The Last English Poachers

by Bob

  We held the same parties at Christmas in the village hall, to make sure every kid got at least one present, no matter how poor they were. But it stopped when the population grew and the middle-class kids were seen chucking the toys away and saying, ‘I don’t want that rubbish’ – spoilt kids from the new houses; a different kind of kid. With their mountain bikes and mobile phones and promises – gifts of greed and gimme and gollop, to stand them in good stead for their future in the never ending cycle of slaving and shopping. Hark, the herald angels sing, glory to the Christmas fling! We never had anything much, so it was nice to go to a Christmas party and get stuff you wouldn’t get at home – jelly and ice cream and cake, and everyone excited about the present they were going to get at the end of it. There was an annual outing to Weston-super-Mare and we all looked forward to paying our couple of shillings to Mrs Blizzard up the road and getting taken to the seaside on a coach once a year. There were rambles in the woods, all the way round and back for a big tea. Jelly and ice cream means nothing now, everyone can have it any time they want, but we used to run hopping and skipping for such a rare treat.

  The village held a sports day once a year, just like in my father’s time, and you’d get a shilling for coming first in a race – egg-and-spoon or sack or piggy-back or three-legged. I’d enter every race I could, because I was a good runner and a lot of the time I won. And then there was a big communal nosh-up out on the playing field. There was fancy dress and me and two of my mates once went as the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker. I was the butcher, like my grandfather; or we’d go as Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men, or Laurel and Hardy. Cora always made the costumes for us and you got a prize if you won. We had pram races in the summer and ‘penny for the Guy’ in November and carol-singing from the back of a trailer at Christmas. And nothing much changed for years and years and years.

  But it all has now.

  Everything lost its character with the mass influx from the cities and towns. The village, the land, the people – it all became sterile and anonymous. Everything became consumerised, televisionised, cloned with no individuality and no real heart. Once we were known here as poachers; the police kept a sharp eye on us, the landowners hated us, the village people knew us and had game off us. Not many people really know us now. You might say anonymity’s a good thing in our game, and maybe it is, but it comes at a high price. And, anyway, I never really cared about being called a blackguard – a few months in jail never bothered me, a fine never bothered me, and what people thought never bothered me neither.

  I’m one of the few who’s been able to stay in this village and whose family goes back generations here, to the 1800s and even before. Whereas most of the kids I grew up with have had to move because there’s no social housing here and you need half a million quid to buy a property, or up to £1,500 a month to rent one. You need to be a banker or a fancy football player or a confidence trickster to be able to afford to live here now, so where can ordinary village kids go? They all had to move to places where accommodation’s cheaper – shithole towns and urban areas and city slums.

  It started when that old trollop Thatcher brought in the Right to Buy scheme. Everyone wanted to own their own council house – they had to go to work to pay the mortgage and became bought men. And women. Owned. In debt. Enslaved. Under the whip of the so-called entrepreneurs. Then Thatcher’s mates cut wages and increased working hours and everyone had to get two or three jobs to keep on affording the mortgage until, finally, they had to sell their houses to the people who live here now, and move off somewhere cheaper. So now there’s nowhere for local people to live in these villages.

  The people here now deliver Peter and Petra to school in Range Rovers and race round the lanes in Mercs and BMWs – anxious, uptight, jittery people, oblivious to country ways. The aristocrats were a bit like that years ago, aloof and arrogant, but they knew about the countryside and respected it. These people think they’re the new aristocracy and us Toveys are a little island in our little house, surrounded by sharks – property values and shiny cars and tinny accents and shrillness. All swimming round us, hoping to swallow us up. We don’t fit in any more in a place where we’ve fitted in for hundreds of years. There’s no room for us in an upwardly mobile society with values that ain’t ours.

  We were always different and people never knew how to deal with us. They were wary of what we represented – afraid of our freedom, our disregard for authority. It was dangerous, like the very lore of the countryside was dangerous, unpredictable. Steeped in the ancient and the strange and the essence of all things natural.

  Bob has a stuffed white hare in a case that he caught while long-netting on an estate at Andover, belonging to Eagle Star Insurance. There’s an old West Country legend that tells of a witch who took the form of a white hare and went out at night looking for the souls of broken-hearted maidens who couldn’t rest and who haunted their unfaithful lovers. If that’s true, then he has that witch here in our house, safe inside a glass case. Ha ha!

  And, at one time, there was a white fox in the area and I saw it once when I was out near Lutheridge Farm. I was in the middle of a field and all these magpies were making a hell of a racket. I looked across and caught a fleeting glimpse, before it disappeared. I tried to squeak it back into sight, but it didn’t respond, and it reminded me of the old stories about the white fox-woman of folklore who was beautiful, but skittish and dangerous and not easily tamed.

  Fire and frost in your eyes

  Are you woman, are you wise?

  Wild and sly, hunt by guile

  Tooth and claw, falsely smile

  Mouth blood-red, for your prey

  Slow to love, quick to slay.

  And that’s the countryside for me, how it used to be – wild and seductive. The feel of the giving ground under my feet and the wind on my face and the sky above and the trees and the meadows and the streams and the lakes and the light and dark of it all. And the animals – mostly the animals, with which I feel such an affinity – just a millimetre above on the genetic scale. They kill each other to survive and I kill them. I’m top of the food chain. But it was never all about killing. Life has to be given a chance to breed and recover. We put down rabbits and relocate hares and bring on gamebirds and wildfowl. We look after our environment. So, I suppose we’re conservationists in our own way.

  I have no son to pass this passion down to. And if I did, what would he say to me in these days of creeping disillusionment?

  ‘Who said you had the right to make me?’

  So, when my father dies, and I die after him, we’ll be gone forever. And I think of these words I read once:

  The rain across the woodland

  Is playing with the night

  And if it ain’t wrong

  It must be right!

  Bob with pheasant

  A Poacher’s Glossary

  Albino – A deer with no pigment in its skin or hair

  Balance of the day – Remains of the day

  Bagging – Loose netting

  Bang railer – A dog that likes to run on the rails – on a greyhound track

  BB – Big ball lead shot

  Beaters – People who drive hares in for open coursing

  Bee nettles – White nettle (plant)

  Blind-eyes – Hogweed (plant)

  Cage trap – A baited cage, used for catching vermin

  Chal – Gypsy word for boy or child

  Chitlin – Guts (of a pig)

  Chopsy – Mouthy – gobby – too much to say

  Clap net – A spring-loaded net

  Clobhead – An idiot

  Coney – Slang for rabbit

  Covey – small flock

  Creeping jinny – Moneywort (plant)

  Dap – A tuft of grass that isn’t worn down, where rabbits jump

  Deckhead – The underside of a ship’s deck (naval)

  Dibby – Merry or drunk

  Didicoy – A Gypsy, but not a true Romany

/>   Ditching spade – A tool used for digging down into rabbit burrows

  Drag-coursing – Running two greyhounds after a lure on a straight course

  Drag-net – Net about twenty-five yards wide and four yards deep, with a line coming off each of the front corners – it gets dragged along over stubble and grass and short kale to trap game

  Droppers – Live rabbits, used for spot-(drop)coursing

  Duckerer – A Gypsy fortune teller

  Duck frost – A light, early frost

  Fallow – pale brown / reddish (deer)

  Fenn trap – Spring-loaded mechanical trap – modern substitute for gin trap (now banned)

  Flankers – People used to control hares in open coursing

  Flapping track – An independent, unlicensed greyhound track

  Foreshore – The part of a shore between the water and cultivated land

  Form – Where a hare or rabbit quats (lies down in the grass)

  Funnel net – A net with a wide circular opening at one end, tapering off, to trap fish

  Gaff – A hook for landing fish

  Gavage – Method (instrument) used for force-feeding animals

  Gin trap – A mechanical trap with jaws and teeth for trapping a variety of animals

  Goatsfoot – Device used for cocking a crossbow

  Gone to bricks – Gypsies who live in houses and don’t travel any more

  Gralloch – The entrails of a dead deer

  Grunty – A tough guy, or someone who thinks he is

  Hazel – To rest, relax

  Hedge-mumper – Nosy parker

  Hind – A female deer

  Hingle – A snare made of wire and attached to a stake in the ground

  Hob – A male ferret

  Hotchi – Gypsy word for hedgehog

  Jill – A female ferret

  Joe-cockys – Boasters and Braggers

  Jug / Jugging – Roost / Roosting

  Landing net – A net used for landing fish, once hooked

  Long nets – Adjustable nets that are four to five feet high and a hundred to a hundred and fifty yards long, used for netting hares and rabbits (and other game as well)

  Lure – A manmade imitation (rabbit/hare), sometimes covered with fur and with a squeaker inside

  Lurgy – Slang word for disease or fever

  Mist net – Fine-mesh net, suspended between two poles

  Mitched – Bunked off school

  Molly – Moorhen

  Monkey-men – Con men

  Myxomatosis – An infectious viral disease affecting rabbits

  Night line – A baited fishing line, left overnight

  Nut stick – A straight stick from a hazel tree

  Open coursing – Running two greyhounds after a hare on open ground, where the hare has to be driven in by beaters

  Paddling – Flock (of ducks)

  Park coursing – Running two greyhounds after a hare in an enclosed park or field with an escape at the end for the hare

  Pastores – Bull shepherds (Pamplona)

  Pluck – The heart, liver and lungs of a dead animal

  Pompey – Naval slang for prison

  Pricker stick – Stick used for holding the noose of a hingle (snare) off the ground

  Priest – Short club, weighted with lead

  Purse net – A net with a draw-string, used when ferreting for rabbits

  Quarry – An animal being hunted

  Quat / Quatting – Lying down in the grass (a rabbit or hare)

  Quean – A female cat

  Roost / Roosting – Birds settling down for the night – a place where they do this

  Sally tree – Acacia (resembling a willow)

  Shackles – U-shaped metal links, closed by a bolt (naval)

  Shy – A hide, where the slipper waits with the dogs in greyhound coursing

  Slipper – Someone who slips the greyhounds in hare or drag coursing

  Slip snare – Similar to a hingle

  Spot coursing – Dropping a live rabbit on a spot and giving it a head start before letting a greyhound or lurcher after it (also called drop-coursing)

  Spring-gun – A mantrap, used by gamekeepers to ambush poachers

  Spur – Bone or metal protrusion on the ankle of a fighting cock

  St Stephen’s Day – Boxing Day

  Stud-tailed – Feline Acne

  Tup – An awkward person or thing

  Umiak – Eskimo canoe

  Widgeon – A dabbling duck with reddish brown and grey plumage

  Withy trees – Willow

  Wisent – European bison

  Yawney – A fool

  Ya-Ya – Toff

  Yoikes – Tally-ho brigade

  Bob Tovey, poacher

  Cora’s Game Recipes

  Please note all animals need to be skinned (or plucked) and cleaned before cooking

  Hare – Lightly Fried

  Place whole hare in large pot on top of cooker.

  Bring to the boil.

  Turn down to simmer.

  Place lemon, cut into four pieces, into pot.

  Cook until meat falls off the bones.

  Take hare out of pot and place on a plate or dish.

  Remove all the meat from the bones and place in frying pan with just a little oil.

  Fry on low heat until browned.

  Serve with creamed or jacket potatoes, carrots and onions (or alternative vegetables).

  Roast Pheasant

  Place pheasant in roasting dish.

  Place whole onion or apple inside bird to keep moist.

  Place streaky bacon over breast and legs and sprinkle with pepper.

  Pour oil over pheasant and allow to run into roasting dish.

  Stuffing can be prepared separately in a dish or placed inside bird (my preference is separately).

  Cover pheasant with foil.

  Place in pre-heated oven, then turn down to 150–170°C (elec).

  Baste well while cooking until meat is well done.

  Remove bacon and foil to allow pheasant to brown – turn off oven while browning.

  Serve with potatoes and choice of vegetables.

  Rabbit Hotpot

  Place legs and jointed back of rabbit in large pot.

  Add thick slices of potato, carrot, whole shallots or small onions, parsnip, leek and any other choice of vegetable.

  Cover with cold water and place in bottom of pre-heated oven.

  Cook until the meat is nicely tender.

  Make dough-boys out of flour, part milk, part water, pepper mix.

  Add to pot about 20–25 minutes before dishing up.

  Roast Partridge

  Place partridge upside down in roasting dish.

  Pour oil over bird and allow to run into roasting dish.

  Cover with foil.

  Place in middle of pre-heated oven and turn down to 130–140°C (elec).

  Cook for approx. 30–45 mins.

  Take foil off and turn bird upright and allow to brown – turn off oven while browning.

  Serve with potatoes and choice of vegetables.

  Afterword

  Bob working spaniels in Lower Woods, Wickwar, carrying his postman’s bag

  Bob Tovey was taken ill with pneumonia on 9 November 2014. He died on 7 February 2015, just as this book went to press.

  My father and I were out poaching for the last time together on Bonfire Night, 5 November 2014. We poached the Duke of Beaufort’s estate and shot twenty-seven pheasants. Bob got ill shortly after and spent time in hospital, before slipping away two weeks before his 77th birthday. He lived his life right up to the last minute and was talking about going out long-netting again on his very last day in the world. He said he’d had a good innings, considering all the things he’d done and the amount of alcohol he’d consumed in his younger days. He was a man who lived life his own way – he did what he wanted to do, not what others wanted him to do. He’ll be missed by his family and friends.

  Brian Tovey />
  I was so sorry to hear of the death of Bob Tovey. He was a unique man with an indomitable spirit, a rakish sense of humour and an elemental outlook on life. I had the great privilege of meeting and working with Bob on The Last English Poachers and it’s an experience that will stay with me for a very long time. Loss is an abstract concept – it can be relative, great or deep or gradual or unquantifiable. A glorious piece of the heritage of this country has been lost with Bob’s passing. I’m just glad I was able to know him personally, before he passed into legend.

  John McDonald

  I went out long-netting again on 7th March 2015. It was a lovely spring day and I netted thirty-one live hares at Ballington, the last place Bob and I netted together nearly three years earlier to the day – mentioned at the end of Chapter 11. It was a poignant coincidence and I could feel my father with me.

  Brian Tovey

  Bob with Biddy, the last spaniel he owned, spring 2011