Ah, beloved Palmerwood, with its gardens, its stock-barns, its fields of cotton, tobacco, and indigo, its lakes and ponds brimming with perch, trout, and giant squid.
Enchanting Palmerwood, where the cries of the peacocks echo over the stone ramparts, where the lowing of the Hereford cattle rumbles in low and soothing undertone, and where the fragrance of the English climbing roses almost covers the stench wafting toward the manor-house from the peasant-mews.
Hmm. It's particularly sharp to-day. Damme the luck, if there's been another dysentery outbreak. Must have a word with Dr. Pooley about that. But I digress. Back to my pastoral reflections.
Magnificent Palmerwood, with its rolling expanse of pasturage and hunting-grounds, its exquisitely-appointed log-cabin hunting-lodges, its wooded hills teeming with yetis, its gentle valleys full of grazing stock, and its views of the Mississippi River and the St. Louis Arch off in the distance.
Majestic Palmerwood, with its armies of retainers and faithful servants, its helipad, its landing strip, its docks and marina, its armories and lighthouses. It is truly a wondrous place, a place to warm the cockles of the heart of every well-appointed fabulously wealthy country gentleman.
But perhaps its most distinguished feature is my prized herd of pedigreed Eurasian wild boars.
For years, I've been cultivating and breeding a particularly large and vicious strain of Sus Scrofa, the common wild boar. Bloodthirsty, massive, immensely powerful and inordinately clever, these beasts are the flower of Palmerwood's livestock. You simply can't imagine the thrill of chasing one of these gigantic boar-hogs into the field, the adrenaline rush of battle, and the exuberance of the triumph of eventually landing the beast.
Not only do they make for magnificent hunting, they're also delicious when ground up, flavored with pungent spices, and stuffed inside the body-cavities of coturnix quail by my executive chef, M. Bechamel de Bouillabaisse.
Springtime is the rutting-season of the prize pedigreed Palmerwood piggies. A magical season in all ways. Here's a snapshot of me in my country-tweeds, tailored expressly for me by MacGlanhorbernathyghannitie & Sons of Edinburgh (what they lack in pronounceability they make up in talent with thread and needle) and my redoubtable gamekeeper, Oliver de Baliviere, as we survey the boar-herds. Soon, as the snow recedes, the daisies peek forth, and Mistress Spring touches the earth with her bounty, the hunting-horns will once more ring out over the hills and dales of Palmerwood. Tally-ho!
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