13
The wind was in the right direction, blowing away from the pig farm, which was perhaps as well, given the strength of the aroma without benefit of a breeze.
‘Whew!’ Jenny wrinkled her short nose. ‘And they try to tell us pigs are really clean animals!’
Where were the sties? There wasn’t a sign of anything that Abigail would have called a sty, nor were there any pigs or piglets, for that matter. Instead, there was a series of low, domed sheds set in acres of oozy mud, which ran right up to the farmhouse. Was this what organic pig-rearing meant? If each hut represented even one pig – and she’d no idea whether this was so or not – she reckoned there was quite an investment there. Had the floods reached this far? Hard even to begin to envisage what a disaster that would have been. Though
