The end of the line

Today, the Berkshire boars have reached the end of the line. After eight months chewing up the grass, roots and goodness of Devonian soil, they have been taken to the abattoir. At the weekend the ubiquitous Ifor Williams trailer was manoeuvred into place, the ramp opened (and held firmly in situ by a goodly chunk of metal bar), and for three days they have been fed inside the trailer so that their loading would be entirely stress free, for humans and pigs alike.
No matter how many times you do this, intimations of mortality haunt your dreams the night before and sleep is inevitably broken and unsatisfying. No matter how scrupulous the planning and preparation, you worry about an unhappy loading, with one or more pigs careening off into pastures unknown at the last moment in Tamworth Two fashion. I am far more relaxed when taking lambs to slaughter; they may wriggle but they are eminently handleable. By the time they are mature, pigs are not easily persuadable or coerced and you simply cannot catch an errant pig.
But it all went off without a hitch and the paddock is now empty, bereft of grass and moon-cratered. I will wander through it to pick up any ancient rubbish that they might have unearthed; bits of old baler twine, small tractor parts, gate catches and heaven knows what else. The pig ark ramp needs replacing; they used it in their games and have chewed great holes through the ply to more easily poke their snouts into previously untouched territory.
Come spring the grass will once more cover the ground, and a new lot of weaners will take their turn to rummage and explore.