The Initiation

The Pig Field

York Avenue, East Cowes, Isle of Wight 1956

For as long as I could remember, in the top field adjacent to the Bommy Building laid in tangled profusion was a fallen sycamore tree, from root bowl to its topmost bough it was at the very least sixty feet in length. It had long since lost its outer bark, many of the broken branches had long since rotted away from the main trunk which laid across the breadth of the small field liken to a bridge. The only vegetation of any worth still in existence in the field was a plethora of twisted prickly thistle that wound itself in hardy abundance together with stinging nettle and wild bramble that grew up through the tree adorning the still mighty trunk in a green leafy mantle.

Two of my friends Michael Brinton and Philip Hunt were boys that had in addition to being notorious and imaginative storytellers had always enjoyed being sadistically creative. Whilst stealing birds eggs, catching fish and newts may have been considered quite normal when I was a boy, pulling the wings from butterflies most certainly was not. As usual some of us, Sherf, Alan Hick, Robert Mullet and his cousin John Riddell had met at the old green bench seat which was situated beside the bus stop across the road from Kent House on York Avenue. Michael was both very animated and excited as he outlined the details of a grisly dare that both Philip and he had undertaken, allegedly, only minutes before we had all arrived. The small field immediately behind the bench had been given over to a couple of families of grubbing pigs. For several years the greater part of the field had been rooted out and snorted over until hardly a blade of grass grew save for the huge old fallen sycamore that laid across the field almost corner to corner.

The boys described their daring do, it seems we had all just missed it by minutes, each moment of their evident success lighting up their faces almost to the point of drooling. To gain access to the fallen tree was reasonably easy from the York Avenue side, it was a simple matter of climbing over the fence and pulling yourself up through the mass of thick twisted roots and once up you were able to walk, albeit carefully, along the whole length of tree trunk. On the left-hand side of the tree was the small piggery field containing three pigsties which housed many piglets, six sows and the biggest and most bad-tempered old boar pig I had ever seen in my life. The big boar unlike the others was a bit of a loner whilst his harem was more than happy, when not asleep, to roll and snuffle for whatever they were able to grub up within the rich dark ooze that surrounded them. Sometimes the pigs would take the opportunity to wallow in the mud pools gifted to them by the recent summer rain. As the fallen sycamore tree served the purpose of a stock proof division lying as it did across the breadth of the small field, everything to the right-hand side of the tree remained verdant and lush and untouched by the pigs.

Disbelief and scepticism were written across our faces as Mike and Phil finished describing what they had accomplished earlier that morning, just the two of them defying certain death by taking on the raging boar and stinging his balls with nettles. ‘Bugger off! you never did anything of the kind’ said Sherf, ‘that old bastard would have had you both for breakfast.’ ‘Bloody killed you more like, ripped you apart with his fangs’ said John grinning from ear to ear in obvious disbelief. ‘Bloody tusks you mean, not fangs, you daft bugger’ chastised his cousin Robert, ‘he’s a bloody boar not a Python.’ ‘Sounds like a lot of bull shit to me Sherf’, said Hicks. ‘Pig shit more like’, said Robert laughing. ‘That big bugger can turn on a sixpence when he’s a mind to, I’ve seen him when he’s been chasing them other big buggers off’. Hicks was now pointing a trembling finger at the old boar who was stood facing him with what Hicks felt sure were menacing eyes, unblinking and glowering liken to tiny red-hot coals. Robert, who was always the most introspective and thoughtful amongst us all pointed at the two boys feet. ‘There’s not a lot of dirt on your plimsoles, or your hands for that matter, both of you buggers would be covered in pig shit from head to foot if you had really been in there.’

Both Mike and Phil had sworn on their lives, crossed their hearts and hoped to die should they not be telling the truth. They alleged they had both walked along the tree trunk, having first wrapped their hands with Dock Leaves, and then carrying a bunch of Stinging Nettles pulled from beside the tree thus armed had continued quietly along the tree trunk and once they were at the bottom end of the tree they had jumped, a matter of two or three feet, into the pig field. Once in the field, ensuring that they were as quiet as possible, they had stealthily crept up on the old boar and when they were as close as they dared be, they had whipped his gigantic scrotum with the bunch of Stinging Nettles and when he turned on them both, roaring with pain and indignation, his gleaming tusks bared ready to trample them underfoot, they had both escaped by running as fast as their legs would carry them back to the safety of the tree.

A chorus of objection, disbelief and expletives was followed by Sherf abruptly bringing matters to a head by saying, ‘Ok yeah, fair enough, ok then’ as he nodded an agreement in Phil’s direction which had the effect of bringing the noisy confrontation to a momentary close.

‘All right then, good idea’, said Sherf pointing over to pig field, ‘we all go in one at a time and flick him up the balls, but you and Mike can lead the way and show us how it’s done.’ Sherf clapped his hands together, ‘come on you two get yourselves sorted and get in the field.’

‘Piss off, if you think I’m going in there’, said Hicks, who was still eyeballing the big boar pig, ‘you can bloody well think again.’ ‘Yeah, I hear what you say, but I still think you’re going,’ said Sherf grinning from ear to ear, as he placed his hand reassuringly upon Hicks shoulder,’ you’re too bloody windy for your own good, but don’t you worry nipper Gussy will be going in there with you.’ ‘What about you Sherf, when are you going in,’ I asked. ‘I’ll be in there, don’t you worry about that nipper,’ said Sherf quietly, ‘but what I was thinking is that Phil and Mike will show us how easy it’s done first.’

More objections loudly from both Mike and Phil. ‘Bugger off, we’ve bloody well done it once haven’t we Phil,’ objected Mike Brinton at the top of his voice. ‘If you buggers don’t believe me just look at my bloody hands,’ Mike displayed his hands high in the air, back and front, ‘they’re all red from where the nettles stung me through the dock leaves.’ ‘When they should be all covered in pig shit,’ mused Robert. ‘Bugger off Mullet, we’ve wiped it all off on the grass,’ protested Mike.

All of us, eyebrows raised, regarded his remarks with amused disdain, whilst Phil was just as vocally adamant that his previous encounters with all things porcine were and should be recognised as an achievement. He then like Mike made much of displaying his hands, which he also said were still red and throbbing as the result of being stung by nettles, as clear evidence of his accomplishment.

Sherf meanwhile, impatient now of both boys continued resistance, had suddenly by way of friendly but meaningful persuasion, dead legged Mike with so resounding a punch that we all heard the thump. Mike’s painful protests were to no avail. Phil began pulling handfuls of dock leaves from the hedgerow and instructing Mike to wrap the cooling leaves tighter around both of his hands. The rest of us began to do likewise. Mike had meanwhile, albeit reluctantly, climbed over the old iron rail fence and was now balancing upon the fallen tree trunk, looking down with some trepidation upon the quietly feeding pigs.

As ever, Sherf had taken charge and seemed to be taking great delight in preparing the rest of us, ensuring we were all adequately protected from stings with dock leaves and a helping hand over the fence and up to the tree trunk. Moments later the rest of us were queued, edging our way along the fallen tree ready to jump into the field and face the savagery of the wild beast that awaited.

Soon the small field was full of very nervous boys together with a great number of very noisy and over excited pigs. The pigs, ever curious, and having caught sight of the boys who were all bearing garlands of foliage in their trembling hands, had decided that it must be feeding time. Sows and piglets scampered forward squealing their delight, pigs just like dogs wag their tails when they are both pleased and excited and such was their united joy they all came running as one, all vying to be the first for whatever juicy morsels were to hand. Both pigs and piglets were as fleetfooted as racehorses as they sped towards the boys who unfortunately were not quite as nimble or as agile. Underfoot in the pig pen field was at best a sodden midden, but when one needed to retreat at speed back to the safety of the tree the ground beneath us became as slippery and dangerous as ice. I was the first to falter, crashing down into the vile stench, splaying out my arms and legs in the mud, I must have looked like a spatchcock chicken. My hapless downfall was closely followed by screams from Mike and Hicks, they both attempted to help each other to stand whereupon they fell into the curdle of black mire again and again. Robert and John had not ventured too far from the tree and were being pulled to safety by Sherf who was as yet unscathed. As he explained to us all later, when he had witnessed our distress and more importantly our collective inability to stand for any more than a few seconds in the slippery mud, he had made an executive decision to stay put on the tree as he was better equipped to help and stay guardian within the bastion of the fallen tree.

Sows and piglets, unlike dogs, do not lick your face or jump up at you to show their adoration or pleasure, but pigs do push their slavering, snorting snouts hard and enquiringly into your body and face in their ever-desperate pursuit for food. Although the typical pig’s bulk at first sight looks to be pallid and soft, this belies the nature of the beast, each one of the pigs was rough and tough with bristling coarse hair which grew sharp and piercing as steel wool over their broad backs.

The rich and pungent stench of everything porcine drifted up into the still warm air leaving its odious stain on the early Sunday afternoon of that beautiful summer’s day. Beneath the summer’s sun all of us were slipping and sliding in every direction and making little or no progress whatsoever, still accompanied by the large group of relentless, excited and as ever hungry pigs as they ran snuffling and nipping at our heels. ‘Come here you big bastard,’ screamed Phil, who was now determined at any cost to carry out his planned assault on the poor old boar. Phil began waving his bunch of wilting nettles madly in the air as the colossus of a pig stood and looked back at him with a blank disinterested expression before snorting loudly, turning and slowly walking away. It was at that same moment that Phil lost his footing and was now spinning in mid-air, his frail thin form resembling a broken crane fly as he came crashing down into the rancid soft earth and began sliding face first through the black slime. Dung and all manner of disgusting pig detritus was filling both his open mouth and nostrils as he slid to a standstill against a couple of large sows, their tails wagging seemingly delighted to accept whatever it was that he held in his clenched hands. Mike having fallen yet again was also on his knees trying unsuccessfully to regain his balance and was surrounded as he did so by a large group of shrieking piglets. So delighted were they to have someone to play with that smelt so much like themselves. His khaki shorts were by now jet black and taking on the appearance of a shining leather skirt, both his pockets filled to the brim with slippery black slurry. Falling yet again Mike plunged headlong into a wallow pig pool and for a second was completely submerged, reappearing moments later covered from head to foot in a greenish shimmering hue that sparkled and dripped iridescent beneath the sun. After countless crashes and splashes into the mire we all finally made our way back to the safety of the tree.

Sherf helped pull us up one by one from our by now mud sodden position beside the tree and onto the safety of the sycamore trunk by way of grabbing at a long broken leafy branch. He later explained that he had used the branch as he did not want to touch us when he helped retrieve us from the mire because we all stank like a cesspit and suggested we all should go home and get washed and changed and meet up again tomorrow.

The event, the Raison Detre, the highlight of our day was to have been the stinging in the balls, the whipping nettles slashed unmercifully against the exposed and dangling pink scrotum of the world’s fiercest boar pig. Sadly, the old boar had not figured at all, there had been no massive dangle down pink hairy scrotum defiled by daring swashbuckling boys with handfuls of stinging nettles, instead, there had been nothing more than clumsy humiliation. Retaliation of a kind by a group of his happy grunting and loyal sows together with their excited squealing offspring and our inept inability to place one foot in front of the other without falling over and sliding uncontrollably through the stench and vile midden of the Warners pig field had won the day.

The massive bulk of the old boar, seemingly unperturbed and completely disinterested in the day’s events that had taken place in the kingdom of his piggery, was more than happy to abandon his tribe of noisy porkers choosing instead to wander off to the furthest most edge of the small field and ponder. Once there the old boar spent his time peering through the open bars of the boundary iron fence, content to watch passers-by and those gathering waiting at the bus stop for the number 5 Southern Vectis bus to make its way slowly up York Avenue.

My mother was still very fragile from her recent illness, which meant that going home was not an option for me. Instead, I chose to leave the gang of boys and venturing over East Cowes Castle fields I made my way down to the shoreline of the Solent. How cool and clean the feeling of sea and shingle between my toes as I stood at Norris Castle Point where I was happy to spend the rest of the warm afternoon and early evening searching for crabs and shells, letting the Solent and the salt sea wash me and my clothes as best it could.