A Tale of Two Farms

“Could be worse,” David said to me one afternoon as I shimmied off my Wellingtons and poured out two inches of water. Showers of sweet smelling rain had been coming down for most of the six hours we had spent in the barley field, pulling up wild oats.

            “Oh?”

            “Could be pig shit.”

            Too true. On our second morning at Semeil Farm, where we start at eight am sharp, we were told that we were going to help Eddie (a Scottish local and ski instructor) and Roz (an English horse trainer who spends her winters volunteering at wild animal rescue centers) separate the piglets. They had to be taken from their mother and divided into boys and girls.

            This was going to be a much different experience than the one we had in Swindon on the three acres of Lower Shaw Farm.

            Back at Lower Shaw, we often heard sounds of the Buddhist choir coming from the non-residential kitchen and large dining room. That area was also used by Shiatsu Massage Therapists and the Wednesday Café, for which we baked lots of organic goodies to sell. In the loft was the yoga room where they have yoga classes for infants and mothers. Lower Shaw has been a communal place for over thirty years, hosting wwoofers, wanderers, and seekers from all over the world.

            At Lower Shaw, we met in the dairy (now a large kitchen) around eight am for a family breakfast. Andrea made soft boiled eggs, which are placed in adorable, little cups. We were instructed on the different ways of eating the eggs. First, cut off the top. You can then cut your toast into strips, called soldiers, and dip them in the egg. You can eat it with a tiny tea spoon or spread it on your toast. After you’re finished, you break a hole in the bottom of the egg shell so a witch can’t use it as a boat. (Huh? British witches must be teeny tiny!)

            The day’s work—watering the garden and/or poly tunnel, weeding, cleaning, and harvesting vegetables—was smattered with charismatic conversations among the wwoofers, farm staff, and whatever family members happened to be present that day. We stopped for elevensies, which was the first tea break at eleven am. We met for a communal lunch, then another tea break around four pm and finally dinner. (Yeah, I thought it was a joke when Merry and Pippin complained that they were going to miss all of the meals in the day.).

            Work on Semeil Farm (located in the Highlands of Scotland) is vastly different from Lower Shaw. It’s a proper farm with 300 acres, tons of sheep, about 50 pigs, chickens, turkeys, rescued Norwegian Fiord horses (a story for another time), posh Thoroughbred horses, and a ragtag pack of domestic dogs.

            We work hard, between seven and nine hours a day. (Over those four weeks, we’ve gained great respect for farmers. They work over twelve hours a day, seven days a week.) Our backs and arms and hands were sore and aching. We’ve never worked so hard—physically—in our lives. Exhausted every night, we pass out often before nine pm.

            It’s worth it.

            Semeil Farm is surrounded on all sides by breathtaking dark forests that creep up hillsides, rolling fields of waving grain, and wide open sky. As we weed and hoe, I pause occasionally to survey the landscape. It’s hard to believe that I’m in Scotland. I wonder if my ancestors worked these hills, so many years ago, before they set off for the New World.

            These black pigs have happy little lives until they’re taken to be slaughtered. They live in groups in muddy fields surrounded by an electric fence. Our job was to round up the piglets into a makeshift pen, then mark the boys and girls so that we could easily tell which one needed to be hoisted up and placed in the small trailer. When we grabbed the heavy, surprisingly fast pigs, they shrieked as if we were killing them. One kicked hard and got me right in the stomach. I didn’t let go.

            I was so proud of myself as I held the back legs of one heavy, squirming and squealing pig—it had to be at least seventy pounds—and David gripped the front legs. We handed it up to Eddie, who stood in the trailer. Then I realized that the front of me was warm. And wet. I looked down. There was a trail of pig shit going down my tank top and onto my jeans.

            I didn’t have time to clean until hours later.

            This is not a vacation.

            At the end of the day as we nurse our blisters and sore muscles, we’re proud to take an active part in this circle of life. Proud of the dirt under our nails and the farmers’ tan. It feels good to be working again.

(Written over two weeks ago, but never had the change to upload until now. We're currently back in the States...)