To be fair, it would only happen once or twice each winter. I moved from Maia to Gaia (in those days I could only move one letter at a time) and I encountered the same thing again but by then I'd learned to recognise the tell-tale signs of those who were keeping pigs in the garage. It wasn't the smell (pigs are notoriously clean animals if properly cared for). It was the eagerness of the dogs living in neighbours' houses. Ooh, they had a friskiness about that that indicated that pigs were afoot. Or a-trotter, or whatever. Once the actual killing started, the screams of the pig were almost drowned out by the ecstatic howls of the local canine population. Not much chance of a sleep-in on pig killing day.

Of course, they don't do this so much anymore. I don't mean that they don't kill pigs. They do. Over 17,000 pigs are killed every day in the country, but fewer and fewer are done outside approved matadouros as the rules for home slaughtering are tightened. I've moved a few times since the last pig-killing neighbours woke me up and our current neighbours raise their pigs on the other side of the village. That is where their pigs get the knife so we don't hear it unless there's a strong wind from the east. Although these neighbours slaughter their pigs on the other side of the village, they do all the butchering and smoking in the house next door to us. Their tractor is driven from where it usually lives in the lower part of the house and the dead pig is brought in and hung up; knives are sharpened, and large bowls are laid out. Soon there is the unmistakable smell of the hairs on the skin being burned off and so starts the long process.

Compared to many people we know, we don't eat a great deal of meat and when we do it is mostly white meat, although I have to admit that we do enjoy a bit of pork every now and then. We love vegetarian food but would never want to be only vegetarian. What I have learned in Portugal is that being made vividly aware of the process by which animals are slaughtered and then butchered (i.e. by having it all done in your neighbours garden and, at times, right in front of you) is an important stage in accepting the realities of being a meat eater. Shutting your eyes and ears to how meat is prepared is no defence at all in being a flesh eater. If you can't accept the process by which the meat gets to the plate then you might not deserve to be at the top of that particular food chain.

A little while ago, my brother was over to stay for a few days and we went out for meal as you do, in some little hidden away rural restaurant. We were busy tucking into our non-pork meal and enjoying the conversation being carried on by two other diners, who had chosen to sit at separate tables on opposite sides of the room to have their little chat. The elderly gentleman, let's call him Senhor Alto, was one of those people who are convinced that the whole world wants to know his opinion on every and any topic under the sun. The elderly woman, let's call her Senhora Surda, was very enthusiastic in replying to whatever was said to her and she always had a quick repartee. However, she rarely heard correctly what it was that had been said, so the shouted 'conversation' across the room was a little disjointed.


My brother, not understanding a word of any of this, concentrated on his roast goat. The missus and I were quite enjoying this piece of amateur theatre when the proceedings were interrupted by two men bursting in through the front door carrying a whole dead pig across their shoulders. It had been gutted but was otherwise inteiro. They marched across the dining space, hanging trotters barely missing the heads of diners, and the Alto/Surda discourse was paused. The men took the pig straight into the kitchen. We were amused that it had been delivered through the front door rather than by taking it via the very serviceable back door. Sr Alto declared loudly that he would be back during the week to try a bit of that. Sra Surda volubly agreed. The heads of other diners nodded in appreciation and the whole episode was roundly applauded. I wondered what the reaction would have been in a restaurant in Britain if a whole dead pig had suddenly made an appearance in the dining room. I doubt it would be greeted with nods of approval. It did serve to remind me that far too often we are shut away from the reality of what we do every day and that a few sharp reminders, when the veneer of respectability is pierced, is no bad thing.

Author

Fitch is a retired teacher trainer and academic writer who has lived in northern Portugal for over 30 years. Author of 'Rice & Chips', irreverent glimpses into Portugal, and other books.

Fitch O'Connell