"He wanted some pigs killed,"  Says Tom, our English friend who lives down the hill from us, across the road and towards the beach. Tom is about 70 and pretty fit. With his two-day stubble he looks a lot like an old Greek. He and his wife May had lived over here for about ten years and so his skin has taken on that weathered look that older Greek men frequently sport.

We approached the house on a morning walk to see how Tom was doing, since May has some ongoing health issues that require her to fly back to the UK, sometimes for weeks on end while she waits for various hospital appointments. The sound of a vacuum cleaner met our ears as his three dogs barked us a welcome at the front gate. Grateful of a pretext to take off his figurative apron, he offered us a coffee and so here we are, hands cupped around the hot mugs, sitting out on his terrace and admiring the view down the bay toward Gennadi. It's one of those Rhodean winter days that make you so glad to be here during February. The light is vivid since the humidity is low today, the colours of sky, sea and green slopes assault your eyes in such a way as to make you invite the attack willingly. The fields are so green at this time of year that they almost resemble those of Britain in summer and the wild flowers so abundant that it's one of those "the best things in life are free" and "I'm so glad to be alive" moments. Oh, and it's over 20 degrees C.

We get to talking about the kinds of things you do talk about when you live here during the winter months; sharpening chainsaw chains for instance. Tom's a useful man to know since, during his working life in the North of England, he at various times ran a quarry, drove "wagons" (as any British man will know refers to large HGVs) and even worked in an abattoir. Hence the reason why the conversation arrived at Tom's opening statement at the start of this post.

But first we'd also covered the subject of how to keep your chainsaw in good working order, we'd covered the treks we make to the hinterland (well, a couple of miles north of Asklipio to be honest) to collect logs for our wood-burners [So'mbas] or open fireplaces [Tza'kis] and heard a tale or two about Billy, Tom's Greek friend from the village who afforded us a chuckle or two as Tom explained how he'd had to teach Billy the safe way to chain-saw logs without losing a limb or two.

Tom then gets to an off-the-cuff remark about Stelios, who is moving his pigs because the site where they are kept at present is to become the site for two new houses that he's going to build. One's for his daughter, who's soon to be married, and the other, well you know, ever the eye for business has Stelios, a true Greek.

"I had to go up to the village yesterday because he wanted some pigs killed." Says Tom, much in the manner that you or I may say, "to get a loaf of bread." Stelios, knowing of Tom's abattoir experience, evidently calls him in when the bacon or ham stocks are getting low. This statement causes us to ask,

"How do you do it then? Do you slit their throats?"

"Yea, but not while they're still alive," replies Tom. "First you shoot one with your twelve-bore. That can be awkward, because if you miss, or don't fell the target right away, they're off down the hillside. Their pen is pretty big. Then it's a devil to catch up with them."

"So you shoot one, then what?"

"Well, you slit its throat to let it bleed, tie its back legs together and haul it up over the branch of an olive tree. Of course it was much easier in the UK. In the abattoir we had a scalding tank, which would remove the top layer of skin with all the hair in it. Here you have to skin the animal proper. Slit it open, get the insides out, then skin it completely."

Now at this point I should remind you, in case you weren't aware, that my wife and I are vegetarians. Y-Maria pipes up with a comment which expresses her joy at this being our dietary choice, since she's now quite gone off her coffee. But she's fascinated nevertheless, as am I.

I ask: "What about EU health and safety regulations then?"

Tom gives me a sideways smile that says, "You serious?" He continues:
"There is an abattoir up near Rhodes town I believe. prob'ly do it almost right up there. I reckon Gianni takes his there." Giannis is the local butcher who keeps his pigs down the valley from our home, as it so happens.

"How can you tell?" we ask,

"Because he keeps the skin on his pork, when you see it hanging in his shop. The only way you can keep the skin on is if you scald it to remove the hair. Otherwise you skin it like I do for Stelios. So I reckon Giannis now uses the abattoir." We agree, since we're certain that he did used to slaughter in the valley below us. We always knew when he'd done the deed, because we'd drive down the lane and cross a large patch of what was unmistakably blood, soaking into the dust. Either that or someone was using a chainsaw the way you shouldn't ought to!

And so the conversation continues and we learn all kinds of fascinating facts about how you saw up a pig's carcass. We hear about slicing the tendons above the trotters when dealing with the onset of rigor mortis and which bits of the pigs provide "back" bacon and which "streaky." For a couple of vegetarians the subject is strangely absorbing.

Eventually though, my dear wife decides that she wants a change of subject, so we return to chain saws and this prompts Tom to race around to his shed and return to show me his selection of 'Rat's Tails".

No, not real rat's tails. It's the slang name for those pencil-shaped files of varying gauge which you use to sharpen the teeth on your chain. Get a grip will you!

We stroll home with mental images of pig carcasses swinging peacefully from olive trees up the valley in Asklipio. Plus of the shed that Stelios destroyed because he felled a nearby tree with his chainsaw, but didn't follow Tom's instructions as to how to make the cuts to ensure that the tree fell away from the shed. Tom will no doubt be working on reconstructing it, since they need to hang sides of pork inside it from time to time.

Can't help feeling sorry for those pigs. They forage around beside that shed (that is - when it's not laying in ruins) while their close relatives hang in pieces from the interior walls. We couldn't help feeling though, that millennia of history were still being acted out just up the road.

This post is also on my other blog (with details of how to purchase my books), which can be found at: "Ramblings From Rhodes."