Spotted Pigs and Green Tomatoes

by Rosie Boycott

  I learned about it at a lecture on climate change which I'd been to earlier in the week. Standing in front of an audience of almost two thousand people in St Paul's Cathedral, Sir David Attenborough asked whether it was God's will that we should bring nature under human control. Were we more important than any other creatures? The answer, he feared, was yes, this is what humanity has always thought. We need, he said, to change our perceptions if we are to save our planet, we need to learn how to tread lightly upon the earth, as guests rather than owners. We are all in too much of a hurry both to conquer and control. There can be no doubt, he said, leaning his elbows on the makeshift lectern, his clothes crumpled, his authority unquestionable, that the planet is changing. Twenty years ago scientists warned of climate change. He had been sceptical, but he is no longer. The graphs of CO2 emissions in the last hundred years rose slowly, then more steeply. Now they travel off the page in a vertical line. The lines mirror the rise in population; there is no doubt that what we are experiencing is not a climate change caused by natural forces, but by us. He said how hard it was to find remote places any more, and that forests like Borneo, once the richest in the world, had been hacked down to grow oil palms, then abandoned, leaving depleted soil which is so poor it can't support life. In just a few years, natural abundance has given way to a wasteland.

  He paused and shook his head: he'd just heard that grass had been found growing in Antarctica. We need a change in the way we live our lives, he said. Small acts like switching off the TV and taking fewer plane trips will add up to fewer carbon emissions but, more importantly, they will alter the way we look at our world. In the war, he continued, there was a morality about waste. People were careful with their resources because that was the way they knew it had to be. Now we need a change of moral attitude. We need to understand that the world has finite resources and that it is sinful to be wasteful. Sitting beneath the vast, ornate dome of St Paul's, I found myself thinking of my mother's brother, my uncle Francis. Francis lived in a tiny bungalow on a beach in Jersey. He had been a member of the resistance during the war, captured by the Nazis after leaping from a window while trying to escape and breaking all the bones in his left foot. He mostly ate fish, which he caught from the beach or crabs and prawns from the plentiful rock pools of La Rocque bay. Whenever we went to have a meal with him, the one thing we all knew was that we must finish everything on our plates. As an eight-year-old girl, I remember thinking that he was a bit bonkers to be so obsessed but I never forgot those meals or his passion.

  Two days before the first four pigs are due to go up the hill to Snells, we move them out of the caravan wood and into the pen nearest the gate. It's hard not to make gloomy comparisons between prisoners being transferred to cells nearer their execution chamber and, once in mind of that, I decide that I will take them a huge last vegetable supper. Pigs can, in fact, eat anything. It's one of the reasons they're so bright: any animal that doesn't have to spend most of its life searching for food has had time to develop its brain power. Mammals can be roughly divided into insectivores, carnivores and herbivores, but there's flexibility between the divisions. Foxes eat meat, but they'll also forage for wild fruit. Antelopes are herbivores, but occasionally they've been known to eat birds. The mice that live in our house probably like cheese the best if given a choice, but they eat meat and paper as well as bird food, which they steal from the big plastic sack of the stuff stored in the downstairs 100. They also seem to eat the plastic, since they make a hole but leave no trace of the bits. This ability to eat a wide range of food makes mice successful and­certainly in our house - prolific.

  Most carnivores, like cats, are pure meat-eaters, but there are exceptions among the group, most famously the panda, which survives on bamboo shoots, a food so low in essential elements and minerals that the panda can never hibernate and, unlike his meat-eating bear relatives, has to eat all year round to stay alive. Herbivores graze, browse or pick fruit. Cattle eat grass. Elephants eat leaves and twigs, monkeys and apes live off fruit. There's only one group of herbivores which eats everything regularly and that's the omnivorous pig. Their teeth are as generalised and non-specialist as our own.

  Being omnivorous not only increases the pigs' chances of survival; it means survival almost anywhere, as they are curious and dexterous. Like us, they can be described as being neophilic, or fond of things which are new. Their brains are bigger than those of animals of equivalent size and, according to studies conducted at Bristol University, they're able to remember places where food can be found, even after long intervals.

  On the last morning of the four boys' lives, I watch them happily rooting around underneath the wild rhododendron bushes and I find myself remembering the fantastic story of the Tamworth Two. At the time that those two little pigs made their gutsy escape in 1998 I was editing the Independent on Sunday and we published a story by Dick King Smith, West Country author of Babe, the children's classic about a pig who escapes the knacker's yard to become a skilled sheep-pig, winner of medals and prizes. Babe had just been adapted as an enormously successful film and we were all chuffed to be able to include a story honouring the Tamworths' free spirit by its author. But, as I read the papers in the days following the escape, it was clear that this story really belonged to the tabloids, who had thrown themselves into the fray with verve and open cheque-books.

  The Tamworth Two escaped from Newman's abattoir in Malmesbury, swam across the River Avon and holed up on a wooded hill which looked out over Malmesbury's historic abbey. This small fact was recorded by the local paper and, on a quiet news day in the middle of a dreary, grey January, a reporter for The Times picked up the story and filed it to his news desk. The Times ran a graphic that illustrated how the pigs escaped, and plotted their route across the river and into the trees. Next day, the Daily Mail jumped in. Mail readers are never slow to respond to stories about animals, and as letters and calls flooded in from readers anxious to know where the pigs were and how they were doing, news editor Ian MacGregor saw the potential. This could be much more than a good heartstring-tugging story, it could become a world-class event, devouring as much space in the Mail's pages as any diplomatic incident, political upheaval or death of a statesman.

  The pigs had to be found, saved and then provided with a fairy-tale environment where they could live out their natural lives. MacGregor despatched a young reporter, Barbara Davies, to Wiltshire, with the instruction to find the pigs and bring home the story. But Fleet Street is a competitive place, and news of the Mail's movements soon reached the ears of the Daily Express, the paper I was to edit just over a year later. The Express news team saw that the Mail meant business; their problem was how to get their own story without the huge financial and manpower resources that the Mail had at its command. Gerard Greaves, with whom I worked closely in the coming years, recalls the air of panic round the news desk when it became clear that two small pigs were going to set the news agenda for Britain in the coming days. 'The Mail had vets, snappers, tractors; they'd hired the only loader suitable for moving the pigs in the area. And as usual, the Express was miles behind.'

  As a first move, the Express despatched Sean Rayment, ex­officer in the paras, to Wiltshire. 'Sean was being screamed at to get a pig, or a pig story, at any cost. He was wading around in the mud, carrying a bucket of nuts and yelling "pigs".'

  The hunt was on. Other papers muscled in: the Sun and the Mirror sent reporters, TV news crews rented helicopters to trace the piggy footprints. Even the broadsheets joined in. Within a couple of days, the pigs had captured the country's imagination: they were brave, they were smart, they were two little guys getting one over on the evil forces of big business. As they roamed around the winter woods, comparisons were made to war heroes escaping from Colditz. A Japanese TV truck arrived in Malmesbury, and NBC sent a veteran of the Gulf War and the Rwandan genocide, Donatella Lorch, to make sense of it all for an American audience.

  News stories come in many categories. Some are clearly big sto
ries which all papers must cover; others, like that of the Tamworth Two, acquire their importance and magnitude solely through media hype. The more that is written, the more important it becomes. From being a simple tale of two pigs who broke out of their pen, it blew up to be the biggest story in Britain that week. It was talked of in pubs and opined about in broadsheet editorials which saw true British guts in the pigs' escape. The Mail called them Butch and Sundance, further cementing the general belief that these outlaw animals were actually on the side of the angels.

  Down in Wiltshire, Barbara Davies enlisted the help of Kevin and Debbie Stinchcombe, owners of an animal sanctuary. As a boy, Kevin had appeared in a musical version of Dr Dolittle, so he was well placed to 'talk to the animals'. The three of them set off to the woods, armed with buckets of nuts and metal hurdles and ropes. Barbara told them she would lose her job if she failed to capture the pigs, something the Stinchcombes took very seriously, and by dawn one pig was in captivity. They tried to keep it a secret while they searched for his companion but a nosy neighbour, alerted by the squealing, rang the local radio station, which was running a 'pig hot line'. Desperate to preserve its lead over the pack, the Mail then sent Steve Morris to buy the pigs from their last known owner, Arnaldo Diiulo. Diiulo was a road cleaner who had reared the pigs as a sideline on his three-acre smallholding. His pigs, probably worth no more than £65 each, were now being fought over like rough-cut diamonds. The problem for Morris was that Gerard Greaves had already made an offer which Diiulo felt honour-bound to accept. As Morris was explaining that this was problematic, as his paper already had custody of one pig, the back door of Diiulo's cottage burst open to reveal a gaggle of other reporters, waving cameras and microphones and offering huge sums of money. Diiulo barricaded the door and signed up with the Mail. Gerard was part of the pack pushing at the farmhouse door. 'It was mayhem,' he recalls, 'but what Iclearly remember is that a reporter from the People passed her card through the door. On it she'd written, "£50,000 for the pigs".'

  Meanwhile, the Mail despatched yet another journalist to Malmesbury to interview the pig. Star writer Paul Harris reported Butch as saying, 'I caught a glimpse of the Daily Mail girl, a redhead like me, and I knew I was in safe hands.' Paul and Butch appeared on TV that night, after Paul had been styled by the Daily Mail's fashion team to ensure he looked suitably 'country casual'. The hunt was on for Sundance, who kept being 'spotted' in various gardens. Rumours flew that rival papers were preparing to parachute a 'fake' pig into the fray. Harris called one of the UK's leading DNA experts to find out if it would be possible to prove such skulduggery, then bought a set of pig's trotters to lay false trails. Steve Morris was put to work on the pigs' family tree, discovering that they were not pure breeds but the progeny of a Tamworth called Miss Piggy and a wild boar called Amadeus. The Daily Mail were delighted when it transpired that they had been bred at Bolehyde Manor, where Prince Charles had wooed Diana.

  Sundance was finally spotted in the large garden of a nearby farm. There were two entrances. Gerard and Sean, still without a pig-exclusive, parked their respective cars in the two driveways, where they spent the night, in the hope that they might capture the pig if it came past. But their efforts were to no avail. The following morning, Sundance was finally captured, tranquilised and secured in a bunker next to the vet's surgery in Malmesbury town square. The world's media congregated outside as NBC's Miss Lorch pointed out that 250 million people worldwide were waiting for a first glimpse of the pig. At that moment, Sundance let out an almighty squeal and her cover was blown. The world's media glimpsed the groggy pig for the first time. In a final attempt to recapture the headlines, an exhausted Gerard flung himself towards the pig and photographer Jonathan Buckmaster got to work. Throwing his arms round Sundance's neck, Gerard turned to face the lens. In a split second, the Express had their exclusive photo for the following day: a snap of Gerard and his pig, under the headline, 'The Express Brings Home the Bacon . . . from Gerard Greaves in the thicket of it'.

  'It had become such a big story that PRs from different companies had rushed to Malmesbury, trying to catch some of the media spotlight. There were girls handing out sweets and offering bystanders samples of washing-up liquid,' he recalled. The following morning, Gerard received a herogram from Express editor, Richard Addis: his paper's 'exclusive' had cost virtually nothing and the paper's honour was intact. Later that day, the pigs were reunited. The Mail wanted a picture of them peeking over a stable door, but as they were too small to manage this a carpenter had to be hastily called in to build a platform. The mayhem was over: as quickly as it had arisen, the story fluttered and died, the world moved on and the two pigs were sent to a rare-breed centre near Ashford in Kent where they've grown old and fat, their days of stardom firmly behind them.

  Eight years later, on an equally cold late-winter morning, Dennis and I load up the pigs just after seven o'clock: a keen east wind is gusting under grey skies and the four boys zip into the trailer in pursuit of the bucket of nuts. We shut the gate: from inside is the healthy sound of munching interspersed with squeals. The trailer rocks as the pigs bustle about after the food, then there's silence. We're hooked up to Dennis's B-reg gold Mercedes and I keep remembering my aunt's story about the trailer full of pigs that turned over on the road, but Dennis is a good driver and the trailer rides easily behind us. Just where we turn on to the main road, there is a big clump of snowdrops, still in full flower.

  'I saw a squirrel there on my way in - he had a whole snowdrop bulb in his mouth, the flowers still attached. Maybe he was taking them home for Mother's Day,' Dennis jokes.

  We arrive at Snells well before eight, the time of our appointment. A sharp turn off the Axminster road out of Chard and up a steep track brings us to a jumbled collection of tatty-looking buildings perched on the top of a hill. The view is fantastic, rolling wooded hills that lead southwards towards the sea at Lyme Regis, but the north-east wind is blowing strongly and it is bitterly cold. Already there is a small queue. Immediately in front of us is Darren Riggs, a designer who keeps pigs, sheep and two beef cows on his smallholding near Taunton. Darren's two pigs are Duroc Gloucester crosses, blackish with huge spots, far fatter than our four. They are fast asleep on the straw in the back of his trailer, and when the time comes for them to move he has to prod them awake and chivvy them down the ramp. They are not nervous, just lazy. Inside the pens immediately outside the door leading to the slaughter room, there is a pile of multicoloured pigs - a Tamworth, a Berkshire and a Gloucester, apparently asleep in a colourful pig sandwich, the black Berkshire snugly held between the sandy Tamworth and the pink-spotted Gloucester. For a minute I think they must be dead; they are so completely still and it seems impossible that any animal could kip while its relatives are meeting their maker in the room next door. Darren sees where I'm looking and laughs. 'It's a good place,' he says, herding his duo towards the heavy metal door. 'The best round here. The animals are never nervous.'

  I had expected to be deafened by pig squeals and the racket of animals bashing against clanking bars, but the only sounds are the trailers manoeuvring into position. Then it's our turn. Dennis backs the trailer up to the entrance to the slaughter pens and our four come trotting out. Beside the fat Durocs they look more swimsuit model than WeightWatchers regulars. They amble into the long hallway, looking around curiously. The vet, a Spaniard called Jose who is wearing a black nylon balaclava under a bright yellow hard hat, checks them off on his list and bends down to look them over. 'What are you looking for?' I ask.

  'I check zee feet,' he mumbles through the balaclava and puts a tick beside our entry. While the buildings might look jerry-built and untidy, all the important things seem just right: it is clean, there are piles of fresh straw on the ground, it doesn't smell that bad, and the atmosphere is conducive to keeping animals calm in their last moments.

  I pat our pigs on their rumps and leave them trying to engage in conversation with the Duroc Gloucesters who are being held in an adjacen
t pen. The day before I had asked Trevor Symes, the owner of Snells and son-in-law of the founder of the abattoir, Charles Snell, if I could watch the process, so I walk round the back of the white pre-fab building, up some concrete steps and in through the office door. Trevor hands me a white coat and a rolled-up blue hairnet. He is similarly attired, but over his hairnet he wears a white plastic hard hat. On his wrist is a copper bracelet like the one my mother used to wear to help with her arthritis.

  Trevor has a warm smile and an easygoing nature. If he'd been a doctor, you'd have said he had a good bedside manner. I follow him through a series of white doors, through a room where the carcasses of pigs and cattle are hanging by one foot from a long rail attached to the ceiling, through another door and into the centre of the slaughterhouse. Pig bodies, in varying stages of dismemberment, hang from rails around the room. The concrete floor is streaked with blood and the noise level, from saws and turning machines, is deafening. We walk past a yellow vat of pale grey intestines, looped and bunched in an undignified heap, past a row of hearts, lungs and livers, still attached to each other by veins and fatty tissue that are slightly steaming in the chilly atmosphere, round a low wall and back into the area where the animals are waiting. Our pigs are nowhere in sight, but Trevor opens a gate and now we're looking over the top of a waist-high railing at the four of them as they stand quietly beside a pulley-style hoist, breathing in the last few seconds of their lives. The slaughter man looks young enough to be at school. He is nineteen and his name is Ryan. He quickly sprays the pigs with water from a hosepipe in the wall, then grabs the nearest one by the shoulders, turns him on to the ground and deftly loops a chain, attached to the waiting hoist, around one back leg. The sudden speed is shocking and I step backwards, noticing that the other pigs are making anxious movements and backing away as far as they can, looking for a way out of their enclosed space.