Foxglove December 3 2008

A BITTER wind is helping the last of the leaves off the trees, and the Sussex Ratters are here to help thin out some squirrels. If we reduce the numbers going into the winter, then we will do well by the nesting birds in the spring. We have had a very competent Health and Safety briefing from Bethany, who I think will make a good headmistress one day, and we set off in good heart along the track into the first copse.
By The Newsroom
Published 26th Nov 2008, 14:45 BST
Updated 8th Jun 2018, 04:21 BST

Here the leaves make a mottled carpet for us to tread, the dogs scampering and scuffling for ground scent ahead of us. The Labrador sends the first squirrel running for a tree, sitting back like the trained gundog she is, while a posse of terriers and that dachshund dance at the foot of the right tree in case we have not seen. Old Tom takes aim, and that is the end of the squirrel, which, after a brief discussion between the smaller dogs, is retrieved by the Bedlington.

The Labrador is not allowed to retrieve squirrels because a soft mouth is important for her real job, and if bitten by a squirrel, she might well learn to bite back. She does not mind this restriction, and if we get a rabbit or two, she will be permitted to retrieve those instead.

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Stanislaus has the other gun, though young Tom is hoping to get one for Christmas, and if he does (no promises but I have insider information) he will become our third Gun, which is plenty for a squirreling outing. His good eyesight is invaluable for squirrel-spotting, and he can pick out a drey among the branches with ease.

I notice that the dachshund is pulling forward; the blighter has got onto a scent, and I call young Tom to go with her. Meanwhile, the terrier pack is rousting out some formidable brambles and nettles, in which I suspect there might be a rabbit or a rat. Yes, here comes the black terrier, eyes snapping with delight and a decent-sized rat in her jaws. No-one may take it from her except her owner, Old Tom.

He leaves it discreetly draped over a tree branch while she isn't looking, to be collected and disposed of later. Wayne is our squirrel-bagger, and is putting them in a sack as we get them. He has turned out to be a really keen and helpful lad, fitting in well. The butcher wants squirrels, as many as we can get, for he has an established market for them. Any not fit for human consumption will be enjoyed by my ferrets.

Dusk draws in early these days, and after the second little wood, we work our way back to the chicken sheds, where we will be meeting to sort out the rats in a few weeks' time, after the poultry has been converted into Christmas food. Out comes the farmer with bacon sandwiches and hot chocolate. It sounds a strange mix but it goes down very well on a cold day after some steady exercise.

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Ahmed is showing round some photographs of his last trip abroad, where he took part in some traditional coursing with his uncle's dogs, and we are discussing hiring the village hall to have a video and photographic evening. Some hot mince pies appear as if by magic, and disappear the same way. And here comes the dachshund with young Tom, hurry up, boy, your sandwich will go cold, and Dreadful is carrying his very own rat that he caught all by himself.

Behind me I hear Stanislaus singing, and turn to see him with Bethany and Wayne, an arm round each set of shoulders, teaching them the rudiments of a dance that involves a lot of sideways and slightly less backwards and forwards. Their boots rustle the fallen leaves in rhythm, and their breath lies white in the failing light. Nothing brings different people together in harmony the way hunting does, I think, as I whistle up my dogs and turn for home.