My twin brother and I used to work every Saturday on a relative’s farm in Northern Ireland when we were in our early teens. The best bit of the job was opening up the stone walled pig houses, descending into the abyss and “mucking out” the stalls; sweeping the, er, stuff, down into a corner drain.
The smell of pigs is not the smell of bacon. It is a peculiar odour that permeates your clothes, your hair, your welly boots, your everything. My dad used to hate picking us up each Saturday evening. Our farm clothes stayed in the shed outside. After they were washed.
A farm’s an interesting place for a young lad. For example, did you know that pigs eat other pigs? It’s true. If it’s a hot day and they get agitated they can go on the rampage – or the pigpage if you like. Pigs can…
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