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The pig, the whole pig and nothing but the pig
Imagine, if you will, Goliath, a lop-eared pig, living on a farm in the beautiful South Wales countryside in the early seventies. Raised and fattened along with his siblings while roaming free in a large field, he led an easy, if relatively short, life. He ate leftovers from the nearest school canteens, the farmer’s table and the acorns and pignuts he foraged in the oak surrounded field. He grew large and content.
As pigs will do he summarily ignored the magnificence of the surrounding Brecon Beacons and, with one goal in mind, kept his eyes and snout to the ground snuffling for tasty morsels. He breathed the fresh air of that land and lived peacefully until his first, and only trip, to the slaughterhouse on the other side of the mountain.
Goliath made the journey in the farmer’s trailer, towed behind his elderly Land Rover Defender, early on the morning of the 30th October 1972. He briefly marvelled at the world flicking by as they made their way through autumnal country lanes before emerging at the foot of the Black Mountain. They meandered up the steep winding road with the chill morning air nipping at his large ears and sensitive snout. His stomach began grumbling and he was in no mind to enjoy the view from the top as they began their descent to Brynamman and his final destination. By three o’clock of the next day he was dead and was…
