The Pig Man

I was out driving on an old dirt track, in the summer, exploring, discovering new short-cuts and old ruins, when I came across the pig man.

The Pig Man

 

The pig man walks his pigs through the cork oak forest. He lives with them. Eats his bread with them. Tall and gaunt, the clothes live on his body, black and brown. I pass and wave from the car. At first he doesn't react and I think I'm being snubbed, another bloody foreigner.  But glancing back, I see him slowly reach for his worn-shiny cap and raise it from his worn-shiny head. He swings it round in an arc, an all-embracing wave. A beautiful, courteous movement from the dark ages, of chivalry and serfdom. I am honoured and humbled by his expansive grace, his acknowledgement of my passing. Then I am gone, the dust settles, the noise fades, and he is left with his pigs in the heat-beaten clearing.