Before we took our life-changing leap from the fire of full-time employment into the frying pan of French country living, we used to nurture our dreams of a happier future during long walks in Markeaton Park, with our trusty hound, Max the Blunder Dog. And some of you readers familiar with this popular park in Derby may also be aware that there is a farm just at the back of it, spanning the surprisingly narrow border between the franticness of the City, and the peace of the rolling countryside beyond.
In our ever-growing desire to be in the Outside, away from the daily grind, the hustle and bustle, and the noise of the A38, our walks got longer and slower, and frequently took in an excursion to visit the various farmyard creatures butting up against the managed neatness of the family-friendly park. We watched the lambs frolicking in the little field behind the tennis courts; we mooed with the cows and curious calves that lumbered around brown-eyed and brown-bummed in the big fields adjacent to the golf course; and we made friends with the pigs that wallowed in the muddy enclosure next to the footpath that led to the woods. The small woods, where squirrels capered about knee-deep in conkers, and blackbirds drowned the traffic sounds with liquid calls to join them in a different world. The shady woods, deep with musty leaf-mould, where nothing grew but hopeful saplings and dreams.
It was here, on the oak-cloaked edges of reality, that our rambling end-of-the-day conversations voyaged from chest-clearing complaints about the pointless stupidity of our daily work tasks to shared aspirations of a happier way to live. And gradually those amorphous dreams of Something Different began to take shape, and to be populated with the imagined ingredients of a Better Life.
Certainly it would not have work-as-we-knew-it, or lots of Other People, or traffic. It would have lots of trees, and bird-song, and animals. Yes animals. Lots of animals. Llamas for sure (me), and definitely chickens (Simon). Maybe some sheep (too boring). Not cows (too big, too vacant). Dogs – of course (Simon). Cats – many (me). Possibly a donkey (me – because they look so sad and lonely and in need of love). Not horses (too expensive, too scary). Maybe pigs? Hmmmm…pigs……
We visited the Markeaton Farm pigs regularly. A breeding pair of Large Blacks (and their occasional piglets, who suspiciously disappeared over the course of the weeks) who would come running to the fence to get acorns and stale bread from a succession of passers-by, out walking dogs and toddlers on dull and dreary Sunday afternoons. We stood at the edge of their muddy patch of home, exchanging amicable grunts and aiming acorns carefully to ensure a fair distribution of treats amongst the highly competitive beasts.
They were ugly. They were big, and muddy, and pushy, and clumsy. But they had a certain je ne sais quoi. Even with the notable lack of little-piggy-eye contact (hidden as their eyes were behind their flopping black ears) there existed a feeling of psychological connection. You could stare into the big blank eyes of a large black-and-white cow and feel nothing but nothing. But you could not-stare into the tiny, elusive eyes of a Large Black pig and feel…. well…. a sort of sense of recognition. There was something oddly alluring about their self-contained geniality and their ability to project an air of thoughtful dignity whilst standing belly-deep in boring wet mud.
And so pigs found their way on to the list of must-have constituents of a Happy Life, where they lurked in whimsy as the seasons passed, patiently awaiting the day when we would find ourselves in a home in the country with space for them, and space in our lives to make them real.
