Bog Myrtle & Peat

The pigs are away to the woods, and it’s a relief to see them stretched out and foddering after a long summer. These are the sows which gave us two dozen piglets in the spring; they’ve earned a break and some recuperation before the boar returns and the cycle begins again. English people call this “pannage”; the driving of pigs to wood in the autumn. There’s no sign of a local equivalent in Galloway parlance, which has little to say about pigs and their keeping. We’ve been so preoccupied with sheep and cattle over the centuries that pigs seem to have escaped our notice. “Pannage” will have to do.

These woods are thick with cobs and rowans; every stem bends beneath the weight of brambles and crab apples. It’s fine to stand back from the trees in these misted mornings and hear the sows clattering contentedly through the undergrowth, gathering the season’s fat and windmilling their tails at the discovery of unturned soil. The move tallies so well with the trend of the days towards winter that it’s easy to be swept along until I start to pursue the naive thought that seasons are the only rational guide of time.