburgh's finest tearooms next week, but first I have to get Sunday's trip out of the way.

I'll get the snow shoes and a Thermos.

Phone a friend

2010-01-02T23:10:00.003Z

It was 9.33pm and the phone rang. The pig farmer muttered something along the lines of "who's this and don't they know I've just opened a beer?"

"Hi Malc, it's Corinne," said Corinne.

"Oh hello, how are you?" replied the pig farmer, trying to remember the last time Sal's niece had rung him and coming up with "never before".

"We're fine. Happy New Year."

"And the same to you. How's little Henry and is your Dad upright yet?" said the pig farmer, settling in for a chat.

"Henry's great and Dad'll be fine once we get him a milky drink and tuck him up in bed. Can you tell me the names of the Ramones?"

"You're in a quiz, right?"

"Yep."

"Johnny, Joey, Deedee and Tommy - although you could also have Marky, Richie, CJ* and Elvis," said the pig farmer, going for the irritating, know-it-all extra bit of information as they do on that loathsome Eggheads show.

That's the trouble with being educated at a very moderate private school. You come out ill-equipped to deal with life's real challenges, but you're a demon in a pub quiz. Still, if it means you can help out family members in their moment of need, fair enough.

* He was the one who didn't get where he is today without wearing leather jackets, sneakers and shouting "Gabba gabba hey!"

Today I plan to tie my own shoelaces

2009-12-31T09:02:00.008Z

Seriously. The pig farmer's comedy knee is up to its old tricks and, in football parlance, I'm sidelined.

Mick McCarthy's plans to reshuffle the Wolves' back four and Ireland's defence of rugby's Six Nations championship are being rethought as I write.

The knee had been growling at me for some weeks, never quite wanting to bend as far as I wanted it to.

Then the horses got out. The pig farmer, in an act of extreme stupidity, didn't bolt the gate quite firmly enough last Sunday and the next thing we knew our neighbour June was on the phone asking if we'd mislaid any livestock.

Rounding them up was the usual sorry sequence of running about, tripping over and general incompetence - hard on the knee and, sure enough, later that night it was up like a balloon and throbbing gruesomely.

The following day I was banished/helped to the sofa, Mrs Pig Farmer threatening me with dire consequences should I try to do anything around the farm. Still, regular cups of tea, full remote control privileges, a tin of Quality Street and a good book made the whole situation bearable.

I finally made it down to see Dr Karl who gave me that "we've been here before, haven't we?" expression, got me some industrial strength painkillers and promised to fix me an x-ray just as soon as I'm strong enough to get to Kirkwall.

So, now I'm down to the toffees and coffee creams/cremes (does anyone really like coffee chocolates?), I've started Magnus Magnusson's history of Scotland (fill in the next bit yourself), wondered what would happen to the BBC if David Tennant was killed in a car accident, watched Wolves concede five goals without scoring one over 180 minutes and fretted about the piglets.

Although they seem to be getting along just fine without me.

And, Mick, I'll let you know just as soon as I'm fit again. Anywhere across the back four will be fine.

Cum On Feel The Noize

2009-12-25T15:54:00.003Z

Christmas just isn't Christmas without a bit of Slade - not in our house anyway.

But rather than put up Merry Christmas as last year, here are the lads in all their magnificence with THIS absolute nugget from the early 70s when Wolves were winning the League Cup and getting to UEFA Cup finals.

Dave Hill had just been to the souvenir shop at the Tutenkhamun exhibition.

Happy Christmas again.

Ho ho ho

2009-12-24T19:04:00.002Z

"What do you fancy doing on Christmas Day," asked the pig farmer, imagining long, atmospheric walks along lonely Westray beaches, mulled wine in front of the fire and a dinner from the pages of Dickens.

"Well," said Mrs Pig Farmer, after some thought. "I was thinking about eating as much food as I can fit in and getting shit-faced."

I love it when we have a plan.

Happy Christmas everyone.

Patented Odour Elimination Technology - it says here

2009-12-21T14:32:00.003Z

Owen the nice-but-dim collie-spaniel cross loves the beach. He likes nothing better than to chase stones the pig farmer sends skipping across the shallows. In Owen's world, a walk just isn't a walk unless it involves a trip to the seaside.

So, after a few days confined to the farm because of poor weather and the pig farmer's busy schedule (really), Owen was delighted to get down to the wide expanses of Tuquoy Bay.

Stones were thrown, splashing was made, tail was wagged manically - life was good.

We turned to go back and were 20yd from the car when the day took a turn for the whiffy. Owen found something long dead and deeply unpleasant. What's a boy to do? That's right, roll in the bloody thing.

I hurried the lad back to the car, stuffed him in the back with the two terriers and - a green fug rapidly filling the car - set off for home, a little under two miles away.

After a couple of years dealing with pigs, chickens and ducks, the pig farmer is used to all kinds of nasty smells, but as I turned onto the island's main road I was weeping like an England footballer while desperately suppressing the gag reflex.

Back at Pig Towers, Owen was puzzled and disappointed to be left outside while I went in to warn Mrs Pig Farmer. A bath with Dettol was run, special dog shampoo was dug out from the back of a cupboard and the lad was led in.

He was remarkably good as I soaped him down from head to toe - twice. Wash, rinse, repeat. He emerged from the tub a little subdued, but lovely and fluffy. Seriously girls, if you want to add body then I can't recommend Bob Martins highly enough.

The trouble was, he still stank. Another bath seemed way too much trouble, so Mrs PF had a rummage under the sink and found just the thing.

Has anyone else's dog ever been dosed in Febreze?

The Steenyha' Stench forces Westray residents to take desperate measures

Unlucky for some?

2009-12-18T02:31:00.005Z

I'm not a superstitious man, so I'm not worried in the slightest that Molly has just produced 13 piglets.

You have to hand it to pigs, they make next-to-no fuss about the whole giving birth thing. Maybe they're just better designed than humans.

I checked Molly about 10.30pm at which point she was only too happy to tuck into a snack of raw tatties. A further inspection at 1.15am revealed six piglets already getting stuck in to the milk and an hour later Molly had fired out another seven.

The pig "farmer" fussed around with warm water, Dettol and towels. I tried steering the piglets towards the teats, but gave up when it became apparent they were finding them quicker when I left well alone.

So now it's coffee, a very quiet kitchen, half-hourly checks and wondering how Molly's going to cope when they're a bit bigger.

Horse

2009-12-15T23:38:00.006Z

I'm never too sure whether I like horses. Of all the animals on the "farm", horses are the ones I haven't really got the hang of.

I'm always painfully aware that the whole human-horse relationship is based on nature's most gigantic confidence trick. Horses are big (even the small ones) and, by and large, pretty strong. People tend to be much smaller and less powerful, especially, it would seem, in the case of those who ride horses. You don't see many jockeys playing prop for Harlequins on their days off, do you?

That's why I struggle to like and respect horses. If they had the brains of, say, a pig or a Jack Russell, they'd probably be standing for Parliament by now. . . well, county council at least.

Another reason I'm iffy about horses is that they're unpredictable. Dotty the mare is from the darkest bandit country of South Armagh, which probably explains a lot. All those late-night raids by the SAS can fray the nerves of the strongest among us. Why they can't turn up at a reasonable hour (11am for coffee, perhaps?) is beyond me.

Anyhoo. . . Dotty's also in foal, which explains even more, but only up to a point. I recall ex-Mrs Malc being a tad on the kranky side while pregnant, but she never tried to remove my head with a well-aimed hoof. Maybe she just never thought of it.

All the old goalkeeper* reflexes have come in handy just lately, especially at dusk (about 3.45 here at present) when Dotty is in a hurry to get at the dinner-pail.

I quickly realised that chasing her wasn't going to work, even if my knees had been up to it. Stalking her proved to be a pain in the rear and gentle persuasion was a dismal failure. We have a professional horseperson in the family and Amy even tried to talk me through it over the phone in the manner of a 70s disaster movie. "Use the bridle, show her who's in charge," she said. "If I can get f**king close enough, and she knows exactly who's in charge," I thought.

Yesterday, in a change of routine, she gave up trying to kick me with her back feet and tried bucking and rearing in the style of Champion the Wonderhorse, alerting the townsfolk to a landslide in the pass.

"What's up Champion? Is there trouble down at Broken Wheel Ranch?"

"No, I'm just worried those two shortarse Shetlands will get to my tea before me."

I then pulled my masterstroke. Bribery. A quick visit to the veg garden later, carrots were handed over, bridle was applied and the pig "farmer" was leading herself in like he knew what he was doing.

You never have this kind of trouble with pigs.

* Shrewsbury hockey club 3rd XI 1982.

Dotty and Amy in action before some big competition winner had his way with her (Dotty)

High eggs-citement

2009-12-03T21:23:00.002Z

So the barn needed reorganising and that involved moving a stack of about 50 bales from the dampish bit near the door to a drier area and making the whole thing a bit neater.

I'm on my own at the moment with Sal and Pat currently south on their pre-Christmas visit, but no problem. I reckoned on a couple of hours and the exercise would be good for me. Bob the hen seemed very interested in the proceedings.

The first dozen or so came from the top and round the edges - easy. The next few proved a little more difficult. I was trying to avoid using a ladder and that involved gently moving bales out from the side of the stack.

You can see what's coming - I find it hard to believe I didn't.

I shifted the wrong bale, looked up to see the edifice tottering, cried "oh bollocks!" and stepped aside smartly as bales bounced to earth around me.

And there, right in the middle of the chaos, was a bale with a pale brown egg sitting on it. Bob, from the safety of the stable door, looked quite pleased with herself.

Words eaten

2009-12-01T03:03:00.003Z

Credit where it's due - part 1.

A couple of weeks ago I lampooned Orkney Council for giving us wheelie bins along with instructions on how to make sure they would never wheelie again.

But this evening I spent 20 minutes sorting out cans, bottles and plastic into different coloured bags, ready for Westray's first collection of recyclable stuff. It's a big step forward, I believe, and I'm happy to do my bit to make it a success.

Still don't get the wheelie bin thing, but there you go.

Credit where it's due - part 2

I'm still sore after Ireland's scandalous elimination from next year's World Cup by the "hand of Frog", but that didn't stop me from sitting back and marvelling at Barcelona's (Henry and all) 1-0 win over Real Madrid.

It was a breathtaking game that I just didn't want it to end. It was almost perfect. When football is played like that it's so much more than a game - it's art.

Vehicles

2009-11-29T20:57:00.005Z

I've always disliked cars. I've driven any number of them and, in my previous life, spent many years charging around the country, eating up thousands of miles in pursuit of men (and occasionally women) playing silly games.

But I've never ceased to hold them in contempt - ride a motorcycle for five minutes and you'll know why - and now they're getting their own back.

Mrs Pig "Farmer" has bought herself a Vauxhall Corsa for her work in Kirkwall which means the family workhorse - an eight-year-old Astra estate - has been put into semi-retirement with me in Westray. That's just as well considering Lennox the Land Rover* (big, black, way past his best, but you still wouldn't pick a fight) has become electrically challenged. Alternators don't half smell when they burn out.

So the Astra, which can comfortably fit half-a-dozen bales or 20 bags of pig feed in the back, was useful. At least it was useful until it refused to start the other morning. I should have read the signs. It had been a little reluctant to get going for a couple of weeks and had twice needed the jump leads, but I reckoned it'd been wet and cold.

I retrieved the £300 Ford Fiesta which is our last resort - an "isles car" too decrepit to venture off Westray. It started first time, but wouldn't jump start the Astra which, along with Lennox was blocking it in at the side of the barn. And the Fiesta had next-to-no fuel in it.

Bugger.

Have you any idea how heavy a diesel Astra is, especially if you're pushing it by yourself and trying to steer at the same time. . . and you hit a slight gradient?

I'm not as young as I once was.

I got the thing out of the way just enough for the Fiesta to squeeze past, cadged a lift into the village for a can of petrol, returned home, got a duck out of the freezer, started the Fiesta, made sure nothing (else) had fallen off it and nipped round to our neighbours.

Long story slightly shorter: Tommy reckons the battery on the Astra is banjaxed, while the Land Rover is. . . well, where to start? Both are now being attended to by someone who knows what they're doing.

I hate cars.

* Lennox is one of the few cars I have any regard for, especially since 'the incident' with the burst tyre and the concrete post.

The bonnie bonnie banks of. . .

2009-11-26T23:54:00.002Z

Can pigs swim? I dunno, but we nearly found out today.

We've finally paid the price of feeling a bit smug about the relatively kind weather this November here in the far North.

Pig "farmer" and wife were on Mainland last night and it hammered it down with real ferocity. With a couple of pints of Scapa Special and a homemade pizza on board, a cosy bed and a good book, I didn't really give it much thought.

Then, as I blearily made my way onto the 7.20am ferry back to Westray I had a call. "Malc, we're flooded out," said my stepson Pat, never one to understate a case. I feared the worst when he met me at the boat (he and Sal are heading south for a couple of weeks) and handed me a pair of wellies.

Sure enough, we weren't flooded out, but it was bloody wet. Loch Steenyha' had formed in the top field (one of the highest points on the farm), pouring water into a delta near the pigshed, which in turn sent a steady flow down past the barn onto the lane towards the main road and - in the long run - the Atlantic.

After a quick coffee and a think, I checked the horses and the pigs in the shed before having a quick look out to the back where Molly and Little Kim are lodged. Molly was up to her shoulders in mud as she sent frantic "breakfast" signals in my direction while Little Kim was peering out of a hut which appeared to have developed a moat overnight.

I gathered feed bucket, dry bedding and a trenching shovel and having checked the insides of the huts were dry I set about digging a few small drainage channels to move the water away. Not having thought it through, I quickly found myself up to my ankles and being reminded that the stitching on the side of my left boot has given way.

I squelched back through the Rio Steeny, gave extra helpings of hay to the horses who were not at all happy to find themselves confined to quarters, and went in to steam gently in front of the fire.

I could be worse. We could be in Workington.

The pig "farmer's" cock

2009-11-22T10:22:00.002Z

Our senior sow Kim is back up to fighting weight and ready for a transfer outdoors - and I'm guessing she'll be glad to get away from the cockerel chorus that has played havoc with her plans for a nice snooze in the morning.

The pigshed is currently overrun with young chickens and Adam the cockerel has some serious competition. It's like backstage at the X-Factor in there.

Adam, the father of the clan, remains king of the crow, but he has serious competition from his chief rival - a hefty, grey and black fella born early this year. Jarvis is as enthusiastic a waker-up of the neighbourhood as his dad and is proving to be something of a ladies' man too.

Those two are regularly joined by Glenn (late 70s Third Division football reference) and the other younger cockerels for something as close to a male voice choir as we get in Westray.

The plan had been to put Jarvis in the freezer, but these things never seem to work out here and he's somehow been given a reprieve. He can't stay on the "farm" as he's related to almost all the other birds and is already showing far too much interest in his mother, aunts and sisters (is that banjos I can hear?).

So he's off to disturb the sleep of our neighbours up the road, while the younger birds will all go to the freezer. There are only so many reprieves you can hand out.

Which leaves us with Adam, our dandy highwayman. He has to go too as he is both father and grandfather to several of the young hens and we can't let the in-breeding go any further. There's no way in hell that Mrs Pig "Farmer" will let me wring his neck so we need a home for him.

If any of the eight regular readers of The Edge of Nowhere can give a very decorative cock a little corner for a not-so quiet retirement, let me know.

Hands off

2009-11-19T11:35:00.004Z

After all these years I can't believe how angry I could be over one game of football. Too angry, in fact, to write anything coherent about it.

This is the bit where I tried to put a video up, only to find it had been pulled off Youtube - something to do with copyright, they say. Read this instead.

Anyway, if you saw it you'll know. If you didn't, let's just say he might as well have picked the ball up and thrown it in the goal.

Cheating, cheating bastard.

Sorry, I know it's another one about football. We'll get back to 'animals do the most mildly amusing things' in due course.

Processing

2009-11-17T21:51:00.003Z

If you're easily upset, squeamish or vegetarian, I'd press on to the next blog if I were you.

I cupped my hand around the duck's head, holding its feet tight with my other hand. I lifted the head back and pulled down hard, but not too hard. I felt the neck break.

The flapping that followed - the body's nerves reacting after death - was disconcerting, but I did as I was told, put the wings between my legs and started the laborious task of plucking.

Marcus, our neighbour, had agreed to come and help me 'process' some of our flock of ducks (flock?). We got all the ducks into the stable and, not for the first time in the last couple of years, I found myself having to stop being a big fat Jessie and get on with things.

I'm scared of birds. All that flapping sends me to jelly, but there was nothing for it but to grab a bird, hand it to Marcus who immediately pulled its neck.

Quickly and quietly, we repeated the process four times before Marcus suggested it was time I had a go. Well aware that there could be no practice run, I fetched the sixth duck, Marcus told me exactly how to hold him, I took a deep breath and killed him.

Plucking was a pain. I had plucked one and a half in the time it took Marcus to pluck four, but the six ducks are now hanging up in the little caravan in the barn, waiting to be gutted and put in the freezer, ready for Christmas.

And I'm not about to get all philosophical about the killing - the first time I've dispatched one of my own animals myself. I'm not overly happy about it, nor am I particularly upset. It's part of the job, that's all and, if anything, I'm glad I now know how to do the job very quickly with the minimum of suffering for the bird.

Pass the plum sauce someone.

My heroes

2009-11-12T03:04:00.004Z

Yesterday was a pretty normal day on the "farm". Animals were fed, a bit of work clearing a space for all the roof slates was done, tea was cooked. Usual stuff.

As a result I completely forgot Armistice Day. The world didn't stop, gentle winds blew occasional showers across Westray, the tide rose and fell.

And I forgot my grandads.

Hubert Cinnamond and Harry Winters, being Irishmen, didn't have to join up, but they did. They fought for Britain in the First World War almost from the start, right to the finish in 1918.

The pair of them could hardly have been more different. Hubert was 6ft 4in, 17 stone of bone and muscle and straight out of a storybook. Born and bred in County Antrim from hardline Loyalist stock, he lied about his age to escape the boredom of a clerk's job in his father's bank.

With a lieutenant's pips on his shoulders he revelled in the mayhem of the trenches, twice earning the Military Cross for ludicrous heroism and finishing the war with a captaincy and a backful of shrapnel.

He then took on the IRA in the War of Independence as a member of the Auxiliary Cadets, later joined the colonial service in East Africa, organised "native" troops at the outbreak of World War II to fight the Italians before accepting a commission in the Indian Army, hoping for a chance to have a "crack at the Japs".

He died in 1970 at his retirement home in Madeira, having met his only grandson once. There's a picture of a huge man with a military moustache holding a small baby - and that's it. Me and Grandad Cinnamond.

Harry was a country boy from Mullingar in County Westmeath. War broke out not long after he had moved to Birmingham, eager to make a fresh new life for himself. He'd deliberately avoided living in Brum's Irish ghettos, doing his best to fit in. And fitting in included signing his name on the recruitment sheet.

His ability with and love of horses helped find him a place in the Royal Engineers where Private Winters did his best to survive, mending telephone lines and ferrying equipment while he watched his friends smashed to pieces or simply disappear out of the saddle without trace.

He emerged from the war a quiet, serious man, but he had met May Bews and they made a home in Dublin, had one daughter who became one of only a handful of women to earn a place at Trinity College. She graduated and left for England with her Ulsterman husband, coming back a couple of years later with Harry's little grandson.

Harry spoiled me rotten. He took me anywhere a Dublin Corporation bus went. Howth Head, Killiney beach, Phoenix Park Zoo. We fed peanuts to the elephants, walked up the Big Sugar Loaf, stood on the pavement in O'Connell Street to see George Best go by.

He visited us at our home in Ely, Cambridgeshire, one November and I recall nearly bursting with pride when my grandad marched in the front rank of the Remembrance Day parade. He died when I was nine and he never knew how much I loved him.

I never wear a poppy, although I always buy one, and I fervently support any anti-war campaign, but that doesn't mean I don't fully appreciate what soldiers are forced to do in the name of politicians' ambitions. The parade of hearses through Wootton Bassett this week was one of the saddest things I've seen in a long time.

And it made me grateful that my grandads - the swashbuckling hero of a hundred family stories and the steady, quiet, loving man with the bushy eyebrows - lived through it all.

POSTSCRIPT: Before anyone points it out, I'm aware of the role of the Auxiliary Cadets during the War of Independence. They were murdering bastards who made the Black and Tans look like an under-11 netball team. My views are completely different to my grandfather's so I feel no need to excuse or apologise.

The wheels on the bin don't go round and round

2009-11-08T21:42:00.005Z

When is a wheelie bin not a wheelie bin?

Orkney Islands Council's development and environment services department obviously had a lot of our cash to spare so they've given everyone on the island a big green wheelie bin.

With the bin came a set of instructions, telling us in seven fairly detailed steps how to secure it. Obviously, given that it's November and it gets a little breezy here at this time of year, it would be madness to leave a plastic bin just hanging around.

So everyone, old folks included I assume, has been given a wooden fence post and a length of blue rope and told to hammer the post into the ground to a depth of 2ft. No small task for a pig "farmer" who happens to be the owner of a large sledge hammer - can't imagine what a peedie Westray wifey will do.

The bin is then lashed to the post using a clove hitch (don't ask me) - no doubt while whistling a sea shanty. A bungee cord to prevent the lid heading off towards Norway is the finishing touch.

Which brings me to the big question. What the bloody hell are the wheels for?

Correct me if I'm wrong, but the whole point of a wheelie bin is that it's mobile. You can wheel it around the place - the clue's in the name.

When we lived in England we had a wheelie bin. We kept it by the back door and wheeled out to the front of the house on bin day. The bin men hooked it onto the back of the cart, the rubbish was tipped in, the bin parked outside the house to be returned round the back.

Up to now in Westray, we have been given a year's supply of black bags, leaving the filled bags at the end of the lane to be collected and thrown onto the back of Geordie's wheezing wreck of a lorry.

The new system involves leaving the bags at the end of the lane where they'll be collected and thrown onto the back of Geordie's wheezing wreck of a lorry, although we now have the choice of leaving the bags in the bin if that's where we've left it.

I much prefer living in Orkney to England and I firmly believe Scotland is a far superior country (only one Tory MP for a start), but I have to admit that England is way ahead when it comes to the 'understanding what a wheelie bin does' department.

What the council seems to have done is (out of the goodness of our own council tax payments) handed out a few hundred bins - the type we used to go to the hardware shop and buy ourselves - with no discernable improvement in the service.

On the upside, the Westray wheelie bin racing season gets underway next week. Entries to the usual address.

It's a gas

2009-11-06T07:48:00.004Z

Rain was dripping off the roof and down the back of Pat's neck as he manhandled the big orange gas bottle into position.

The pig "farmer" was on torch duty as his knee had inflated like a Montgolfier brothers invention after too much driving the previous week followed by a piglet-related incident. He wasn't about to risk the "I told you so" of Mrs P"F".

Next job was to take the attachment off the empty bottle and put it on the new one. "Have you got a spanner?"

Search through tool box followed, revealing any number of spanners. Guess what. Not one of them would fit. Resisting the temptation to have a rant along the lines of "why the hell does nobody, including me, put anything away?" I searched the workshop and found a monkey wrench. Couldn't get that to work either. Presumably it's great for monkeys, but not so good for gas bottles.

With the rain trickling down our backs, we skipped straight through to plan Z - ring Electric Eric and borrow spanner. The "farmer" took a few minutes to get his unbendable knee into the car and drove very carefully (it was taking several seconds to switch foot from throttle to brake, making any kind of emergency stop impossible) down to pick up the spanner.

On return, the job was done in seconds, tea was back on the stove, leaving only the question: "Why the bloody hell does the gas never run out in daylight?"

Fitbaaa

2009-11-01T22:15:00.006Z

The referee raised the red card and the sheep behind the goal went mental. Four of them left their seats and rushed to the front where they grappled with the stewards in an attempt to invade the pitch.

The rest roared their indignation and at least one missile landed on the pitch. The appearance of Lothian and Borders Constabulary's finest calmed things and Hibernian were able to get on with proving they were a little less hopeless than an Aberdeen side reduced to nine men by disciplinary issues.

A hundred yards or so away, in the back of the West Stand, a pig "farmer" from Orkney was commenting to his son along the lines of "there's something you don't see every day", "I think pitch invasions by farm animals can only improve the game" and "why do you suppose a dozen grown men would dress as sheep and travel from Aberdeen for football?"

This was the first time I'd been to a football game for about three years. The last ground I visited has now been demolished. I've always had a sneaking regard for Scottish football (quality issues notwithstanding) in general and Hibs in particular.

We had pints, went to the game, had pints again and mixed with the locals before calling it a night with a Chinese at around nine - a happy evening.

The same can't be said for the sheep. A man was taken to hospital in Kirkcaldy with burns after someone set his sheep costume on fire on the Edinburgh-Aberdeen train.

Camping out

2009-10-22T23:40:00.003+01:00

Little Kim was having a lie-down. Nothing unusual in that, except she was outside, behind her hut in a force seven south-easterly with intermittent, heavy rain.

Strong winds have swept the length of Westray for most of the week and, despite the temperature hovering around eight or nine degrees, you get the feeling winter is upon us. The sea has changed from blue to grey, the grass from bright green to dull grey/green/brown and the ground from dirt to mud.

All our pigs are indoors now except for Molly and Little Kim who have moved to new quarters in the top field after spending the summer over the road.

Marcus brought his tractor to move the pig arc to the top field and I positioned it facing the direction from which we get the fewest winds - south east.

This morning Little Kim emerged from her hut soaked down one side where the rain had blown in through the door all night. She wasn't happy at all, but was cheered by the arrival of breakfast and chowed down while I found an old mat which I attached to the arc as a sort of flap to keep out the worst of the rain.

It was later I saw her lying outside. She wandered over to me, gave me a welcoming shove and, as I gave her the obligatory back-rub, I worked out the problem. Little Kim is a lovely pig, a real sweetheart, but clearly she's not the sharpest chisel in the woodwork set. She hadn't worked out that she could push the flap aside to get in her hut.

I lobbed a few spuds inside the hut and held the flap open while the penny finally dropped, just in time for another wave of heavy rain.

Just before dark, I nipped out for a quick look and she was snuggled up in some new bedding - nice and dry.

Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em

2009-10-22T11:11:00.002+01:00

I was in the workshop, cutting wood for the fire, when I heard a commotion from the barn.

When I say 'commotion', I mean a bloody great snorting, banging and general kerfuffle - a bit more than the average duck or chicken would create. A bit more than the average herd of wildebeest would create.

I patiently laid down the axe, wandered through and there was Molly the sow. Having fought her way past the straw, she was doing her best to overturn my concrete mixer en route to the bulging feed bins. That'll teach me to leave the barn door open.

Molly, who has 'previous' in the escapology department, had grown tired of her paddock and walked through the electric fence and over/under/around another fence before working out exactly where the next two weeks' dinners were.

As she engaged in hand-to-hand (trotter-to-trotter?) combat with the mixer, I got hold of a bucket, put a scoop of feed in it, got her attention and led her back to her paddock.

I shut the door and tidied up, then set about improving security with the help of an old gate, two sheep hurdles, an extending ladder and a damp fence post which I managed to split while banging it in. (Tip: use another piece of wood, lay it across the top and hit that with the hammer).

Did I mention it was blowing a gale?

And it was raining.

Ten minutes later Molly had broken through the electric fence again and, denied access to the barn by my makeshift barrier, was eyeing up my leeks.

The bucket-feed-back-in-the-paddock routine followed. I had a look at the fence and thought: "I really must get one of those tester thingys that check if there's any charge in the wire."

There was nothing for it but to resort to a quick tap with the back of my hand.

Nothing. No wonder she was getting out.

I reached up to the energiser to check the connection.

SNAP! "Ow! Bollocks!"

Forgot to disconnect the battery first. Still at least I knew where the problem was and a couple of minutes later a new piece of copper wire was transferring lots of lovely current into the fence and I was walking back towards a fresh jug of nice hot coffee.

SNAP! "Squeal! Bollocks!*" The fence was working.

An hour later, it was time to get the horses in. Dotty - pregnant with "a future Badminton** winner" (so I keep being told) - came over and allowed me to clip on the lead rope. She took two steps and stopped dead, deciding there was no way she'd go past Little Kim's paddock.

I pulled and Dotty pulled back, pulled harder, wrenched the rope out of my hand span round and kicked out at me, contact being avoided by a dive that would have won a round of applause from any Premiership football squad.

I gave her ten minutes to calm down, then managed to grab the rope and, with a lot of very gentle persuasion, got her as far as the gate where she decided progress wasn't fast enough, wrenched herself free again and charged off, skidding to a halt just outside the stable door. By the time I caught up with her she was inside and tucking into Teddy's tea.

Women, eh?

* She didn't say "bollocks". Pigs can't talk.

** I wasn't previously aware that horses played badminton, but I'd pay good money to see it.

Size doesn't matter

2009-10-20T23:56:00.003+01:00

You see, the thing is, the camera on my trusty Samsung phone doesn't work any more. The phone hasn't been at all well since I sat on it heavily while climbing over a wall in the pigshed, the phone dropping out of my pocket in two pieces where it was given a bit of a chew and a slurp by Kim the sow.

If the camera was working I could bring you pics of the whacking great spuds that are appearing from the ground (I'm lifting them, they aren't miraculously rising from the earth and dumping themselves in bags - I bleeding wish!).

You'd also see Colin the carrot, so big it just had to have a name. I'd say it was as big as a babbie's arm, but actually it was as big as a pig "farmer's" forearm. And don't believe that guff about big veg not tasting good - it was terrific.

The power of life and death

2009-10-17T21:09:00.003+01:00

I've been worried about Kim. Our senior sow has struggled with her latest round of motherhood and I'm having to get used to the part of the job that I find far and away the hardest - deciding who lives and who dies.

At the age of five-and-a-half, Kim is getting on a bit as breeding sows go and, at many farms, she would have been "retired" to the cheap sausage counter some time ago.

Kim's trouble is her size. She's big-boned, to say the least. She comes up to the 6ft-tall pig "farmer's" hip and you could stand a rugby fifteen's pints on her back.

But time and hard work (my records show Kim has had 79 piglets in her time) have taken their toll. She grew steadily more lethargic through her pregnancy and was exhausted after she had farrowed, taking the best part of a couple of days to get up and eat properly.

Added to that, she was having problems with her joints, her huge shoulders putting such pressure on her front legs that there was a series of uncomfortable clicks every time she lumbered forward.

I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that she would have to go. The trouble being that I'm very fond of the old girl. She's a pal. I thought about allowing her to retire to a quiet corner of the "farm", but a conversation with Mrs Pig "Farmer" went along the lines of "what about when it's Molly's turn - or Little Kim?"

"I'll wait and see," said the pig "farmer", for who decision-making has always been a bit on the tricky side.

I moved a relieved and grateful Kim out from her seven piglets last week and she's now resting in a small pen indoors and will go back outside in a couple of weeks. The good news is that, having lost a lot of weight while feeding her litter, she's moving around far easier and I reckon that, with careful management, she will still be with us this time next year.

If only she knew.

The pitter-patter of webbed feet

2009-10-03T21:19:00.001+01:00

I left the pigshed with an empty feed bucket, turned the corner whistling a happy tune before becoming aware of the 'slap-slap-slap' growing closer. They'd found me.

By the time I reached the barn they were almost on me. It was all I could do to dive through the door and slam it shut behind me. Safe for the time being.

I've never had much to do with ducks. At least not since my Grandad used to take a three-year-old Malc to St Stephen's Green in Dublin with a loaf filched from Granny's kitchen.

Since then I've led a pretty much duck-free existence (unless you count pancakes and plum sauce). Nothing that's happened in the last 45 years qualifies me in any way to be a duck-keeper. So, guess what? I'm learning on the hoof again. Or on the webbed-foot, if you like.

What have I learned so far? Ducks aren't as good mothers as hens. . . or pigs. . . or some humans even. We lost some little ducklings in the early days, but most have survived and now live in a world where it always seems to be mealtime.

That's the other thing I've learned. Ducks eat an enormous amount. Our 13 eat at least as much in a day as a fully-grown sow and it didn't take them long to realise that the pig "farmer" was the man to come to for second helpings.

Every time I poke my nose outside the door there's a whole lotta quacking* and flapping until I give in and get the grain scoop out. I've tried sneaking away and avoiding them, but they are crafty and persistent, dogging my tracks all over the "farm".

That's all very well - nice to be popular and all that - but it got ridiculous the other day when I set off for the village. As I took the car down the lane, I glanced at the wing mirror and saw 13 ducks thundering along in pursuit. Anyone that desperate for elevenses deserves a little extra, that's what I say.

Anyhow, all these meals are making them all big and bonny and they'll be 'ready' any day now. Get the plum sauce ready.

* An early working title from Led Zep's second album. They made a minor alteration and the rest is rock history.

What we did on our holidays

2009-09-29T12:04:00.000+01:00

"Oh hi, Malcolm and Sally. We've booked you into the Love Shack."

"What? Seriously?"

"Yes, that's why we called earlier to check you were a couple. Here's the key."

"That'd be the key with 'room 3' on it."

"Yeah, that's right, room 3's the Love Shack."

"Good grief."

We were enjoying a crafty long weekend away on Skye, celebrating Mrs Pig "Farmer's" birthday. We opted for cheap and cheerful and were just about tolerating the terrible, enforced jollity of hostels.

The Love Shack turned out to be a small, clean room with a double bed, sink and broken window latch. Some of it was painted pink, so I suspect that's where the 'love' bit comes in.

Anyhoo, the irony of two Scottish island-dwelling folk going for a holiday on a Scottish island wasn't lost on me, but we've always liked Skye (indeed, we considered moving there) so who cares?

"Timbres! Timbres! TIMBRES!" shouted the very small French woman at the bewildered fella behind the counter in Portree's Post Office.

"Stamps," said the pig "farmer" helpfully.

"Oh right, thanks," said Post Office Fella. "How many?" he asked very small French woman.

"France."

"Eh? No. HOW MANY?"

"Combien?" said the pig "farmer", butting into the Eurovision Shouting Competition with his O-level grade C French.

"France et Belgique."

"HOW MANY?" persisted POF, waving his fingers around in the manner of Ted Rogers.

"Un pour France, et un pour Belgique," said VSFW.

"Two," said the pig "farmer", interested to learn it's not just the British who can't be arsed to learn anyone else's language, even when visiting their country.

At a time when Orkney is getting all set for the winter, there are still a lot of holidaymakers in Skye. The island is very much geared up towards tourism, the main road into Portree lined with a forest of B&B signs, most with a 'no vacancies' added. By all accounts it's been like that all summer.

It's hardly surprising. A certain fame from the Bonnie Prince Charlie thing (and that godawful song) and a relative proximity to major cities (relative to Orkney, that is) make the island a major highlight on the Scottish grand tour.

And there's the landscape. Skye has scenery to spare. The mountains crowd around, pushing everything else towards the sea - spectacular. It's just a shame it rains 361 days every year.

The hostel at Flodigarry was full of wiry, thin men and their ruddy-faced partners, the kind of people who are genuinely interested in what sort anorak you wear. The pig "farmer" was enjoying a hearty breakfast. Easily the fattest bloke in the place, he was becoming uncomfortably aware he was the only one who hadn't been up for hours wrestling a Cuillin into submission.

Not to be outdone, the pig "farmers" pulled on boots and waterproofs and walked the few miles to Duntulm Castle on the northernmost tip of Trotternish peninsular. Perched on a rocky outcrop, the ruins of the McDonald stronghold provide fabulous views over the Minch towards the Western Isles.

On the return walk we stopped to buy eggs, swopping notes with couple who ran the croft, the pig "farmers" casting envious glances towards the polytunnels and strawberry plants.

Next day, the rain eased as the midday train left Kyle of Lochalsh, following the shore of Loch Carron on its way to Dingwall where we would have just enough time for a pint before changing trains for Thurso and the ferry back to Orkney.

Sal's phone rang. The evening sailing across the Pentland Firth was "under review" due to high winds. Winter is on its way.

Football - the next generation

2009-09-14T07:36:00.003+01:00

I'm 48. I don't think it's so very old, although my children will have their own opinions.

I am, however, becoming used to the sons of former footballers forging careers of their own - Frank Lampard the obvious example.

What I wasn't ready for was the sight of Motherwell's Tom Hateley receiving the man-of-the-match award at the end of Saturday's 0-0 draw with Rangers.

Tom is son of former Rangers and AC Milan (among others) striker Mark Hateley and the grandson of ex-Liverpool and Coventry forward Tony Hateley - who I recall being one of the prized, rare cards in our playground swop sessions (you could exchange two Jeff Astles and any number of Joe Kirkups for a Tony Hateley).

Suddenly I felt very old indeed.

The revolution can wait. . . until after the post-match interviews

2009-09-10T21:12:00.003+01:00

I have a dreadful confession. The pig "farmer" has sold out. My membership of the Tipton Young Communists' Afternoon Tea Dance Club has been withdrawn.

We've got SkyTV.

We've had all kinds of costly trouble with BT, so we flounced off, not being too sure where to flounce.

It was Mrs Pig "Farmer", who has a sensible job and therefore pays the regular household bills, who suggested Murdoch's evil empire, prompted no doubt by the almost daily mailshots which we have taken to using as loft insulation.

"You could have the sports channels," she said, half-seriously and very unwisely.

"What, really?" said the pig "farmer", the idea burrowing its way deep into his brain.

I was surprised how reasonable it all was, how helpful Rupert's stormtroopers were and at how little guilt I felt. Sorry, but there you go. Maybe I'm not so right-on and funky after all.

So it was that I found myself last night attempting to watch four football World Cup qualifiers and a one-day cricket international all at once. I felt like I'd played by the end of it.

Scotland did what they did best - gallant defeat - Northern Ireland's promise fizzled out good and proper, and Wales came a distant second to Vlad's boys, which leaves the rest of us having, for the next nine months, to listen to rednecks telling us how Eng-er-lund are going to win in South Africa.

Bet John Terry's blubbing come quarter-final day.

Next: the pig "farmer" unicycles up a hill backwards

2009-09-04T14:16:00.005+01:00

The pig "farmer" tried not to look down and ignored the slight swaying motion of the stack of bales as he eased the top off the large wooden box.

Twenty feet below, the concrete floor of the barn looked hard, very hard, harder than a gang of Millwall fans after a 4-0 defeat.

Then the phone went.

"Hi mum, lovely to hear from you, but can I call back? Bit busy right now trying not to fall to a grisly death."

Ten minutes later I started bagging up the barley.

Philip, a neighbouring farmer, had warned me that, although there was plenty of barley, it was "quite high up".

"I'll come and give you a hand if you're struggling."

But he was in the middle of his tea and my stupid male pride and all that sort of thing. . .

The barley was in a number of wooden chests, stacked on top of each other next to the aforementioned stack of bales. I found a ladder and, grasping my bucket and some feed sacks, started to climb.

Steadying myself at the top, I knelt on the straw and filled the first bag. The next problem presented itself - how to get a 20kg bag of barley off a 20ft stack of straw bales to the ground without spilling the stuff everywhere.

I gradually got into a lying position and, with one hand clinging to the wooden chest, I leaned over the edge and eased the bag down, swinging it onto the top of a couple of old oil drums, keeping a firm grip until I was satisfied it wasn't going to fall over.

I repeated this twice before deciding I'd had enough. My knees groaned as I whiteknucked my way down the ladder, my legs wobbled ever so slightly as I reached terra firma.

I hope those pigs appreciate the lengths I go to to get their tea.

Bingo Bros

2009-09-02T02:05:00.002+01:00

It was Mr Hotel Proprietor's birthday. Strong drink had been taken.

"Whatever happened to Bros?" he asked.

"Eh? Whatthechuffineck? I've got some ripped jeans," slurred the pig "farmer", unhelpfully.

"No, it's just that their granny used to go to bingo with my mum and I wondered how they were getting on, that's all."

"Errr. . . not bad, I suspect. They'll be due for a reunion any time now, fingers crossed," I added, rallying bravely.

"Pint?" said Mr HP.

"Smashing, thanks."

What? Already?

2009-08-30T20:25:00.004+01:00

There was a large pool of watery mud where no pool of watery mud should have been. What had been hard, dry ground only 24 hours earlier was now the kind of brown sludge they put on the roast dinners at my old school*.

Chas and Dave**, the two Saddleback porkers, looked like rugby league players from the depths of a 1960s winter. The pool in question just happened to be inside their hut.

"@%£^," I said. Loudly.

"@%£^ing hell. It's not even September yet."

A glorious summer in Orkney has given way to spell of unsettled weather. Unsettled is something the weather in the Northern Isles does exceptionally well and this week has involved some warm sunshine, heavy showers, strong winds from the west, north, then west again, more sunshine, lots more rain and a bit more wind from the west. . . and the north.

One night's rain had churned up Chas and Dave's paddock quite impressively. I had anticipated this and we had dug a trench around their hut and filled it with rubble and chips (that's gravel to you in England).

The drain had failed to work spectacularly mainly because Chas and Dave had dug it up, spreading the rubble far and wide. . . the little scamps.

So. I put enough food down to keep the boys occupied for 20 minutes or so, ducked inside the hut and, bent double, started to shovel mud out. It didn't make a massive difference, but it was a start. Two barrows of sand and chips went in, followed by the wooden base of an old bed I use as a temporary barrier here and there.

I bunged in a whole bale of straw and, for the next hour, watched as the lads helpfully spread it all around the paddock. Idiots.

They spent a chilly night in the hut, but seemed none the worse when I arrived, feed bucket in hand, at what I now think of as The Baseball Ground*** the next morning. I peered inside the hut and it was a mess. The bed was in danger of sinking and a move into the main pigshed was a must for the boys. The hut was due a concrete base.

Mrs Pig "Farmer" was - at 11am - still in dressing gown and jammies as she pottered around the kitchen, singing along to Al Green.

"I'm tired of being alone with these pigs. You ought to be with me," I might have said.

"Oh me, oh my. Just let me get some clothes on," Sal might have replied.

Now Sal's never been too confident with the pigs, but she was a star, tempting two lively young boars with the feed bucket from paddock to pigshed in a matter of minutes while I played backstop.

"Look What You Done For Me," I should have said.

* A lower/middle-ranking private school whose motto was Aut Vincere Aut Mori - either to conquer or to die. Jeez!

** They don't "oink", they "gertcha".

*** Derby County FC's Baseball Ground was a notorious mudheap in the 1970s. There was barely a blade of grass on the pitch come mid-November. Funnily enough, Derby were champions twice in the early 70s and never came close before or since.

The peedie* brat

2009-08-24T15:37:00.004+01:00

We're having a cup of tea and then we're off on a rescue mission.

We have to rescue Teddy the Shetland pony. Not that he's being mistreated or anything, not by humans anyway.

He and Merlin are still with the neighbours where Merlin is covering their two Shetland mares. Ted, not having the appropriate equipment, is kind of left out and is spending his time on his own, looking a little forlorn.

So Mrs Pig "Farmer" approached June (our neighbour) this morning and before she could say anything, June came out with: "Oh that peedie brat, he won't let poor Teddy get anywhere near the mares."

So Ted is coming home this afternoon and already has a load of carrot tops and apple cores and peel (Sal's been making chutney) waiting for him. He can keep Little Kim company while Molly is over in Orphir getting it on with The Boss.

The peedie brat will be left to get his jollies for a while longer.

* Peedie - Orkney dialect for small.

Swine

2009-08-24T08:22:00.007+01:00

"Hi Malcolm, I've got swine flu. I've been in bed for several days," said our friend from down the road.

"Oh no. Are you OK now?," said the pig "farmer", wondering whether the "swine" part of the conversation had any significance.

"I'm much better thanks and the kids haven't caught it fortunately. Anyway, what I'm ringing for is to ask if you have any bales of hay to spare."

Hay deal done, I was left wondering why I get jumpy every time someone mentions "swine" flu and why it's called "swine" flu. I looked it up here and as far as I can fathom, it's a bit like infections that circulate in pigs in America and Europe.

The word the site uses is "similar".

"Similar". Not "same".

I shall now start referring to Manchester United as "Arsenal" because their red shirts are similar to Arsenal's.

I'm not saying that anyone in the UK is going to suggest we take anything like the horrific, shameful, brutal and unnecessary wholesale slaughter of the pig population by the Egyptian government highlighted by Compassion in World Farming earlier this summer. However, the UK government webpage on the outbreak uses the word "swine" 43 times.

Now, I haven't heard of any backlash against pork by the level-headed British public. Indeed, the price of pork is higher than it has been for some time (still far too low for pig farmers to make anything like a living), but associating pigs with a potentially fatal infection is hardly helpful.

So, on behalf of pigs and pig farmers everywhere, can we knock it off? If you get the bug, you've got flu. Get to bed, consult a doctor if necessary and when you feel better, treat yourself to a big bacon sandwich (from a free range British pig of course).

Pig "farmer" in shock transfer swoop

2009-08-18T09:19:00.007+01:00

Here at Pig Towers we like to concentrate on our youth policy, but, having said that, we are always open to a dabble in the transfer market.

So, with deadline day approaching, here are our two new signings. . .

Tristan and Isolde are Tamworth/Gloucester Old Spot crosses - with a lot more Tamworth than Gloucester if you ask me - brought over from the neighbouring island of Wyre.

We're not exactly farming's answer to Manchester City, but they're valuable additions to the squad, especially as they'll be ready for slaughter just before Christmas. They're cute enough and getting used to us, but I much prefer Saddlebacks who are considerably more laid-back and easy to handle.

Kim's piglets are doing fine, putting on weight and trembling a lot less than they were a week ago.

Soundtrack courtesy of Adam the cockerel and Francis the drake.

The seven-day itch

2009-08-16T23:16:00.007+01:00

We forgot all about the midges.

I can't believe we went to the Highlands in August and forgot the midges.

Bugger, bugger, bugger.

Mrs Pig "Farmer" is covered head-to-toe in bites, although my offers to rub in something soothing have so far fallen on stoney ground. Her loss.

We have two bottles of Avon Skin So Soft in the bathroom, stored for the two days a year when the wind drops enough for midges to appear in Westray. How hard would it have been for me to chuck one in a bag?

Still, scratching aside, we had a decent enough time. Scotland is lovely, the kind of country Ireland could be if it wasn't for the mad bungalows all over the place.

The pig "farmer" even went clothes shopping - one of the most depressing and frustrating hours of his entire existence.

A pack of socks and a plain black "going to town" jumper should have taken all of five minutes. I had a thorough look at everything on offer, made my selections and decided I'd better stop wasting time in Waterstones and get on with the clothes shopping.

I found socks - packs of seven for £10 (probably two months' wages for the eight-year-old who made them). I ignored the ones with Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday etc - there lies the path to madness.

"Hello, NHS Direct? I can't leave the house, I've got one Wednesday, one Friday and it's Saturday. What should I do?"

Armed with a pack of seven in different shades of grey I went in search of a plain, black jumper. Easy, right? Wrong. Pursuit of the Holy Grail would be simple by comparison.

Modern shopping centres, even in somewhere as otherwise pleasant as Inverness, are dismal, airless places flogging the kind of tat that would have embarrassed the Steptoes.

After an hour spent dodging the Stepford shoppers, bouncing from one bunch of corporate shysters to another, wondering just which idiot thought to sew together a jumper and a shirt and then sell it for more than £20 to other idiots, I gave up. "Life's too short" and all that.

I had seen one jumper I liked - a Marks and Sparks one in schoolboy grey with a couple of buttons - but it was £30 and, despite the price indicating it may have been made by someone older than 12 and on something approaching a living wage, it was outside the budget (£30 is more than 100kg of pig feed).

I found solace in Inverness's Victorian Market where there is a real rarity - an independent record/music shop. Not very Victorian I suppose, but that didn't stop me rifling the shelves before buying a British Sea Power album for my daughter (as long as she lets me download it first).

Of course, I should have left the jumper shopping to Sally in the first place. This morning as we waited for the ferry back to Orkney, I strolled along the shore at John O'Groats sipping a cup of builder's tea and enjoying the midgelessness of it all and Sal went to the Edinburgh Woollen Mill and bought a plain black jumper, size large, the kind pig "farmers" wear when going to town.

Nice one.

Shakin' all over

2009-08-10T09:29:00.002+01:00

Kiwi the piglet (she's all black) couldn't stop her head wobbling. She couldn't stop her whole self wobbling as she tottered around the pen.

Further examination by the pig "farmer" revealed that all but two of the seven were shaking to one extent or another. This was something entirely new in a so-far untroubled pig-keeping career.

Were they mentally damaged? Were they differently-abled? Were they just a bit chilly?

They seemed to be feeding well (they hardly stopped for the first 24 hours), so there should have been no reason to panic, but I'm a worrier and consulting the internet is rarely a good idea - one Australian website convincing me that the whole herd would have to be slaughtered.

I slept on it. Next morning I considered calling the vet in Kirkwall, but it was Saturday, the day of Orkney's County Show and the piglets were, shaking aside, lively enough. They were getting out and about, running around and there were even a couple of fights. In many ways they were progressing quicker than previous litters.

Still worried, I stuck a query on the British Saddleback Breeders' Club forum and was guided to an article that described Congenital Tremors - a condition that occurs sometimes in Saddlebacks. The piglets' nervous systems have been damaged and will take a short while to heal. As long as they are feeding normally they should be right as rain in about four weeks.

Phew.

Nature's other miracle

2009-08-06T03:53:00.003+01:00

The piglet shoved his brother out of the way, latched onto the teat and began sucking greedily. I relaxed, happy to hear the slurping sound of a young pig getting his first milk.

Once again we are celebrating nature's miracle. No, not Wolves' promotion to the Premier League*, but the arrival of the Kim's litter of seven piglets.

Ten minutes earlier the same piglet had been upside down while I swung him from side to side in an attempt to clear his lungs of the mucus that had damn nearly drowned him. He wheezed a bit, spluttered, coughed and then. . . not much.

I shoved a finger down his throat, explained the 'no dying without written permission from the pig "farmer"' rule and hauled out a great glob of goo. His nibs gave a great big "ahehehem" and looked altogether brighter. I snipped his cord and pushed him in the general direction of the milk bar.

Two o'clock in the morning is hardly the best timing, but it's a relief to have the birth out of the way, not least for Kim who has had a rough time of it. She's a well-built girl, if well-built means 'along the lines of HMS Ark Royal' and the added weight of pregnancy has made life very difficult over the last couple of weeks.

Mercifully, that bit's over, the seven seem healthy enough and, for Kim, eight weeks of motherhood follows. For me, it's time for boiled egg and soldiers and a few hours sleep.

* The real miracle will be if they stop up.

Bobby Robson

2009-07-31T22:17:00.003+01:00

Sometime early in 1981 a cub reporter from the Shrewsbury Chronicle, eager to help out, was pointed in the direction of sports editor Stan Hall who was preparing for the local team's big fourth round FA Cup tie with Ipswich.

Then Shrewsbury were a middle-to-decent Second Division side and Ipswich were in their pomp, already FA Cup winners in 1978, firmly established in England's football elite and on their way to a UEFA Cup triumph. So it was a big game.

"Ring Bobby Robson and ask him what he thinks of the Town team," said Stan.

I rang Portman Road and was startled to be put straight through and greeted with a warm, Geordie "Hello Malcolm, how can I help?"

Twenty minutes later I had a notebook stuffed with his views on Shrewsbury ("lovely place, must take the family there"), Town ("well-organised, hard to break down"), football ("I love the game, there's nothing like it"), life, the universe and everything.

I had enough for three good pieces, including one for the front page, and earned a rare "well done" from the Editor. The truth was that I had done very little except regurgitate the views of one of the finest men in football.

Bobby Robson died today. He played for West Brom, but I won't hold that against him. He was a rare man in the game, more interested in the simple joy of playing football than in the accumulation of silverware or money - the last of a simpler, more honest age.

I wish he had managed Wolves, but he did - as England boss - give Molineux folk hero Steve Bull the chance to represent his country as a Third Division footballer. I can't imagine any Sven or Fabio having similar imagination or courage. And I'll fight anyone who reckons Robson was wrong about Bully.

The last time I saw Robson was on Newcastle station a couple of years ago. The train south had been delayed for half-an-hour and only got going again when a big, elderly man was helped on board. I like to think we were all waiting for Bobby.

Anyhow, the world of football is short of one honest man tonight. Rest easy Bobby.

Kim

2009-07-31T21:26:00.004+01:00

Kim is expecting. . . and, heavens, isn't she making a song and dance out of the whole thing?

We moved the senior sow from her spot in the bottom field into the maternity suite last week. She's due to farrow on Wednesday.

She lumbered up the lane easily enough, but, by the time she had snuffled through the bedding that was lovingly prepared by the pig "farmer", she was obviously knackered and in need of a large G&T and a lie-down. Being a pig, she got only one of these.

So, she rummaged through the staw I'd put out for her, tried not to look disappointed at the lack of a bed with clean sheets and then snuggled down. Right down. Lots of deep breathing. Is that panting? Can't tell? You don't think. . . ?

As a result, The Big Eeejit (that'd be me) sat up most of the night, making checks every 20 minutes and was completely banjaxed by the time he came to deliver breakfast to pigs, ducks and hens the next morning.

Kim, on the other hand, was refreshed from a good night's sleep and bright as a button - well, as bright as a 450lb pig ever gets.

I swear I heard chuckling as I left the pigshed.

Wearing badges is not enough

2009-07-30T09:40:00.002+01:00

We were having a clear-out - or rather Mrs Pig "Farmer" was. It was best to keep moving or find yourself stashed away with the mops and broomhandles.

An old shoebox revealed, among other nick-nackery, a couple of badges.

"I had that when I was 12," I said.

"I had mine when I was 12 too," she said.

"What's yours?"

"Anti-apartheid, what about you?"

"Bronze life-saving."

Our childhoods were very different.

Merlin goes on a date

2009-07-28T02:24:00.003+01:00

It's been a long time since I first went out on an assignation with a real member of the opposite sex, but I seem to recall that running around a field with my sexual desire only too plain to see was not an option.

Maybe things have changed since the 70s.

Or perhaps I shouldn't judge Shetland ponies by the standards of my inept early attempts at courtship.

Yesterday Merlin (3ft high, but with an ego the size of Champion the Wonderhorse) went off for the first time to "meet" a couple of Shetland mares just down the way from us.

Mrs Pig "Farmer" pulled out all the stops, got the brushes and gave the lad a groom-and-a-half - even adding baby oil fercrissakes. With that and the surfer, highlighted look in his mane, what mare could resist?

There was a snag. Remember when you had to turn up at a school disco with your big, dopey mate? Remember when you were the big, dopey mate? Merlin had a "plus-one". . . Teddy.

Now, don't get me wrong. Ted is a fine looking lad, especially now that he's completely over last year's bout of laminitis (look it up) that would have had him staring down the wrong end of a gun had he lived pretty much anywhere but Pig Towers.

Ted is in the finest of fettle - a mini-version of the winner of the 3.30 at Haydock last week. Only thing is, he's not good on his own, so he had to go too. Oh yeah, and he's a gelding.

Still, the ladies seemed pretty pleased to see Merlin and Merlin was very, very pleased to see them. So pleased the bloody thing was bouncing along the ground.

Ted, bless him, was left cantering along behind, happy to be easily the biggest horse in the field, but looking like he'd rather be somewhere else.

Can we fix it?

2009-07-15T23:27:00.007+01:00

The well filled all by itself (over the course of a couple of days instead of the usual couple of hours), the toilet was unblocked (Pete the plumber/landscape artist tied a old towel to an old mop and used it as a mega-plunger).

So everything was hunky-dory? It was, until a certain nameless person put a pickaxe through the pipe that supplies water from the well to the house.

Wasn't me.

I went off to a far corner of the pigshed and swore a bit - for about five minutes. Then I had a look at the (very old and imperial) plastic pipe, rummaged around some of the spare joints and fittings (recently bought and metric) we have and decided to go to bed and worry about it in the morning.

The plumbing pixies were clearly otherwise engaged overnight, so I had to deal with it, waking with that feeling of not having done my homework. I thought about ringing Electric Eric (good man in a crisis) or the aforementioned Pete, but that seemed a bit pathetic.

The pipe is one-inch, while I had a 25mm connector. Are you thinking what I was thinking? Not much diff. Worth a try anyway.

I cut the pipe, filed the bits off and cleaned it, then tried to push the push-fit connector on. It wouldn't go. I looked at the pipe and compared it with a length of the metric. . . anyway. . . long story short. . . I managed to get the two ends of the pipe connected and we had water again. Hoo-effing-rah! I was pretty damn pleased with myself.

"So what?" I hear you cry. "So this," I reply. Two years ago when I moved to Orkney I had nothing in the way of DIY or handyman skills - I must have been out of my tiny mind - and a small problem like that would have me pogoing in the panic button. I've come a long way since.

And 'Pickaxe' Pat owes me a pint.

While I'm telling everyone how great I am, I'm chuffed to bits with the little kitchen garden I've got going at the front of the house.

It was very much an afterthought, laid out in April on previously derelict ground and hastily sown/planted with onions, carrots, cabbage, broad beans, butternut squash, beetroot and spinach beet - all of which seem to be doing just fine.

Few things in life give me as much satisfaction as a healthy-looking display of veg and this lot cheers me up every time I go out the front door.

The only problem seems to be these fellas. . .

They hang around in gangs and give the cabbages a Gruyere look. Removal by hand seems to be the only solution - I took more than a hundred off today - any other ideas would be gratefully received.

We're in the. . .

2009-07-05T14:21:00.002+01:00

Rearrange the following words into an hilarious blog post about idyllic life on a small Scottish island.

Toilet, blocked, arm, elbow, Dettol, thorough, wash, flexible, rods, bucket, outside, dig, tank, septic, nearly, full, still, find, blockage, can't, borrow, proper, drain, rods, a, bit, mystified.

I just hope Mrs Pig "Farmer" doesn't remember the words: Pig, "Farmer", wetsuit.

Still, on the upside, the well has mysteriously refilled, despite an almost total absence of rain.

How much for the beard?

2009-07-04T23:13:00.004+01:00

"What about twenty quid?" said Mrs Pig "Farmer".

"That's far too much. How about ten?" said her friend Toni.

"Oh no, that'd be robbery. Tell you what, let's split the difference and make it £15."

"Hold on, haven't we got this the wrong way round. I'm selling the ducks TO YOU."

"Oh, right."

Unbelieveable.

Water, water everywhere

2009-07-02T22:59:00.004+01:00

We have a heatwave in Orkney. It's bloody lovely. Clear blue skies, hours and hours of warm, even hot, sunshine.

The real farmers are rushing around at all hours getting the hay/haylage/silage in. The pig "farmer" is keeping an eye on his "herd" of five, worrying about his cabbages, beans and carrots, weeding in between the tatties and wondering if it's too dry to be planting out leeks.

There has still been time for a little R and R, yesterday it was a trip over to the north beach with the lads and a swim - the first of the year. Sadly the water was flat so there was no chance of a surf.

This evening myself, the dogs and The Boy - who leaves tomorrow to take up a new job in Cornwall (I suspect he's trying to tell me something) - had a leisurely walk along the shore by Rapness cemetery, shoes off, toes in the warm sand, paddling in the water. . . all that stuff.

It has been idyllic, absolute confirmation that we did the right thing moving here. I really love this place.

Of course there's a down side, as I found this morning when I ran the bath. Our water comes from a well in the bottom field, brought up to the house by a pump which is controlled by a switch in the kitchen.

I lurched into the kitchen this morning, slurped a little coffee and flipped the switch. That should have been followed by about five minutes of gurgling and hoowooshing as the tank filled. I listened and there was nothing bar the sound of a gently snoring Spike. Not a gurgle nor a hoowoosh anywhere. The tank had run dry.

Bugger.

I dressed quickly and went to the bottom field where the pump was whirring happily. I called Pete the plumber who diagnosed a missing valve that meant the self-priming pump was no longer priming itself.

So it's fixable, but what isn't fixable is the alarming level in the well. We're down to the last couple of feet - at least a yard and a half lower than normal. I'm told the well has never run dry before, but also that this is the driest spring/summer Westray has known for many years.

As a result there's a bath ban in force, I'm growing a beard, the once-a-week smalls wash is now fortnightly and we're buying barrels industrial strength Lynx.

Glass of Evian anyone?

A girl named Bob

2009-06-26T10:26:00.005+01:00

We were a hen short. There were only five pecking around Molly's feet as she got stuck into her evening meal. Bob was missing.

For a few days I kept an eye out for her and had all but given up hope when she appeared in the pig shed, very defensive and hungry enough to think boiled tatties and rhubarb were delicious.

Then she was gone, appearing again three days later, puffing her chest out and spreading her wings wide at the other hens - she obviously had something to hide. The pattern continued for some time until the other day when The Boy said: "Come and have a look at this Dad."

There was Bob with five. . . no, six. . . seven. . . hang on, nine. . . hell's teeth, ten. . . eleven, we've got a football team. . . twelve, and a sub, chicks.

The next problem was to get them out of the open air where they would be prey to gulls and, maybe, cats. Easy - The Boy got a box and we gathered up the chicks, putting them in the old stone shed recently vacated by Molly.

Then we ushered Bob around to the shed before erecting a barrier which she could hop over, but the chicks couldn't. The trouble with that was that Bob and her sister Leroy (don't ask) look almost identical and, you've guessed it, we'd got the wrong hen.

So we hurried back to where Bob was frantically searching for her chicks and, after she had attacked The Boy's feet a couple of times, swopped her over with a now very confused Leroy. Mother and chicks are doing just fine.

Ray

2009-06-20T10:08:00.003+01:00

The small, unassuming accountant quietly unlocked the front door of his semi-detached Wolverhampton home and went inside. It was about 6am, some time in the early 70s.

"Where on Earth have you been?" asked his wife.

In a fairly befuddled state, honesty seemed the best policy, so the accountant said: "I've been out drinking with Slade."

"What? All of them? Noddy Holder, Dave Hill, Jimmy Whatshisface and the other one?"

"Absolutely. I've got these albums they brought back from America. Look."

"OK then, what do you want for breakfast?"

I may have taken a liberty or two with the story (it could have been 5.30), but it makes me smile. The accountant was my father-in-law Ray who died in Kirkwall's Balfour Hospital last week at the age of 80, having taken his battle with Parkinson's Disease to extra time and penalties.

There was a wee bit of the devil in Ray. As recently as last month, he raised one last defiant fist against his failing health, ignored a Sally-imposed ban and went on a treacherous, cliff-top walk with his eldest son Stephen to view the puffins at Westray's Castle Burrian, grinning all over his face on his return.

I first met Ray properly one Boxing Day maybe ten years ago. As a family gathering wound to a close, Sally disappeared out of the room with the words "my dad doesn't really do small talk." Left alone, we eyed each other warily before I burbled something of little consequence. I was 38 years old and I'm not sure which of us felt more awkward.

What I didn't learn from Ray himself, I quickly learned from his family. He was man of rock-solid principle and political passion, a lifelong standard bearer of the communist cause, campaigning against injustice and inequality in his own quiet way all his life. He was devoted to his wife Marion and, in hindsight, he never got over her death from Alzheimer's disease three years ago.

Partial to a pint and a glass of malt, he was keen on his music with a taste that ran from Tom Paxton to The Dubliners, Bessie Smith to Cabaret and then, more alarmingly, Dr Hook (he is the only person I've had to ask to 'turn that bloody noise down'). A big believer in audience participation, Ray wouldn't exactly sing along, but he certainly liked a good growl in time to the music.

Ray didn't believe in any kind of existence after death, but he and Marion live on through his children Stephen, Martin, Alan and Sally and an ever-growing family of some of the best people I've met.

I'm glad Ray decided to make our move to Orkney his last adventure, even if there was rather more 'last' than 'adventure', and glad that we got beyond the 'awkward' stage and got to know each other. I'll miss him. Cheerio matey.

Pintus interruptus

2009-06-07T10:13:00.004+01:00

I was settling down for what I felt was a well-deserved pint. Perched on the bar stool, I lifted the glass to my lips when the phone behind the bar rang.

Mr Hotel Proprietor had a kind of "mmm, aha, yes, yes he's here" conversation. He put the receiver down, turned to me and said: "One of your pigs is out and heading north at speed."

"Oh testicles!" I exclaimed and hurried out, jumped in the car and set off. A mile or so down the road, Squeaky waved me down and pointed to the field where Molly the sow was wandering around in an agitated state. Our neighbour Neil had put her there while Squeaky had kept an eye out for traffic.

Molly has been a bit skittish ever since she was taken away from her piglets a few weeks ago, trotting around her pen, spreading her bedding all over the place, digging enormous holes, but this was the first time she'd got the wanderlust.

As luck would have it, I had a feed bucket in the car and, although it was empty, Molly knows the routine and trotted happily after me as soon as I started rattling it. Tailed by Mr Hotel Proprietor in his very big Jeep she followed me the half-mile up the main road to the "farm" where I discovered I had forgotten to switch the electric fence on. Duh!

A quick scoop of feed and an armful of fresh straw settled Molly back down. I plugged the fence in and returned to the abandoned pint the phrases "insurance claim" and "new gate" rattling around my head.

Democracy in action

2009-06-04T18:32:00.003+01:00

The ladies at the polling station hurriedly put away the cheese and dabbed oatcake crumbs from their lips as the pig "farmer" and entourage swept in.

"Hello, I'd like to decide who gets to stick their snouts in the great trough that is the European Parliament," I should have said. Instead I made light chit-chat about what good weather we've been having, although the ground could do with the rain and so on.

The first polling officer looked at the four of us (me, The Boy, stepson Pat and stepdaughter Amy) and apologised for the fact there was only one booth. Apparently we were an unexpected rush.

As the queue built up behind me, I marched into the booth, trying not to trip over the several feet of yellow sheet that was the ballot paper. For the first time in my life, I hesitated before putting my X in the box. I really wasn't sure.

I was a month too young for the May 1979 election and, as a result, Thatcher got in. I've voted Labour ever since and look where that's got us.

The pencil grew slippery as my palm sweated and I scanned the lists. I dismissed the Jury Team (?), the Christian Party (oh please), the Lib Dems (what do they stand for this week?), UKIP (racist nutters), BNP (racist uber-nutters), Tommy Sheridan's latest ego-trip.

I made up my mind, scrawled an X in the box (don't get cocky Alec, I'm just trying it out) folded the paper into a big yellow dinosaur, put it in the slot and strolled out into the sunshine which was exactly the same as when I went in.

Pipes

2009-06-02T22:39:00.004+01:00

The City of Kirkwall pipe band* were out in force in front of St Magnus' Cathedral, watched by a crowd of around 150. Somebody must have told them the pig "farmer" had just got off the Westray boat.

Seriously everybody, you shouldn't have. . . you know I don't like the fuss. . . bit disappointed there wasn't a buffet.

I'm told the Duke and Duchess of Rothesay/Cornwall (name changes depending on their location) were also in town so it's nice the lads had their pipes out anyway.

* Orkney isn't all that Scottish so they go easy on the tartan and shortbread (unless there's a game against England). The pipe band appears to be the one exception to the rule.

Trev's travels

2009-05-26T23:22:00.003+01:00

Trevor's nose was out of joint. He was exceptionally grouchy, even for him. Mrs Pig "Farmer" had a new cat.

The little black and white cat appeared on the croft last autumn. It survived an encounter with Spike the terrier, took up residence underneath the ever-growing scrap heap before, for a short while, sharing digs with Kim the sow in the pigshed.

By the time the worst of the winter had set in, the little cat was snuggling up in the hay loft in the barn and Mrs Pig "Farmer" was in full "aaawww" mode. I, of course, assumed it was male (I hadn't been close enough for a really good look) and, considering its moustache, named it Salvador. It's not often I name anything after a fascist, but there you go.

Mrs Pig "Farmer" got on speaking terms, stroking terms and built up to cuddling terms. I was beginning to take notes.

Then we found out she was female so we had a "d'you know any famous women with moustaches" conversation. The list is short and amounts to Mexican artist Frida Kahlo whose self-portrait has a little pencil moustache. . . unless it's been vandalised. . . but then there would surely be spectacles too.

So, anyway. . . Frida turned out to be what they call in Orkney "frecky". She can't get enough fuss and she certainly gets plenty.

It should have been no surprise really when Trevor decided enough was enough and - in the words of the Knights Who Say 'Ni' - he buggered off.

He was last seen on a Thursday. Friday, Saturday and Sunday passed - a long time for a cat who insists of his five regular meals a day - and I was having to reassure Mrs Pig "Farmer" that, by my reckoning, the lad had at least four, possibly five, lives left.

We made a poster and stuck up in the shop. I checked with the neighbours and took to wandering about the place shouting "Trev, Trev, here puss" like some barmy old biddy.

I'd pretty much given up hope by the time Alicen called by to say she'd seen him at the former school half-a-mile away. Pat and I jumped into one of the wrecks we like to call a car and spluttered up the road.

Having persuaded a yowling tabby into the car we returned, Pat looking nervous as the last time the two of them had had the pleasure of sharing the front seat of the car, Pat had ended up covered in cat vomit and diahorrea.

Trev chuntered and, once home, he grumbled about the place for 24 hours before remembering he's allowed on the electric blanket and Frida isn't, he's allowed in the house and Frida isn't and he gets meaty chunks and Frida gets a bit of dried food and is expected to catch mice. Life's not so bad, after all.

Faray

2009-05-17T11:12:00.004+01:00

The ladder down to the boat felt precarious, despite being firmly bolted to the side of the pier. Stomach lurched and knee ligaments tugged hard as I stepped aboard.

Passengers loaded (five of us), Roy fired up the Golden Way's engine and we rumbled away from Rapness in the warm Orkney sunshine into Weatherness Sound, water smacking gently an arm's reach away against the side of the boat, towards the island of Faray.

"It's my last year in Faray," said Marcus last March as we cut up a leg of pork. " Why don't you come over and have a look round for a day."

Faray lies tucked neatly between Westray and Eday, about a mile from each. The island was noted in the 16th century as being excellent for grazing cattle and supported a population of nearly 90 in the late 1800s, but declined rapidly in the 20th century.

By the end of the Second World War, the school had closed, families had deserted and the last inhabitant left - not without some persuasion from the authorities - in 1947. Faray was left to seabirds, seals and an increasingly wild flock of sheep.

In 1971, Marcus took up the lease and has knocked the sheep side of things into shape. He has 600 ewes on Faray and Faray Holm (connected by a causeway at low tide) and he spends the whole of May there each year seeing to the lambing. His daughter Ruth and some Westray folk go out to help, many leaving their mark on the sheep sheds - "JHS was here May '07".

Back on the Golden Way in May 2009, we found our way around the north end of Faray Holm, chugging down the rocky east coast, past shags, black guillemots and a large grey seal colony in Lavey Sound between the islands. The seals not hauled out on the rocks bob up in the water to get a view of us as we pass. The binoculars were out.

Ten minutes later the boat turned and we headed for what seemed to be a cave, stopping just short as the Golden Way crept up to a rocky outcrop. . .

The pig "farmer" stumbled ashore and took some time to regain his balance, earning a mild reprimand from Marcus for not helping Sal off the boat. We clambered up the rocks and trudged a few hundred yards to the old school. . .

. . . re-roofed and kitted out as a basic home for one month a year, where we were offered coffee, home-made biscuits and a potted history of Faray.

A tour of the sheep pens later, we headed south to the far end of the island, pausing at this perfect, sandy beach to admire the arctic terns and a lone arctic skua. . .

. . . before wandering off up the west coast where fulmars clung to the ledges and tussocks and shags stood guard over eggs laid in nests made of seaweed and marine scraps. . .

A couple of hours was enough to take us round most of the island and back to the schoolhouse where we arrived as Marcus and Ruth were hurrying in with two ewes in the trailer. One was ready to lamb and the other was right in the middle of lambing, the youngster's head sticking out, but its legs tucked back, preventing any further progress.

Not long after, the lambs appeared. . .

. . . a bit messy, but healthy. . .

A conversation between Marcus and the pig "farmer" is much like an encounter between university professor and first-year primary school pupil, and it's impossible not to admire his knowledge and his passion for the animals.

He also knows the pig "farmer" well enough now to realise he's just a big kid and, as I admired his ATV (quad bike), he said "ever been on one? Get on."

Perfect. Guess what I want for Christmas.

Thanks to Marcus, Ruth and Roy for a fantastic day. Sometimes one outing is worth two weeks' holiday. It's good to know the farmers from Eday taking over Faray next year will continue much the same way as Marcus has for the last 38 years.

Twitchy

2009-05-10T22:36:00.008+01:00

We have visitors. Two of Sal's brothers and one sister-in-law. It's great to see them, not only because they are fine examples of the human race at its best, but because it's a great excuse to get out and about on the island.

Today was a glorious day and the tourists - keen birdwatchers all - decided a long walk was a fine idea. I packed them all into what's left of Lennox the Land Rover and set off for Noup Head on the northwest tip of Westray, the plan being that I'd pick them up six miles south later in the day.

Around this time of year the cliffs at Noup become a seabird city. Numbers have dropped in recent years - global warming has shifted the sandeels further north, apparently - but it's still a remarkable sight and you don't need to be a twitcher to appreciate it.

Guillemots, fulmars, kittiwakes, razorbills, gannets and puffins cling onto the ledges. . .

Some of the best views come when you defy the vertigo and peer over the edge. . .

It's more than worth it when you find these two on a ledge a couple of feet below. . .

Just for the record/ticklist we saw all the previously mentioned seabirds plus a couple of great skuas, any number of oystercatchers, eider ducks and arctic terns and later in the afternoon arctic skuas.

There's bird action back at the "farm" too. I collected the trailer that took Sock to Orkney Mainland on Tuesday and there were three ducks in it. I know less about ducks than I do about hens, but they produced this on the first day. . .

. . . and have come up with several more since, so they're very welcome. The drake is, of course, already Charlie.

And in the henhouse (my father-in-law's old shed) Patty and Selma the broody hens have produced three chicks, two black and this little fella. . .

Cute.

Moody

2009-05-07T06:29:00.000+01:00

Little Kim was worryingly quiet. There was none of the usual grunting, none of the cheery biting of the pig "farmer's" feet, none of the jovial attempts to turn the "farmer" upside down*. She seemed ill.

Now I know what you're thinking and I'd appreciate it if you'd stop. You've all been watching too much "news" on the telly.

I put some food outside her hut. I put some food inside her hut. She ignored it, yawned a bit, slumped back down in the straw and looked very miserable.

I called Mrs Pig "Farmer" at work. It seems I'm an "insensitive pig". Didn't I realise that being split up from her sister and lifelong companion and then moved to a strange field would upset her? And had I considered it could be the time of the month (every three weeks for pigs)? And it's a surprisingly windy day for this time of year.

Sure enough, yesterday she was outside investigating, bumping into the pig "farmer" and exchanging GRUNTS with her mother Kim in the next paddock.

A chip off the old block

* Little Kim has all the attributes of a second row forward for a middle-ranking Rugby League side, Wakefield Trinity for instance. Superleague clubs can contact us at the usual address.

Rollin', rollin', rollin'

2009-05-05T09:00:00.004+01:00

As livestock movement goes, it was hardly in the Rawhide class. It was less "move 'em on, head 'em up" and more polite negotiation, a well-filled feed bucket and desperate attempts not to show how stressed the pig "farmer" was getting.

We had to load Sock, one of our gilts (young females), onto the trailer and get her down to Rapness pier in time for the evening ferry to Kirkwall. How hard could that be?

She and her sister Little Kim have spent the winter in a small building and paddock at the back of the house and were well settled - a bit too well settled as it turned out.

I dismantled the electric fence, filled the feed bucket, equipped Mrs Pig "Farmer" and stepson Pat with crowd control barriers and set about persuading Sock to leave the paddock. She was fine until she got to where the fence had been where she came to a halt.

I put a small amount of feed on the ground just the other side of the/her imaginary boundary which she sniffed at and retreated quickly.

Unlike sheep and cattle, pigs don't respond well to being shoved, rounded up with dogs or generally patronised, so attempts by Mrs P"F" and Pat to gently push her in the right direction proved counter-productive and, with time ticking away towards ferry departure, the pig "farmer" was in danger of losing his cool.

Shaking the bucket was a mistake too. A very hungry Molly and piglets had decided it was teatime and were giving it some. There was a whole lot of pushing at the rickety door (it's been on my list) and one large and several small snouts were clearly visible.

In an attempt to prevent an outbreak of piglets all over the place, I burst into the pigshed, threw a couple of scoops of feed into the pen to keep them occupied, then burst out again, returning with a piece of 4x2, a fence post and a drill.

Security measures in place, it was back to Sock who was still refusing to budge. Resisting the temptation to use - as the CIA might say - "enhanced" techniques in the form of a boot up the backside, I put the bucket in front of her face which she promptly stuck right inside.

I edged back. Sock edged forward. I edged back again, Sock edged across The Line. Several minutes later we were edging down the alley between pigshed and barn, then through the barn - sending Trevor the cat diving for cover - and finally out to the trailer.

Sock saw nothing of this, but the inside of a bucket, while I was left with a stoop in the style of Dr Frankenstein's creepy retainer.

Sock is now at her new home on Orkney Mainland, in a specially made hut, ready to "see" the boar in a few months.

Now all we have to do is move Little Kim to the bottom field. The bucket is ready.

We're all going to die. . . apparently

2009-04-30T07:14:00.005+01:00

I've been a pig "farmer" for less than two years and so far there's been a foot and mouth outbreak, a Government report claiming that bacon gives you cancer and now we're all about to fall down with swine flu.

A pretty good record, I feel.

Despite the fact that my favourite London-based Broadcasting Corporation has filled its useless, useless, bloody useless "news" channel with wall-to-wall doom, I'm not going to be rushing out for face masks for the pigs or throwing an exclusion zone around Kim's pig hut - anyone foolish enough to get that close deserves everything they get.

I'm glad the government is stocking up on flu treatment - any country that spends gazillions on Trident and on fighting pointless, unwinnable wars should be prepared to spare a few bob to protect its people from disease.

Here on the "farm" we have introduced several emergency measures. We will not be eating chilli for the duration of the emergency. The Herb Alpert records have been wrapped and placed in a sealed chamber. We will sterilise the lime before stuffing it into the neck of our bottle of Sol. Anyone wearing a sombrero will be politely turned away at the gate.

That should see us safe.

Flu-free pigs

Who put the oink. . .?

2009-04-23T06:58:00.006+01:00

Pigs do not go "oink".

Cows could be said to go "moo", cats certainly "miaow", dogs kind of "woof", sheep have been known to "baa" - usually before falling over and dying.

But pigs do NOT go "oink" - at least, not in my experience.

Kim, our senior sow, would rather have her toenails removed than go "oink" like some silly pink cartoon character. It's a matter of pride, after all.

When Kim gives out, it's best to imagine a didgeridoo played by a particularly large gorilla. She's been doing it a lot lately.

My favourite pig is recently returned from a visit to The Boss, the pedigree Saddleback boar on Mainland Orkney. Kim really doesn't like travelling. At the age of five, she's more a cosy bed, big dinner and quiet stroll around the paddock kind of girl.

She's certainly not a load-up-in-the-trailer, drive-to-ferry, bumpy-crossing, drive-to-another-farm kind of girl.

We pulled up in the queue for the ferry at Rapness, the trailer rocking and bouncing as Kim gave it the full Rolf Harris. As I loaded up on the boat, people were starting to look.

It was a lively crossing, especially as the Earl Sigurd negotiated Westray Firth where the waters rush and swell to the south of Westray and Eday. I peered out at the trailer which was wobbling despite being lashed to the deck.

By the time we arrived at destination, her ladyship was looking a bit green about the gills and certainly not "in the mood". I'm told it was separate beds for the first three days.

Return journey last weekend was quieter, at least on the sea, although the trailer trembled each time a recumbent Kim let out a low growl.

She's home now in the pen next to Molly and the piglets and will go out into the bottom field at the weekend. Once again I'm treating myself to a few quiet evening moments leaning on the wall enjoying her company, much in the style of the Earl of Emsworth and the Empress of Blandings. Simple pleasures.

Mr and Mrs Braveheart

2009-04-06T22:56:00.004+01:00

A figure with long hair and the full kilt and regalia loomed up behind us. Just add the claymore and he could easily have been on the run from Butcher Cumberland and his jolly redcoats.

"Are you the man with the pigs?"

I'm getting used to being known almost exclusively for owning pigs, but I can't help feeling it's hardly the way for the groom to address one of the guests in church moments before kick-off with the bride warming up in the tunnel and the vicar checking for the red and yellow cards.

Resisting the temptation to ask if he knew Mel Gibson, I confirmed that I was indeed the owner of the pigs, offered hasty congratulations and settled in to watch the action.

Despite not having met the couple in question before, we had a smashing time. Mrs Pig "Farmer" sang hymns with a remarkably straight face for a confirmed atheist then went on a five-hour RealAleathon, sinking (by my reckoning) seven pints as she drank the Pig "Farmer" under the table.

Bill and Diana turned out to be fine folk and we hope to see them in Westray sooner rather than later.

The whole event brought a little bit of Scotland to Orkney and reminded me that I've never worked out why of all the countries in northern Europe to say an emphatic 'no' to the trousers, did it have to be just about the wettest, windiest and most midge-infested?

No wonder they lost at Culloden.

Red wine day

2009-04-04T11:34:00.003+01:00

"I'm sorry, I'm quite drunk. It's Saturday and Saturday is red wine day."

It's not the usual greeting when arriving at a bed and breakfast at 10.30 on a Saturday morning.

Still, red wine is good for the soul, beats cancer, makes you incredibly attractive to women and ever so amusing, so who am I to argue? The wee fella who appeared to be in charge was clearly on fine form - flying, in fact - and proceeded to show us up four flights of stairs to our room.

"Oh, you haven't brought your bags up and you'll have to climb those stairs again, is that all right?" he gabbled, then showed us how the heater worked three times, asked us if we had any special requests for breakfast ("I can do all sorts of special things." I bet.) before stumbling down the hall. Mr and Mrs Pig "Farmer" waiting 30 seconds before rolling around on the floor, clutching aching sides.

It's promising to be an unusual day all round. We're off to a wedding in Kirkwall this afternoon. We were invited despite never having met or even spoken to the couple in question.

Diana and Bill who live over on Flotta - one of Orkney's south isles - are the couple in question. I "know" Diana because she writes the Puffincentral blog* and we've exchanged comments. It was great to be asked along and once Mrs Pig "Farmer" heard there was a bar, a buffet and a band a herd of panic-stricken wildebeest wouldn't have kept us away.

Anyway, good luck to Diane and Bill. We'll see you at St Olaf's later and I promise to keep Mrs P"F" away from the gin.

* When I say she writes the blog, she posts only when there's a Q in the month.

Trust your sow

2009-03-29T23:40:00.007+01:00

So, a busy week down on the "farm". The piglets are growing fast and are getting out and about. . .

. . . and are indulging in a lot of pointless zooming around which makes getting decent pictures a bit tricky. . .

. . . and there's been time for some family activities, such as snuffling around in case there's anything tasty in Molly's bedding. . .

. . . and when that's all over, it's time for a nap. . .

The pig "farmer" started the week flapping around nervously, scared that the piglets were in danger of either freezing to death (it's been a bit parky in Orkney) or being squashed by a careless Molly.

I shouldn't have worried. Molly has, so far, been a terrific mother. Saddlebacks have a great reputation as careful, caring mums and the piglets are growing fast.

When she had her last litter, Molly struggled with 12 rowdy piglets and ended up thin and tired after six weeks. This litter of nine (five males, four females) seem quieter, if just as cute, and I've put Moll on double rations to keep her weight up.

Every time she's ready to lie down she checks the bedding for stray piglets and ushers any wanderers back into the creep until she's ready for them to feed. It's very sweet.

Tonight (Monday) Kim is off to Orphir on Orkney Mainland to see The Boss, so if all goes well she should be ready to farrow in July.