Report from Chris Smith
My boar babies - born to be free in the land of their birth
By Peter Clarke in the Scotsman 5 th March 2004
WE ARE a grandfather. Unto me are born seven enchanting baby wild
boar. Fatima, the proud mother, is the only person more chuffed than
me. Fatima's intelligence exceeds that of any dog I've ever met. She
could probably out-grunt most MSPs. We don't think Jasper, their
father, knows much about his accomplishment.
All baby mammals are ench-anting. Even baby Scotsmen. I adored my
quota of kittens, puppies, guinea pigs, hamsters and polecats, but
infant pigs have extra loveability.
The thrill of my cluster of babies is in mapping out their careers. I
reckon my seven boar will be 27 next spring and 100 by 2006. Compound
interest is very much like pig fertility. Within a decade, my furry
children will outnumber the Scottish Conservative Party.
I have two boars and five sows. It is perfect. Enoch will be released
in the wilder reaches of Galloway. Malcolm, named after the Lothian
and Borders Police Sergeant Malcolm Henderson, who is in charge of
wild beasts, will spread his seed in upland Perthshire. My neighbours
assumed I chose the name as a tribute to the illustrious Sir Malcolm.
Not even the sharpest boar is as quick-witted as the future MP for
Kensington.
Officialdom regards the wild boar as extinct in Scotland from the 16th
century. They were gone before the wolf and the beaver. This is wrong.
I was brought up in Knapdale, and knew of two boar who would roam near
Lochgilphead. The psychiatric patients at the Argyll & Bute almost
tamed them with treats. The wild boar is only aggressive when it is
guarding its young or if cornered.
Although my affections are entirely engaged by these little porkers, I
know all my daughters' fates are only breeding before oblivion in a
casserole of sausage. These beasties will probably not be hunted, but
in only a few years I see my heir-boar providing better hunting sport
than ever the fox did. The tourist quangomen ought to be enthused, but
they are timid folk ... far more coy than these tuskers.
I take pleasure in the harrumphing noises from their nest, but greater
joy at the harrumphing we will hear soon from Scottish Natural
Heritage and the National Farmers Union. Poor SNH is composed of good
people, but collectively they are daft. They are even opposed to the
dormouse being restored to the Rhinns. In their private hearts, SNH
staff are all pro-boar ... and pro-bison, bear and moose. Officially,
they will seek to stop my marauding Sus scrofa (the Linnean name)
sussing out the Scottish countryside.
The Stalinist mercantilists of the NFU are opposed to Nature winning
back the land. They prefer Scotland denuded of trees by their grim
sheep deserts. Man is the only predator of the boar - until our lynx
population grows to its niche limits. The soldiers of the XXth Legion
Victoria Victrix, stationed at Trimontium (the Latin for Melrose),
used the wild boar as their regimental emblem. I like to think my
babies and I are only reviving a long-lost continuity. The Romans
named us Caledonia as a compliment to the mythical Greek forest of
perfect hunting - Kalydon. So, in that sense my little squealing
bundles have better Scottish credentials than all our conventional bores.
My prodigies need sponsors. They have such intelligence and courage,
I'd like to offer them to David McLetchie as mascots for the Scottish
Tory party. It seems they are sticking to the lemming as their logo.
Who would like to adopt these cuddly, speckled personalities before
they grow into 20-stone mounds of muscle? One of our football teams?
In Dumfries, they could change their name to Swine of the South.
My pig expert assures me my babes will all be weaned by autumn and
must exhibit the spirit of enterprise to snuffle and grunt their way
through next winter. Looking at them today, when Fatima, with her
teats nibbled heartily, will permit a view, I have no doubt my
apprentice ruffians will transform the countryside of Scotland. And me
a nice Jewish boy.
Peter Clarke chairs The Wild Beasts Trust.
© The Scotsman, 21 st January 2004
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