Spotted Pigs and Green Tomatoes Read online

  Praise for Spotted Pigs and Green Tomatoes

  '[Spotted Pigs and Green Tomatoes] is many things: a collection of anecdotes, a comment on the state of the countryside, an autobiographical memoir, a philosophical reflection, but above all a critique of the food industry in Britain. It is engagingly written, but not always comfortable reading . . . I gave a small cheer when I found, at the end of the book, that the farm had turned a small profit. But economics were never the main point. The farm serves Boycott as an investigative tool, wielded with the hand of a master' Clive Aslet, Sunday Telegraph

  'As her lively account professes, Boycott emerges as a thoroughly good egg: hardworking, loyal and kind. She is interested in everything around her . . . her heart is firmly in the right place . . . It has charm and wit as well as insight into the forces of the rural economy . . . Who could fail to be won round by such a woman?' Cressida Connolly, Spectator

  'Rosie's conversion to country matters is a personal healing process and, for the rest of us, as spectators, a breathless, boisterous field sport' The Times

  'An affecting, affirming journey of rebirth . . . It also offers a timely insight into the hardships of British farmers forced to scratch a living from the land . . . It is compelling stuff, a poignant message for those who remain oblivious to how food is produced. On a deeper, more personal level, [Spotted Pigs and Green Tomatoes] serves as a first hand account of nature's power to heal . . . an intensely personal voyage' Mark Townsend, Observer

  'It's a kind of autobiography, a snapshot of rural life, a discussion of the way that supermarkets are slowly strangling this country and, most importantly, a description of a love affair . . . This is much more than just another book by a townie about the joys of the countryside. Boycott has properly involved herself in the community, not just getting to know the people and the land, but coming to understand the local impact of decisions taken hundreds of miles away' Josh Lacey, Guardian

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  A Nice Girl Like Me

  Batty Bloomers and Boycott

  All for Love

  Spotted Pigs and

  Green Tomatoes

  A Year in the Life of Our Farm

  ROSIE BOYCOTT

  First published in Great Britain 2008

  Copyright © Rosie Boycott

  This electronic edition published 2009 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  The right of Rosie Boycott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 36 Soho Square, London W1D 3QY

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  eISBN 978-1-40880-689-0

  www.bloomsbury.com/rosieboycott

  Visit www.bloomsbury.com to find out more about our authors and their books. You will find extracts, authors interviews, author events and you can sign up for newsletters to be the first to hear about our latest releases and special offers.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  1. Green Shoots in November

  2. The Cleverest of Animals

  3. The Luck of the Tailor of Gloucester

  4. Trees Are Excellent Listeners

  5. A Christmas Market

  6. The Nature of Soil

  7. The First Slaughter

  8. The Swallows Return

  9. Bluebell Gives Birth

  10. A Market Stall at Langport

  11. The Midsummer Pig Roast

  12. The Return of the Large Blue

  Postscript

  Further Reading

  To Charlie Howard, with love

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The Wheel is come full circle, I am here.

  Edmond in King Lear

  The wheel has turned full circle for me. It is a January afternoon; it has been raining and the light has faded early from the winter skies. I've just come in from our Somerset garden, where a man called Charlie has been telling me where to plant bulbs (we are late getting the last lot in the ground). He is, at times, a bit critical of my technique. Forty years ago, I was also often in a garden; this one was in Shropshire and I was regularly instructed in the arts of gardening by another man called Charlie. He was a bit of an autocrat, too, when it came to the finer points of rearing and tending plants. The two Charlies are, respectively, my husband and my late father. In many ways, therefore, I have not moved forwards, although there has been a lot of living in between my two gardening phases. Without the inspiration of my father, I would not have discovered my love of the countryside, which became so vital and important to me in the early years of the twenty-first century. I owe him a big debt and I like to think that, were he still alive, he would have been pleased to see how his youngest daughter's life turned out. He would certainly have been surprised.

  lowe thanks to many people. Our farm would not have been possible without Ewen and Caroline Cameron, David Bellew and his mother and father, Dennis and Anne, and Wayne Bennett, the manager of Dillington Park, as well as Bob, Adrian, Mark and Julian.

  To the many people in Ilminster and around us in Somerset who have made us welcome, and shared their stories, I owe my thanks: Henry and Elizabeth Best, Clinton Bonner, Joe Burlington, Chris Chapman, Kit Chapman, Ellen Doble, Bryan and Elizabeth Ferris, Mike and Patricia Fry-Foley, Richard Guest, Mark and Yseult Hughes, Nick Lawrence, Liz Leddra, Gillie Minnett, John and Mary Rendell, and Colin and Zoe Rolfe.

  I would also like to thank the following for giving me their time and sharing their knowledge: David Attenborough, Chris Blackhurst, Jules Cashford, Monty Don, Andy Gossler, Trevor Grove, Revel Guest, Graham Harvey, Vicki Hird, Patrick Holden, Felicity Lawrence, James Lovelock, Mike McCarthy, John Mitchinson, George Monbiot, Andrew Parker, Rose Prince, Joyce de Silva, Andrew Sims, Thorn Steinbeck, Jeremy Thomas, Martin Warren and Francis Wheen.

  My thanks are also eternally owing to Bob Simonis, a doctor in an hour of need, without whom I would, literally, not have a leg to stand on in the garden or elsewhere. And to Rowley Leigh, our good friend and great chef, who bought our eggs and vegetables for Kensington Place restaurant.

  Many members of my family helped with the writing of this book, in particular Ander and Richard Parker, who spent many hours recalling tales of farming past, and my sister Collette.

  Thanks are also owning to Tobyn Andreae, who first encouraged me to write about our farm; Carole Bamford, for her generosity; my friends Hannah Rothschild, Cindy Blake and Jennifer Nadel, who read the manuscript at various stages and were constantly supportive; my cousin Charlie Viney for being both my friend and my agent; my editor at Bloomsbury, Michael Fishwick, for being both patient and wise; my stepson-in-law, Charlie Glover, for taking the pictures for the cover; my stepdaughter, Miranda Glover, for reading the proofs and being such a special friend; Nicola Easton, for all her help with the research; Sue Ayton, for never giving up; and Katie Bond, Minna Fry, Tram-Anh Doan and Emily Sweet of Bloomsbury, who made the process so enjoyable.

  By the start of 2007, we had ninety-three pigs running around on the farm, so, even though they'll never get to read this, thanks are due to Bramble, Bluebell, Guiness, Babe, the Empress, Hyacinth, Robinson, Boris and Earl for being both excellent pi
gs and excellent breeders.

  I'd like to thank Francesca, Alex and Luke for being wonderful stepchildren, and my daughter Daisy for contributing so much to the sum of my life's happiness. Finally, our farm belongs every bit as much to my husband, Charlie, as it does to me; for that, and for so much more, thank you.

  1

  Green Shoots In November

  Inside the red van the five pink piglets are asleep, sandwiched together between two bales of straw. It smells bitter, of sour milk. They must have been fed on gruel; normally pigs don't smell at all. On their straw bed they are warm and they don't want to come out. I hold the door open and make encouraging noises. One piglet opens an eye, looks at me and goes back to sleep. I scramble into the van and grab the nearest pig round its fat little stomach. Immediately it starts shrieking and squealing, waking up the others who look around in alarm, staggering to their feet and moving to the back of the van, as far away from the door as they can. I carry the frantically wriggling pig a hundred yards to his new home and push him through the gate into the run where five other Gloucester Old Spot males are watching his arrival with great curiosity.

  Two years ago I would never have imagined that I would become the owner of a small group of pigs. In my life I've been many things - mother, wife, journalist, writer, magazine editor, newspaper editor, radio and TV presenter, feminist, hippy, divorcee, junkie, drunk and traveller - but pig-owner was never on the cards. It makes me wonder what really determines the course of our lives - is it chance or the result of careful planning? If I think about my own life I come to the conclusion that it has mostly been determined by chance, more akin to a game of roulette than a game which requires some skill, such as bridge. Things happen for so many seemingly random reasons; choosing to answer the phone at the right moment, casual meetings at parties and on aeroplanes, even having a good night's sleep which means you're more likely to say yes to an offer than no. There's rarely been any strategy involved. The only element that links it all has been my willingness to say yes more often than no.

  Due to chance, my husband Charlie and I have a house in Somerset and if I peel back the layers a little more, chance has followed me down the long corridors of years. Charlie is my second husband. We knew each other when we were teenagers, lost touch for twenty-seven years and met again in 1997. That was chance. I was editing the Independent on Sunday and he was sharing his legal chambers with the libel lawyer George Carman. George and I were friends and one day over lunch he suddenly mentioned Charlie Howard. 'He sends you his love . . . you ought to ring him up.' Editing a newspaper doesn't leave you much time for anything else, but I did pick up the phone and we did meet for lunch. Two years later we were married.

  By the time of our wedding, in a church in the New Forest with all our respective children playing parts in the ceremony, my father was sliding into the fog of Alzheimer's, moving into a twilight world from which he would never return. While he was able to live on his own, our country weekends were spent with him, at his family house outside Ludlow in Shropshire, but in the spring of 2002, he suffered a series of small accidents. He fell down stairs, bruising his coccyx, then he fell into a ditch in the field where he was walking his dog, and lay there for hours before he was rescued. The ever-present bad chest which he had lived with for years turned into a bronchial infection. He went into hospital in the first week of May 2002 for a course of heavy-duty antibiotics. Charlie and I brought him home on a Friday in mid-May, but as the evening wore on his breathing grew increasingly laboured; he was disorientated and confused and, for the first time, he was having trouble walking. We made a bed for him downstairs and his doctor intimated to Charlie that he might not last the night. He did, but only just. The following day, Dad was back in an ambulance, heading once again for hospital. It was two days before my birthday and I perched beside him in the back of the van, surrounded by tanks of oxygen, stethoscopes and defibrillator machines, certain that this would be the last time he would ever see the home he had loved for the last forty years.

  Three months before that May morning, Charlie and I had gone to Somerset to stay with Ewen and Caroline Cameron. I had met them in the 1990's when I'd been going out with one of Ewen's old college friends. Like Charlie and me, we had lost touch, meeting again in the late 1990's in a more official capacity when Ewen was in charge of the Countryside Agency and I was editing the Daily Express. The Express had just run a hugely successful campaign to keep GM food out of Britain and Ewen, in his capacity as head of the Countryside Agency, had been giving intelligent newspaper interviews as to how New Labour could help revitalise rural Britain. I remembered how much I'd liked him and his wife Caroline and so renewed the acquaintance. They came to dinner with Charlie and me, and a year or so later they invited us down to Ilminster for the weekend.

  Charlie was full of enthusiasm for the trip; he had grown up in the village of Charlton Mackrell, just ten miles northwest of Ilminster. It was a cold, grey weekend but the rain held off and we walked extensively round Ewen's family estate which he had been managing since his twenties. The old family home, Dillington Park, is now leased to the County Council and it operates successfully as an adult education college. We approached the imposing house via the park, where oaks and field maples, walnuts and chestnut trees stood leafless in the winter chill. Off to one side of the park, black-and-white Friesians were grazing outside the gate to a square stone house, appropriately called the Dairy House, set in its own overgrown garden. It was built of the honey-coloured local Ham stone, and in the pale winter light it looked cosy and inviting. Charlie asked who lived there. Ewen said the current tenants were going to leave shortly.

  Later that night, when we were getting ready to go to bed, Charlie voiced my own thoughts. Perhaps, even though Dad was still battling on alone in his house, we should think about it. So the following day, before we left, we asked if the Camerons would consider us as possible future tenants of the Dairy House. Two days after my gloomy ride in the ambulance with my father, the phone rang in our London home. It was Ewen. Were we still interested? I knew that Dad would never again be going home and that we would soon be selling his house. What on earth was I going to do with all that furniture? Our London house was already overflowing with books, pictures, furniture and cooking equipment, the contents of both our lives. I said yes: it would be a solution and a way to keep my feet in the country, at least some of the time. You see, chance comes in many forms, and sometimes one gets one's chances from another's misfortunes.

  Over the next two months, my elder sister Collette and I packed up our father's house, and at the beginning of August 2002 the removal van moved my half of my parents' home to the Dairy House. But that only explains a part of the story, the how we got to Dillington part. It does not explain the pigs.

  The garden we inherited at the Dairy House had been created in the 1980s. Carved out of parkland, the incredibly rich soil, fertilised by livestock for hundreds of years, soon produced a wonder of shapely trees, shrubs and herbaceous flowers. The garden surrounds the house: in the front, to the south, there's a flagstoned terrace which soaks up the sun all year round. Pink roses and mauve wisteria cover the south-facing wall, growing so fast that in summer the long wisteria tendrils sneak in through the open windows and creep along the tops of the bookshelves. The main garden lies to the east, full of curving beds and a circular yew hedge which surrounds the small pond and cuts the garden off from the wood, which you can reach either via a small wooden bridge or through a beech archway that hangs over a wrought iron gate, with upturned horseshoes soldered on the top. From almost every point in the garden you can look out across the park, at the stately oak trees, which shelter the cattle from rain and sun, and the hill away to the south which rises up steeply towards the tangled hedge marking the end of the open land. It had been a little neglected in the immediate years before our arrival, which, for any aspirant gardener, is a pretty ideal situation. Charlie especially was entranced. He had grown up in the country and had always re
garded the city as a diversion in a life that would, eventually, find him back in the countryside. He had long been a frustrated city gardener, growing peppers and tomatoes in pots on his sun-drenched terrace in Shepherd's Bush.

  But here work was needed; in particular, several trees needed cutting down or cutting back to open up the views to the parkland. We consulted Chris Wilson, the estate manager, who lives with his wife Rosie in a stone farmhouse on the other side of the park. He dispatched Mark Bellew and Phil Wright, who worked on the estate, to help out. They arrived early one morning, armed with a chainsaw and a fund of knowledge. The chainsaw hummed as the branches fell, our first steps to putting the garden back to rights. But as each branch bit the dust, the scale of the work needed became more apparent. Charlie had been resistant to having any help with the garden. In a fit of false heroics, he reckoned that, with my help, he could look after it all on weekend afternoons. Sure, we needed some help with the trees, but that was only because we did not own a chainsaw. I wasn't so sure: the garden was complex and richly planted and clearly high-maintenance. Over mugs of coffee, Mark told us that his brother was a gardener and might be interested in helping us. Two days later, after walking the garden and discussing the possibilities, David started work.