“Murphy’s the name. Siring’s the game.”
Well, that’s what he might have said if Murphy the 10-year-old Berkshire Boar who lives about half an hour from Moons Green had bothered to introduce himself to us.
Murphy belongs to Jane Howard, a farmer who’s a dab hand at the art of pig-breeding and husbandry. We met her not long ago and Bill decided to give her a shout remembering that she’d mentioned having a rare breed boar she was prepared to loan out. We have three sows waiting and none of us have been two thrilled at the notion of working with the Artificial Breeding sticks required to effect breeding the modern way. Better to have the real thing and, according to Jane, Murphy always gets the ‘business’ done.
What business?
Bill and I took my truck to Philip’s yard next door where the trailer he constructed sometime after the Boer War was waiting to be collected. Philip came over carrying a massive wrench, a length of wire and a tire foot-pump. He pointed to one of the wheels on the trailer.
“I’m giving you a spare wheel, and a few tools so if you lose a wheel you won’t be in too much trouble.”
This was ominous. I had a feeling that losing a wheel might well be a possibility.
“You’ve lost a wheel before then Philip?”
“Only once in the past 20 years so it’s really nothing to worry about but better to be safe and sure.”
Now I was really worried. “When did you lose the wheel, Philip?”
I’d put money on the likelihood that it was the last time he took the trailer out.
“Well, now that you mention it, it might have been quite recently,” he informed me, nervously shuffling around behind the gate at the back of the trailer.
After Philip had shared a few of the other eccentricities attached to the ancient trailer Bill and I ventured forth, northwards towards Stonegate where Murphy was waiting. I drove at a sedate pace, joining the legion of farmers who daily frustrated normal motorists by driving their rigs at snail’s pace along major public roads. The only good news was that the weather was fine, almost Spring-like in its brightness and dryness. No rain in sight.
We finally arrived at Coopers Farm and their really narrow, winding entrance road. When we reached the house I looked at the two road options, one of which would undoubtedly lead to the point where Murphy would board our bus. Both directions looked completely beyond my powers of reversing with a wonky old trailer. But when Jane pointed to the left hand side I took comfort in the fact that it looked at least slightly easier than the right hand fork. I started trying to manouevre the trailer around a corner and up a stock road that had two inches clearance on either side of the trailer. 15 minutes later I’d made it almost a quarter the way up the road with only fifty or sixty attempts. I was getting tired, confused, frustrated when Jane idled over and announced that there were a couple of things in life she considered she did really well. “One of them’s reversing a truck and trailer. If it won’t offend your masculinity I’ll drive it back there for you.”
I didn’t hesitate, stuffed my manly credentials under the seat and let her do it. She climbed in and twenty seconds later she had the trailer positioned at the end of the road ready for Murphy.
The paddocks on her farm were wet and the grass was soggy. It was tough going in our wellies for a couple of old codgers but Jane strode out carrying a bucket of feed and a pig board explaining that Murphy was lodging in a forest on the other side of the farm. We finally located Murphy who turned out to be a handsome, if slightly moth-eaten in places, a big black boar with the most wonderful elfin ears, quite unlike the floppy ears that obscured the vision of all our animals back at Moons Green. He was most amenable and eager to join us in a return walk across the fields to the waiting trailer providing Jane kept reminding him with a rattle of the pig feed which direction to take.
Now our pigs have never been easy to load onto a trailer. We’ve taken to parking the open trailer near their pig arks the night before we transport them in the hope that they’ll get comfortable and climb the ramp. But it’s never been a simple matter and we always allow a few hours for mucking around trying to persuade them to take the first step.
Murphy, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate. Straight up the ramp and into the soft straw inside the waiting trailer. He obviously associated travel with girls and was anxious to get on with the journey knowing that there were rewards waiting at the other end.
I drove even more slowly on the return, terrified that we were going to end up in a ditch with a missing trailer wheel, a broken trailer and a pissed off old Berkshire boar on the lose. But it was an uneventful journey and we arrived at Moons Green 45 minutes later, unhooked the truck and moored the trailer to Philip’s World War II tractor for the short passage to the waiting girls.
The ladies were waiting, eager to meet the contents of the trailer. The Old Spot mother of last year’s babies was standing at the front. When Murphy alighted he sniffed around a bit and found that our Old Spot Mummy was eager to make his acquaintance. No wallflower, she. The two will certainly pursue a romance. But our young girl, the product of a mad run through the electric fence last year of a British Saddleback young stud anxious to make his mark with the ladies, was frightened of Murphy and held back.
The business end of Murphy
Murphy’s here to stay until the business is done. It’s unlikely to take more than a month. (The pig cycle is just 21 days.) And then we shall wait 3 months, 3 weeks and 3 days to see what glorious magic he has wrought with our three lovely girls.
Look at the ears – wow!