The Sussex ratters turn out in force

Guns are held by old Tom, Young Tom, George and Stanislaus, Wayne is tally-man with gauntlets and sack, and Bethany is organising us.

We also have Jean-Pierre over here on holiday, with whom Wayne has been hunting in France, George's great-nephew John, my Godson, great lout that he is nowadays, and a friend of his that I don't recollect saying he could bring.

Only the Ratters have been squirrelling before, so Bethany's safety briefing is even more thorough than usual. I miss most of it as I am watching a pair of buzzards lazily riding the wind.

There is a brief moment of anxiety as we encounter a locked gate to which we may not have a key, but we find George has it, after a major turn-out of pockets. We drive on through and park at the shepherd's hut, our lunchtime venue, then set forth.

We find dreys almost at once, and after some solid encouragement, our first squirrels are out of them and scurrying along branches. Dogs dive at tree-trunks to turn squirrels back round the other side where shooting is possible, and Old Tom is responsible for knocking out a drey full of young: a good job done there.

Well-grown juvenile squirrels starburst out of the next drey too, one of them making a grave mistake as it runs along a dead branch which breaks, and delivers it into the mouth of one of the new Jacks.

Old leaves and mucky debris rain on my head as I get too close to the next drey, while Jean-Pierre rattles a trunk with George's thumbstick, causing a squirrel to spin round into Stanislaus's sights: just the job.

Wayne is picking-up, those gauntlets a protection against a bite from a squirrel not quite as dead as we thought.

Have you seen their big teeth? You wouldn't want to be a walnut either.

It is so interesting the way new dogs fit in with the established pack.

The old Labrador is happy to share retrieves with the young one, the terriers have taken to the job as if they have been doing this all their lives, and the Cavvy's tail hasn't stopped wagging as she bores along the woodland undergrowth, trying to beat Wayne to the fallen squirrels.

But the terriers are faster, and just as well. Dreadful the dachshund is pulling ahead and possibly on the wrong scent, but that would be nothing new.

We work in a circle which takes us back to the lunch hut, Wayne's sack almost too heavy now and time to change it for a fresh one.

The Godson and his friend are unpacking flasks of soup and a big bag of food for all of us, supplied by his saint of a mother, and Bethany has disinfectant soap for us to wash our hands with.

We are absolutely filthy: our hands are the least of it, but the principle is sound.

We gather around the long table to discuss the morning. The hut door stays open to admit the welcome sunlight, there is the smell of coffee, and two buzzards are still riding the thermals above.