WOKEN BEFORE dawn by an unearthly screeching, I stumbled to the window. Had an owl caught a hare? Or worse? The shrieking grew louder. “Pigs,” my nephew informed me the next day. “They’ve just moved into Robson’s farm. Weaners.” The squealing weaners, youngsters recently separated from the sows, were missing their mothers. Since then they’ve gradually settled. Of all animals, the pig’s voice is closest to ours. Our natures aren’t entirely dissimilar either: an intelligent eye that misses little, a gusto for the trough and a dedication to wallowing. No wonder George Orwell, in Animal Farm, made pigs and humans interchangeable in the roles of both visionary and totalitarian despot. My favourite pigs in our locale can be found on Thornhil