About 8 years ago I had one of my seminal farming moments.

My uncle had recently begun to farm. One of his first projects was to rear two Highland cattle. I was captivated; they were positively gorgeous: orange and hairy, quite small and friendly. I loved the farm and the animals. As they increased in numbers I loved being roped into activities by my uncle.

The cows even had names, Hengis and Cowsa. My uncle's a funny man. After they were killed, Mum and Dad bought some of the meat, and we had it, one Sunday lunch. I knew what was going on, pre-teenage, an age not to be lied to.

It was served to me, and I sat there looking at it, for what seemed like a lifetime. I didn't know what to do, but I knew that it mattered. Not the eating or not eating, but the process by which I decided. How I felt.

I was curious, and put some on my fork. I thought about them, on the farm, and the fun we'd had (all of us). Then I ate it and it tasted amazing and I had no regrets.

Eating is a celebration of life and work and a reflection of who we are

36 of Harry's cattle are leaving the farm this week, on their way to the abattoir. As he explained how they are killed, and how the cattle become meat, I was reminded of the fascinating albeit challenging experiences I'd had drawing in the dissection rooms of the medicine department at Oxford. It had been illuminating and rewarding on many levels, and a profound privilege.

Now, I want to see, understand and deal with the killing part of the (commercial) farming process in the abattoir, that missing link between the farm and the supermarket. Harry's a perceptive and a generous man, and to cut a long story short, he has arranged for me to go with them...