In her new book, Louise Gray tracks her project to spend a year eating only meat she has killed herself. Here, she describes visiting an abattoir for the first time

I wasn’t prepared for my first slaughterhouse. I did not research the abattoir in question or tell my friends and family where I was going. I wore a new blouse from Topshop with startled fawns on it. But the worst thing I did was to meet the pigs beforehand.

Gorgie City Farm seemed like such a positive place to start the project. The pigs, a cute rare breed called Gloucester Old Spot, live a happy and productive life. As I walk around the farm one morning in mid-November a family are admiring the latest litter. Squeezed between tower blocks at the tail end of the M8 on the west side of Edinburgh, it was one of the first community farms in Britain, fighting to retain a scrubby wee patch of green space since the 1970s. It was also one of the first farms to be brave enough to turn its main attraction into bacon sandwiches.

General manager Ross Mackenzie came up with the idea in 2013. The former project manager and captain in the Royal Logistics Corps has a clear and unsentimental eye and could see an opportunity staring him in the face over the top of the stalls. Gorgie City Farm gets a little bit of money from the council for providing a free facility for 100,000 visitors a year, as well as working with problem teenagers and disabled children, but it’s never enough.

Fortunately, the timing could not have been better. The horsemeat scandal meant that people were more eager than ever to know where meat came from. At the same time chefs were keen to buy whole free-range animals, not only because of the new fashion for different cuts of meat, but also because they taste better. Pigs are sociable animals and enjoy life on a petting farm. A happy life means less adrenaline, which taints the meat. Also the pigs here are kept on a varied diet, including fruit and vegetable scraps from the local supermarket, meaning their fat is richer.

Best of all, it made sense financially. As every pig farmer knows, it is virtually impossible to make money selling whole live pigs straight into the market unless you can keep costs ridiculously low – and we all know how that is done. But, like any fair-trade transaction, selling a whole pig to a restaurant direct means more of the profit can be kept with the farmer. It costs around £100 to raise a pig, yet they will barely sell for £50 in the market. In contrast, selling the whole carcass to a chef will raise £300, just about covering the transport and abattoir costs.

I hear about the enterprise via a French chef who suggests I use it as a genuine example of connecting food back to the farm. Like many of the visitors, I am keen to learn about where food comes from, although I want to go a little deeper into the process. Despite being told it will be impossible for me to get into an abattoir, the whole process is remarkably easy. I realise that a good chef can put you in touch with butchers, slaughtermen and farmers all the way back down the chain because this is how they ensure the best ingredients. Fred Berkmiller is more than a good chef, he is a great chef, engaged with his producers and passionate about making sure every aspect of his food comes from a positive place. He is keen to support my project, though upset that I refuse to sample his latest pig’s head terrine – brawn, or potted heid, as they call it in Scotland. He suggests I follow the pigs from Gorgie all the way to his restaurant and puts me in touch with Ross himself.

Ross is similarly unembarrassed about the fate of his pigs. After all, there is no question they are happy. The sows are not kept in farrowing stalls, which prevent them moving when feeding the litter, as they would be in most industrial units. Sure, a few piglets will be lost every year by the sows rolling on them, but that is just a fact of livestock management and another reality Ross is trying to educate the public about. The piglets don’t have their tails docked or their teeth cut because they are not so crammed in that they attack each other. The big old boar, who is much admired, and the pregnant sow, about to burst with piglets, have their own comfortable stables. We walk past to see the young sows going to the abattoir in a couple of days. They are towards the back of the farm, away from the main “petting area”.

The four sows seem content enough, snuffling at me through the bars of the stall, their eyes obscured by huge ears, like a floppy fringe. I am struck by their intelligence. They have a water tap they work themselves by pressing on a knob.

“What are their names?” I ask.

“Oh, we don’t give them names,” says Ross. “Well, sometimes the volunteers do, but I try not to encourage it.”

Soon after the horsemeat scandal, Gorgie started selling its own sausages in its cafe to bring money back into the farm. Now the cafe has been discontinued, but the sausages are sold at a local produce stall also selling farm vegetables. There are no labels extolling the virtue of organic or posh condiments, just a quiet pride in wholesome food. They sell out quickly. It is refreshing to see someone outside the bubble of middle-class foodies become passionate about providing good quality meat. “Why the hell shouldn’t poor people get to think about these things?” says Ross. “Or buy them.”*

The father of two admits he is a relative novice with animals; his job is giving the people a chance. When it comes to the question of managing the pigs, he turns to Denis the livestock manager trundling past in his overalls. He is a traditional stockman and tells me with some pride that he once raised rare breeds for royalty. Each species is different, he says, you just have to understand them to keep them calm. A sheep will always follow on; a pig will back up. That is why the slaughterhouse they send them to is so good; the animals are kept calm for the few hours they spend waiting in a new place, outside home for the first time. The lairage, as it is called, is as far as most farmers will ever go. “The funny thing is it’s a quiet place, the slaughterhouse,” he says. “Very calm.”

I set off for the abattoir from work. I have been doing shifts at the magazine Scottish Field and everyone knows about my project.

I gather up my notebooks and march out the door. I realise I am trying to normalise the day as much as possible, otherwise I will bottle it. I jump in the car and set the satnav. It’s a straightforward journey down the M8, the road that connects Edinburgh and Glasgow.

The abattoir is green corrugated iron with smart red gutters and has “Abattoir” in big letters above the door. No one is hiding what they do here. I park in the car park; it smells strongly of manure, like a farmyard. I tap on the receptionist’s window and an attractive blonde called Audrey comes to say hello. “I’m here to see Philip,” I say. “We spoke maybe a few days ago?”

“Oh,” she looks embarrassed. In the background I can see the general manager huffing and puffing as he puts on his overalls. He’s Philip Goodwin. I check the name written down on my notepad.

“Does she have safety equipment?” He isn’t even addressing me.

“Er, no, was I meant to?” I do not even know what abattoir safety equipment would be.

He mutters under his breath and leaves the office. Audrey lets me in. Smartly turned out, she has worked there for seven years and seems to like her job, despite not quite fitting in with the surroundings. She admits she has never been into the abattoir itself. The nearest she got was watching a documentary with that nice girl from Countryfile. She couldn’t watch it happen, she says, it would be too awful.

Philip comes back still huffing and puffing. My overalls are a few sizes too big and hang over the equally enormous boots like pantaloons. I rip the hairnet and struggle to get the hard hat to stay on my head.

“Come on then.” Philip opens some huge metal doors letting out a waft of cold air that smells like antiseptic and old fridge. We tramp down a cold concrete corridor. I am concentrating so hard on trying not to fall over my huge wellies, I almost go careering into the back of Phil when he stops suddenly. “You don’t speak to anyone, OK?”

Belts are filled with clanking knives. I hear a chainsaw and a man goes past with half a sheep on his shoulder.

We enter the slaughterhouse and now I see why I needed a hard hat. Above me chains and metal clank and creak into life. The first thing I see are cattle hanging by their hind legs. I’m looking up, holding on to my oversized hard hat, and when I look ahead I see blood splashed up the walls.

Philip starts walking, speaking a language I can barely understand. “Kill-out, live weight, dead weight, cold sale …” Men move around the room silently, with purpose. They wear wellies and plastic aprons over blue overalls, often cut off above the elbow to show off tattoos. Most are big blokes and the hairnets look oddly effeminate. They have belts filled with clanking knives. Some have chainmail aprons and gloves. I hear a chainsaw and a man goes past with half a sheep on his shoulder.

Phil is explaining the process. He talks about the mandatory on-duty vet checking the slaughter process, the Food Standards Agency officers checking the meat. I notice the animal is never slaughtered, but dispatched. They are not gutted, but eviscerated. The “pluck” – heart, lungs and liver – lie on trays for inspection.

“OK, let’s go and see your pigs.” I follow Phil into the “killing room” and force myself to look. The pigs come in two by two, because they are the most intelligent, “the most pally”, of animals, and because they do not like to be alone. The two slaughtermen stand above the pigs in a small stall – strong men, able to keep the pigs back with their legs. The first animal is held in the tongs, around the size of large garden secateurs; it barely struggles and goes down immediately, although the current stays on for longer, to make sure. The second pig looks perplexed for a moment but not panicked, then its moment comes and it is down. They are winched up immediately. One, two, three, four, less than 15 seconds then its throat is cut. That’s it.

They say it happens quickly and it does. But you know what? It is not the killing that is the most violent thing. It is what happens next: it is the skinning, the burning, the boiling … the evisceration.

Phil is explaining it in his language. “The ‘beater’ removes the epidermis layer. It is lowered into the water. We say scald – not boil – a pig.” The body comes out clean. The wrinkled haunch is like elephant hide. The hair is burned off with a naked flame. I keep my head down, trying to write notes, but my mind has gone blank. I’m concentrating on keeping calm, on stopping my legs from shaking.

“The men can kill 20 pigs in an hour,” says Phil. “They work eight-hour shifts from 7am to 4.30pm, with breaks.” It is a hard, physical job: they are as strong and unfeeling as the iron equipment, busy, alert, with ruddy cheeks; one has diamante earrings like David Beckham.

I feel confused, out of my depth. I am aware Phil is testing me but I don’t care. I have to leave the room. My hands are shaking and I have to concentrate to move my legs; it’s not just the huge boots slowing me down now, it’s the effort to stop shaking. “I never ever ever want to see this again,” I write. “I am NOT eating something that has been through a slaughterhouse ever again.”

The very nature of it, even legal, even “best practice”, is upsetting. “Bring on the CCTV,” says Phil. “We have nothing to hide.”

He looks at the walls, at the men, anywhere but into my eyes. “Do you not like what you see?” he says.

“No, no I don’t.” I see him feel bad for me, standing here in my clownish outfit, with my scrawled notes and shaking hands.

“Now don’t just be going down that tree-hugging route, Louise. If you stop rearing animals where the hell are they all going to go? I am 100% sure these animals met their end in a humane way. We as mankind have to decide if we are to eat meat or not,” he continues. “See when the lions stop killing antelope on the Serengeti? That is when I will stop.” Phil sighs.

We walk back to the office. “I do believe I have traumatised you,” he says, not without some satisfaction. I believe he may be right. I peel off my hairnet and overalls and faintly regret wearing my new shirt. “Ha! Bambi …” laughs Phil.

Audrey is still there but no one offers me a cup of tea or even a glass of water. Phil sits down at his desk and begins eating his lunch. He has white rolls filled with ham, of course. “Has a vegetarian ever worked here?” I ask, trying to engage them all in conversation. They laugh, “no”. I ask about his family and he softens at last. It’s a family business. Phil’s dad was the manager. “I wanted to be like my dad,” he says. “Doesn’t every son?”

It is clear Phil is proud of his job. He hands me his card. “Let us meat your requirements,” it reads. “I get satisfaction from doing a job well,” he says, “from feeding people. Do you want to eat American beef – and not know where it is coming from?” he asks. “I’m making sure farmers can get their meat to a local market.”

He’s right. Who am I to judge someone doing a proper job? I feel spoilt, stupid, judgmental. This abattoir may not be the most slick, up-to-date operation but it has a good reputation. It employs local people and, most importantly, while other small abattoirs shut down, it ensures that smallholders can continue to keep animals for meat – the same smallholders we all want to see thriving and providing our sustainable food.

I ask him about the effect on the workers. “I don’t think they can think or look at it mentally; they just see a shape and it disappears. It is just an object. Listen, no one works here who doesn’t want to,” he says. “Men who take to the slaughter room stay for life, men who don’t leave in the first few days.” Abattoirs do tend to employ men over generations – like Phil – but also labourers who “float”, who go from town to town doing this sort of job, who can disappear. Phil tells me about a 19-year-old boy who has just moved here from a dead-end job on the car wash. “He’s doing really well, he could go all the way …”

You can’t get to know the animals – especially not pigs. The farmer doesn’t do that, no one does that

I get back in the car and wait for tears, but nothing comes. I need to speak to someone who knows me well and phone my sister. As usual she is looking after the children and a little distracted, so I rush through my description of what has just happened. I tell her I feel shocked, dirty, like I did something wrong. She tries to comfort me like a child. “You did nothing wrong, it’s fine, you’ll recover. You must intellectualise it, distance yourself.”

Then she asks, “Should I be vegetarian? Should I not be feeding the kids meat?” And without thinking I say “no” and it is an interesting moment. I come back to myself. Surely this should be my first thought, to stop this happening? But it’s not really.

I no longer feel we should all visit a slaughterhouse. We should be protected from it, retain our innocence. We are too weak, we have to disconnect – to protect ourselves. I pull myself together and start back home. I leave the radio off, thinking perhaps I can process all this as I drive. And I’m not thinking about the pigs, I’m thinking about me. I pull off the M8 and let the tears come.

Eventually I summon up the courage to go and see chef Fred Berkmiller. The kitchen is all pepper and steam and gleaming copper pans. Fred floats from counter to oven to sink, shouting instructions. “Look!” He lifts a lid and there are bay leaves and cloves – and trotters. I wonder how something so positive, from Gorgie Farm, from Fred Berkmiller, could have turned into such a nightmare.

“Oh, Louise,” says Fred. “You can’t get to know the animals – especially not pigs. The farmer doesn’t do that, no one does that …” Fred has asked farmers not to send him photos of the cows he is using for beef, because it is too upsetting. “Everybody hates it, nobody likes it,” he says. “But as a chef, I have a responsibility: the customer is trusting me to feed them, to feed their children. You have to know, but you have to give yourself distance.”

Fred insists on visiting the farm at least once to see animals are well looked after, finding out about how they are killed and using the whole carcass. “I want a link between the men who raised and killed that animal and me. I want to make sure they all come from guys who have a passion for food.”

He accepts death as part of the process, and one that everyone should know about. “We are weaker than we used to be,” he says. “Because we are completely disconnected from our food.” Fred blames the supermarkets. “Look at the horsemeat scandal. In the end it did good because it made people think.” Fred points to his temples. “We have to know where an animal comes from, for the flavour, the quality.” He puts his hand on his chest. “For your own heart.”

“Food is freedom,” he says. “Understand it and you can make a choice. Ignore it and the supermarket does it for you. I know where the animal comes from and I know how to respect it. I use everything.” He opens up a pan to show me the pork belly sitting in sauerkraut, points to marinating loin chops, pulls out a tray of crisp ears.

Fred is telling stories through food. It is what I am doing, talking to Fred now. We are all telling stories, all the time, making sense of our lives, our choices, our food.

The Ethical Carnivore by Louise Gray (Bloomsbury Publishing, £16.99). Click here to order a copy for £13.93 from the Guardian Bookshop; louisebgray.com

*The text has been changed since the book went to press to reflect the fact that Gorgie City Farm cafe has closed. A local produce stall at the farm continues to sell the sausages.