The pig is dead, scalded, scraped and butchered, ready for the spit on Saturday. I was amazed at how with the right temperature, 65 c - the skin and bristle came off. He went from being a black big to a white pig. He's in a chiller now, until Saturday morning. Pig died as meat animals should die, one moment a mouthful and pleased with himself, the next dead.
Peter and Helen came back to the island today flying with Frank on Flinders Island Aviation - a charter - which means you can bring a fair bit more luggage. I should have taken down a shoe-horn and some grease, when fetching them, to get it all in. They got home to a beehive in their woodbox. The beekeeping project really has to get there.