An Unusual Travelling Companion

It was the evening after we had dispatched the Newhouse Farm turkeys for Christmas, and it was my turn to do the rounds and put the animals safely away to their beds. It was a bitterly cold evening, and on the horizon the clear sky was stained a molten orange as the sun sank behind a hill. The ground had remained frozen for most of the day, and as I walked to and fro from one animal enclosure to the other the icy grass crunched beneath my feet.

My final stop was at the pigs' enclosure, where the two sows were already waiting for me to arrive with hungry excitement and wild squeals of impatience. I tipped a bowlful of food into their trough, smashed the ice in their water bowl with a large stick, and then walked across and stared at the now vacant lot of the neighbouring enclosure. The turkeys had been next door neighbours to the pigs, but now their grassy enclosure was deserted and the perches that lined the shed were empty. The plucked turkeys were hanging upside down from a beam in one of the outbuildings, their flesh chilled by the freezing air, where they'd be left to hang for a week until Christmas Eve.

The only evidence to show that the turkeys once lived here were a mosaic of their footprints in the mud, frozen in place by the cold. The sight of these footprints triggered a sudden surge of sadness within me, my face crumpled, and for the first time that day I allowed myself to let out my feelings for the loss of the turkeys with a tremendous onslaught of tears. Perhaps I was just being an overly emotional city girl, or was simply over tired after the lack of sleep the night before, but after a few minutes of crying and sniffling, backed by the sounds of contented munching from the pigs eating their dinner, I felt a whole lot better. Wiping my face on the back of my sleeve and bidding a quick "Good night!" to the pigs I walked briskly inside. I had packing to do, because tomorrow I was leaving Newhouse Farm for the North.

I was going to spend Christmas this year at my mum's house, which lay 380 miles to the north in Cumbria. I had planned to get there by train because a) I was a very firm believer in using public transport wherever possible, and b) because I didn't have a car and therefore had no option! However as I was booking my tickets my green credentials were sorely tested when I discovered just how long the journey was going to take and how expensive the train tickets were. After a bit of research I realised that it was considerably cheaper and far quicker to travel by plane, but after five minutes of humming and hawing and muttering my anger at the train company for their lack of cheap tickets, I realised that I couldn't possibly live with myself if I took a domestic flight and I was of course going to travel by train. I'd been relying on trains as my main method of transportation ever since I left home at the age of 18, and there was no way I was going to relent now. Besides I had managed to go this entire year without flying, despite having taken a holiday abroad, and there was no way I was going to break that record with a cop out domestic flight. My eco-credentials could remain intact and my green halo in place!

Although I was leaving Newhouse Farm for Christmas I had no intention of travelling on my own. I was insistent on having one particular travelling companion, namely Featherweight the turkey. After six months of caring for the turkeys, and having helped to dispatch and pluck them today, there was no way I wanted to miss out on eating a Newhouse Farm turkey on Christmas day. The journey ahead was long, and I was already laden down with heavy suitcases and bags filled with presents, but the turkey was coming with me and that was that! It was the smallest turkey of the lot, only weighing in a 8lbs: I could surely manage that. Yet for all my enthusiasm, I was slightly concerned about whether the meat would become contaminated after spending the best part of a day on a train blasted with hot air conditioning. However Dick reassured me that so long as the turkey was drawn and frozen, and transported in a freezer bag, it would survive the journey in perfect condition.

The following morning I stood waiting for the first of several trains that was to take me home to the North. I was filled with excitement and Christmas cheer and surrounded by bags, one of which contained my travelling turkey and another of which contained a delicious picnic complete with a plate, cutlery and even a mini-bottle of champagne. Unfortunately the journey to the North soon became the journey from hell! My first train was cancelled, the replacement train had no spare seats and passengers were crammed in like sardines and mumbling and grumbling about the rail service in typical British fashion. There was absolutely no room for me to attempt to tuck into my picnic. As the journey progressed and I had to change trains and haul my luggage from one platform to another my bags became heavier and the turkey felt like it weighed a tonne. An hour spent at Birmingham train station was a particular low point: by the time the final train left my Christmas cheer had all but evaporated. Eventually, hours later, the train arrived at my destination and I bundled myself and my baggage onto the platform to be greeted with a huge hug from my mum. I'd made it. Christmas could officially begin!

The turkey had survived the journey in perfect condition, and on Christmas Eve I began the preparations for Christmas dinner. Before I moved to Newhouse Farm I'd been vegetarian for 15 years, so this was the first time I'd ever prepared a turkey. I was excited and nervous: I wanted to do right by the turkey and make sure I cooked it perfectly so that the meat would taste as good as it ought to. Although I'd never cooked a roast turkey before I knew there were a couple of key things I had to look out for: the breast had a tendency to be dry so I need to ensure it retained it's moistness; and the bird wouldn't be fully cooked until it's leg juices ran clear.

After perusing a few cookery books, it was good ol' Jamie Oliver who came to the rescue. Being a considerate chap he'd made a whole series of programmes on how to cook the perfect Christmas dinner, and I followed his suggestions, improvising now and again to make up for missing ingredients. I made a butter rub with chopped apricots and sage which I stuffed and spread beneath the skin on the breast. The stuffing contained breadcrumbs, lemon and satsuma zest, local sausage meat and more fresh sage. I experimented with homemade gravy, using the turkey's neck and a glassful of mulled wine to add extra flavour. And finally I placed a couple of halved satsumas and a handful of fresh herbs inside the cavity, which would apparently steam whilst in the oven and add a delicate zesty flavour to the flesh. A few hours later and Featherweight the turkey was dressed to the nines and ready for Christmas.

On Christmas day a delicious aroma filled my mum's kitchen... essence of turkey. It had been cooking for several hours and was now resting on the side whilst the rest of Christmas dinner was being cooked. My mum's dog seemed hypnotised by the smell, with a kind of glazed expression on her face as she sniffed the air and licked her lips. My mum was vegetarian and we realised the dog would probably never have smelt turkey before and it was quite clear the smell was driving her crazy.

After several hours of cooking Christmas dinner was finally served. This was the moment of truth: how would the turkey taste, and would I be able to eat it? I knew of quite a number of people who couldn't stomach the meat of an animal they'd raised, and although I was fairly sure this wasn't going to be the case with me the proof was going to be in the eating. Before I tasted anything else on my plate I took a bite of a piece of turkey breast and chewed expectantly. "My goodness!" I exclaimed. I ate another piece, "Oh boy!" And another, "Oh wow. Mum I know you're a veggie but you've got to try this!"

I am very proud to say that Featherweight the turkey tasted absolutely delicious. Admittedly I didn't have much frame of reference as I'd only ever eaten turkey once or twice before. But the meat was tender, juicy, and full of flavour, nothing like descriptions of dry, tasteless and chewy meat I'd heard people describe turkey as being in the past. What's more the homemade gravy was divine, and even my mum conceded to trying a morsel of turkey and agreeing it was very tasty.

All in all the turkey was a complete success. After clearing my plate I slumped back in my seat, a look of contentment on my face as I rubbed my full stomach. This former vegetarian had managed to raise, kill, cook and eat a turkey, and I realised I'd happily do it all over again. I thought of all the other turkeys from Newhouse Farm, and wondered if they had been eaten yet too. The only trouble now, I thought as I looked at the remainder of my roast turkey, was how on earth was I going to manage to eat all that leftover meat?! An 8lb turkey had sounded small to me at first, but I'd only managed to make a dent in it and there was still an awful lot of gorgeous meat left. It was going to be turkey sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner and I'd be carrying that 8lb turkey back with me on my return journey, but this time on my thighs! Just then I caught sight of my mum's dog, who was looking more entranced by the smell of turkey than ever. "I think it's going to be a very merry Christmas for you too" I said, to which she pricked up her ears and wagged her tail.

As a postscript to this story, I successfully made it back to Newhouse Farm after polishing off the rest of the turkey with assistance from a very eager canine helper. Being involved in the process of producing meat for Christmas dinner has been a phenomenal experience. Despite at times being overwhelming, I feel privileged to have had this experience which has allowed me to truly appreciate why it is so important to eat good quality, free range meat. I'd never have eaten turkey for Christmas otherwise, or any other meat for that matter. I don't want to get preachy and start on an animal welfare rant, but I hope that any one who has managed to read this lengthy turkey tale considers where their meat comes from before they put it in their shopping trolley. I know I'm lucky, I get to be able to raise my own meat and ensure that is has a decent quality of life, but not everyone gets the opportunity to do this or would want to for that matter. But if we could all start buying humanely produced, local produce, ideally from a local butcher's rather than a supermarket, these little changes could make a big difference.