Voices of the Countryside

You may have seen the story: the 2010 Equality Act could protect people who hunt. Here’s how it could play.   An interview at the Carter Jonas Game Fair Theatre has led to column inches and TV debates. Ed Swales of Hunting Kind, a group dedicated to ‘natural hunting’ with hound, ferret and hawk, obtained legal opinion which says that people who hunt could have “protected characteristics” under the 2010 Equality Act and that they must establish cases of discrimination against them. He announced his findings at the Game Fair. Thanks to the publicity, the UK’s media has enthusiastically taken up the idea of protecting people who hunt or shoot in the same way that the law protects Roma or LGBTQ communities. There was an article in the Daily Telegraph, then the Guardian, then the Daily Mail, and hot on their heels came the TV interviews, on Good Morning Britain and even I got the call-up from GBNews. There are few solid arguments against it, except for the emotional. Ed had one interviewer pointing out that Ed chooses to hunt, that he could choose not to hunt. The answer to that is that we choose to do everything – shop in supermarkets, go on country walks – that's culture. The culture Ed is defending is a different culture to the interviewer's and Ed is trying to protect it.

My faithful farm truck sits in the yard, not exactly sure how it is supposed to spend its days - or justify its hefty running costs. What's the future for such a loyal beast? Join me, if you will, in some automotive anthropomorphism, and spare a thought for Tigger the Terracan, who sits in the farmyard, having a bit of an existential crisis. Tigger, you see, is my farm 4x4, and, since our semi-retirement, it hasn’t had much in the way of work. When we were full-on farming, it was out and about most days: hauling, carrying, towing and giving lifts and shuttling me back and forth from my tractor and combine. And in all those tasks, it was pretty well unbeatable. But now its days are quieter. Almost too quiet.   Let’s go back a couple of decades, though, to when Hyundai was a bit of an unknown quantity in the British motoring world.  In 2003, I was invited (as an F-list motoring journalist) to the launch of the Terracan in the North Yorkshire Moors. And as my test car made its way along a deep riverbed (not sure you’d be allowed to do that now) I was impressed. Here, I thought is an old school 4x4 of immense capability.

The life of a huntsman can sound idyllic – but life in kennels is tougher than it might look   For many a young thruster, or a hound-loving puppy walker, being a huntsman is the ultimate dream job.  To have your very own pack of hounds who look to you for instruction; to lead the pack in your scarlet coat, and uncover the mystery of the ‘golden thread’ – the so-called invisible connection between a huntsman and his hounds. Surely that doesn't sound like a chore? The pomp and the ceremony are all very well, and watching the hounds parade with the huntsman blowing them on is a spectacle which the public love to see. But what is the reality of a huntsman’s job and lifestyle? Behind the gleaming brass buttons and the polished boots, what does the day-to-day look like? With hunting traditionally sticking to set ‘seasons’, the job varies depending on where we are in the hunting calendar. Perhaps one of the first things to learn is that the hunting year starts on the 1 May.

We pay a high price for the privilege of getting lost in the back country - but is it worth it?   I was not new to it - it was my third day hunting quail in Arizona so I knew what I should expect, but the frigid air that hit me was a surprise. I had never had to travel in the small hours before. It was necessary to get where we were going and leave enough of the early morning for hunting. Joe appeared out of the night. His Ford F150 truck, fully tricked, crept into the parking lot off the interstate. Nothing that big should move that quietly in the dark.  Joe’s wife had been up early, and she had been busy. “That’s bacon, eggs and French toast”. He handed over breakfast. There was a confident air about Joe that made him almost certain of finding his quarry and getting home, no matter what happened; no matter how deep in the back country he went.   His mountaineering days were numbered when his boy was born, and when his little girl came along, they were finished. Hunting and guiding had taken over. When he bow hunts in these hills for Mule deer he wears a .45 on his hip – “you never know who you'll meet out here” he explained  – but that extra precaution isn’t necessary when quail hunting with a shotgun. He had what the grey, middle-level management of the mundane, bill-paying desk job he’d left behind would have described as ‘transferable skills’. No manager was needed for Joe; he was his own performance review and he had the only key indicators that mattered in the dog box of the truck.

Looking ahead to the new grouse season, I think about my own birds in Galloway and the national picture at a time of great change and upheaval in Scotland.   The signs are set for a decline into autumn, and the moor grass has turned into straw. The start of the grouse season is upon us, and there’s a certain amount to look forward to in the hills of home. Despite some rough weather in the middle of June, the hatch in Galloway was fine and clear when it came in the last week of May. There were grouse chicks in the moss from the 27th, and some of these little birds were bold enough by the time the weather changed that it didn’t faze them. Grouse which lost their eggs at the first attempt were still sitting when the cold rain came, so today there’s something of a split between well-grown, almost-adult birds which fly strongly when flushed and tiny little cheepers which buzz around in the moss like bees. The next problem is heather beetle damage which became obvious in early July on several of the estates where I work across the Southern Uplands. This can be a major issue in the short term as grouse abandon beetly areas, but the damage is rarely so bad as it seems at first and repair is usually straightforward. When forecasts are posted about grouse prospects each summer, they often refer to the most productive areas of moorland in northern England and north east Scotland. From the highest point of my hill, I can look forty miles east towards the big North Pennine moors. Grouse moor management has become ever more localised over the past few years, particularly since large areas of the west have been marginalised and abandoned for sporting interests. Not many grouse will be shot in Galloway this season, and the sport itself now has most of its grouse eggs in a few little baskets. It makes sense that when cold rain blows across the North Pennines at the wrong moment, an entire season can be wiped out in a day or two.

With record numbers of A level students shunning University courses, can Modern Apprenticeships be the means of filling the gaps in our 'lost rural skills'.   For over one million young Brits, the next few days will be a time of heightened nervous excitement and anticipation. They wait on tenterhooks for the 15th August, when the results of their A level, T level, and AS levels are released. The sounds of rip and tear as they open envelopes, the whoops of self congratulation or gasps of disappointment are the soundtrack to an end of childhood. Alice Cooper pumps out from Alexa, ‘School’s Out for Ever’, and the fresh dawn of adulthood appears to them with a golden light.   Attending university has been seen as the next step after school for the majority of British young people. In 1999 Tony Blair, then into his second year as Prime Minister announced his demand that 50% of all school leavers should go into Higher Education, in order he claimed, so that Britain would succeed in the ‘knowledge economy’. Twenty years later, Blair’s dream was realised, yet this was deemed insufficient by the man. In 2021, the ex PM demanded that seven in ten teenagers should attend Uni. This refrain was echoed by Lord Johnson, brother of another former Prime Minister, who claimed, despite 53% of the UK’s school leavers already attending University that “We still don’t have enough highly skilled individuals to fill many vacancies today.” This PR campaign by political figures, was unsurprisingly endorsed by a swathe of academics attached to the 160 or so UK Universities. However, this norm for youthful society appears to be coming to an end. School leavers are now turning their backs on degrees and choosing to leave the dreaming spires to their slumber. Analysis this week by The Times reveals that 18 of the 24 Russell Group Universities still have vacancies in more than 4,000 of their degree courses.

Come the 2028 Olympics in Los Angeles, I shall be in Team GB - so long as they change the events What impressed you most at the Olympics opening ceremony this year? Axelle Saint-Cirel’s magnificent rendition of La Marseillaise, surely the world’s most stirring national anthem? The can-can dancers? Or perhaps Alexandre Kantorow tinkling away on his piano despite the deluge? For me, I’m ashamed to say, it was my unfamiliarity with some of the countries represented. Yes, I have my Geography O-level and an old Times Atlas bought at the village church fete but Sao Tome and Principe, Burkina Faso and Eswatini required some red-faced Googling, for which I apologise to their citizens. And not just for my ignorance. Whenever I see a small, proud nation at the Olympic ceremony I have a secret desire to join its national team, partly because I’m good at waving to crowds (albeit they’re unaware) but mostly because I’m an absolute gold-medal hope at shindigs and nowhere, I bet, parties harder than the Olympic Village - a feeling confirmed by a mate who’d stayed there throughout the 2012 London bash.

In today's increasingly urbanised and digital society, young people are more disconnected from nature and the countryside than ever before. But in the absence of any kind of national plan to re-engage them with wildlife and ecosystems, how can parents and caregivers encourage kids to take an interest in the natural world, and what are the pitfalls to watch out for?  George Browne and Marcus Janssen discuss how they have shared their love of fieldsports with their children, and how this has fostered a love of nature in them. They swap theories about the right approaches - especially with very young kids - as well as their respective successes and the times when things have not gone according to plan. Links Subscribe to Scribehound Marcus Janssen - The Joy and the Drama... but Mostly the Drama Richard Negus - Crafting a Future: the Need for Rural Apprenticeships Roger Morgan-Grenville - Less Serengeti, more Sheffield: combating nature illiteracy

What does a country boy and angler do on holiday when he’s left his rods at home and is reading a book by Hunter S.Thompson? The answer is to reflect on really unimportant things in life, like why are cricket and fishing actually the same. Shit it’s hot. It’s 35 degrees out there, the sand burns the skin off the bottom of my feet, and I could do with a large rum in a glass full of ice. I want to write about stuff I like - and I want to do it in the style of Hunter S. Thompson. I’ll fail to do that well, but I’m going to try anyway. OK, so this is self indulgent, but I’ve decided I don’t care. At last I’ve got time to disengage my brain and quieten the voices. I need to think about things that really don't matter while I lie on a Portuguese beach, roasting my feet as they poke out from under a sunshade into the glare of a cloudless sky.  There’s the noise of waves breaking, the chatter of other holidaymakers gibbering at each other. The weirdness of a large Portuguese man, who for some strange reason is dressed as a ship’s captain, cap at a jaunty angle, dinging a tiny bell and then loudly trying to sell people doughnuts for six Euros from his cooler.  Each wave first gathers up, then releases the troubles of our world as it crashes.  “What shall we talk about?” my wife, who is bronzing nicely, says from the next lounger along.

Sharing some of my personal experiences and stories from the moors of ground nesting birds, their parenting skills and what I have learnt along the way! One of the Scribehound team once told me that one has 3 seconds to capture to someone's attention on social media otherwise they move on. A rather sad but true indictment of our society today. The irony is not lost on me when comparing the hours I spend with moorland birds. My favourite and best technique is to try and spend time with them with the car switched off, allowing them to settle down and resume their normal behaviour as a pair of birds or a young family. I can sometimes spend an hour or more with a particular species and this is when the best photographs are often achieved which may or may not grab someone's attention in those few seconds. Whether that or those images grab anyone's attention or not, for me a benefit of time on the fell with these birds is getting to observe and learn about each species particular behaviour and that of their young. As someone who spends a lot of their time with birds, I certainly have my favourites and have witnessed lots of behaviours in different species. For example, the oystercatcher is by far one of the best parents on the moor, whereas the lapwing is probably one of the worst! These are some of my personal experiences when out on the moors with some of our incredible UK wildlife.

With demands on the public purse being extremely high, should politicians be doing more to fund and facilitate bottom-up land management solutions such as Farmer Clusters which are proven to deliver more bang for the conservation buck? My solitary four-hour drive home from Oxford to Aberystwyth marked the end of a week engaged in conversation about future land management in the UK. This started at the Royal Welsh Show and ended at the Game Fair at Blenheim Palace. In a reflective mood, I recalled a time, not long ago, when both these major countryside shows were untroubled by today’s undercurrent of anxiety about imposed policy change which is bound to have a profound impact on the livelihoods, culture, and heritage within our rural communities. As I left the dual carriageway at Abergavenny heading for the narrower winding roads of Mid Wales, it struck me that our rural communities are also facing some hard miles ahead.  The most striking element of both shows was the impressive practitioner knowledge and expertise held by the farmers, keepers, and land managers within our rural communities. Sadly, this valuable resource, built on an intimate understanding of the land they manage, is frequently overlooked in a world of top-down policy making. Whilst it can be argued that Brexit brought considerable economic risks to UK agricultural, few would disagree that it also offered us a chance to reset funding models specifically tailored to farming in the UK, rather than the “one size fits all” excessively bureaucratic approach of the EU’s Common Agricultural Policy.  Farming in the UK is unusually diverse due to our varied geography. With delivery of rural policy being ceded to the devolved governments of Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland, the opportunity exists for further refining of agri-funding models on a regional basis to accommodate these differences. This is a good thing, but are there even better ways of getting more bang for the conservation buck?

As a fishing agent, I'm often asked what the difference is between a ghillie and a fishing guide. While the two roles are similar, there are important differences. When out fishing it is often common to have a ghillie or a guide available to aid you in your adventure. The differences between the terms “ghillie” and a “guide” can sometimes cause confusion, and even become a bone of contention. It is a question I get asked a lot, so at the risk of putting my head above the parapet I am going to attempt to define each role as I believe they are very different. The terms "fishing ghillie" and "fishing guide" are often used interchangeably, but they denote different roles depending on the geographical and cultural context.

Rewilding is swiftly becoming a religion - a belief system with little evidence to support its claims - but is this a sane way to manage our landscapes?   Re-wilding is a very clever idea. It is very difficult to be against re-wilding. It would be a bit like being against nostalgia. It has a vague warmth about it.  It has no downside because whatever happens, it will be what nature intended.  It has another trick. It is whatever you want it to be. Anything from the local council stopping cutting the kerbside grass, through bison in pens, to planting vast forests on land that has been naturally treeless for millennia can be called re-wilding. There is a definition, but it is rambling, vague and that dreadful thing, 'a journey', and no one is really interested enough to check, so it's Liberty Hall. In old-fashioned conservation, you try to conserve a habitat, a species, an ecosystem, or a natural or cultural landscape.  To do this you did things. It required continuous, regular or occasional action, and that needed management and the continuing commitment of resources. It also had the further handicap that because you had an objective your success in attaining that objective could be assessed and sometimes people might see that you had failed. Happily with re-wilding all that failure nonsense is completely avoided. If the curlew go because the heather is waist deep, the redshank chicks are all predated, or the peat is dried out by invading birch and leaks CO2 like a tap, it is not your fault. You bear no responsibility. It is what nature intended.

How Olympic history should never forget it's rural roots, integrity, or the source of so many of our medallists   24 years ago, I experienced a wonderful example of good manners - and all about a sporting event taking place the other side of the world. As Chairman of the Campaign for Shooting, I had been approached by Ian Coley, the Alex Ferguson of the British Olympic Clay Team, for sponsorship to rent the team an Australian base where they could quietly prepare for the Sydney Olympics, without any outside brouhaha.  The young star of the team was Richard Faulds, who, to our great delight, went on to clinch gold. I had been watching on TV, very pleased at our investment of a few (very few) thousand pounds. Before Desmond Lynam (or whoever - that was probably a wee bit early in the morning for Des’s carefully manicured coiffure) announced the medal ceremony, my mobile rang. Bloody hell, I thought, I hope they’re not going to take long else I’ll miss the national anthem. Turns out it was Richard ringing to thank me. Wow! Now that sort of thoughtfulness was extraordinary then and maybe even rarer now. I do hope not. Anyhow, moving forward 24 years to another Brit, Nathan Hales, winning Trap gold and I am tempted to reflect on the connections between the British countryside (and, frankly country sports of all sorts) and Olympic success.

It is time that the building industry embraced change. Good for the planet and good for their profits. And good for government building targets. Currently we are building about 150,000 houses a year. The new Government plan to raise that to 300,000 houses a year to help house the 3 million odd immigrants let into the country over the last few years by the previous government. Not to mention of course all the future ones they are planning to let in. Incidentally that equates, at an average housing density of ten an acre, to 30,000 acres of mostly agricultural land going under tarmac and concrete every year.  So, if Labour did meet its house building targets some 150,000 acres of land will be built on over the next five years.  An area slightly larger than the New Forest National Park which is 140,000 acres.    It is though easy to ‘talk the talk’ but can the government ‘walk the walk.’

Wood pigeons are rightly regarded as a top-tier sporting bird, but what with wasps, nettles, the need for truckloads of clobber and the quarry's uncooperative nature, decoying them can be a pain in the proverbial Anybody will tell you that there is no better sport to be had than decoying pigeons. In fact, everybody will tell you that there is no better sport to be had than decoying pigeons. I've said it myself. And I'll stand by it: there is no better sport to be had than decoying pigeons. If you leave aside shooting driven grouse, obviously. Your grouse – going downwind at a zillion miles an hour - across acres of glorious purple heather is a thing of rare excitement, right enough, but it also costs a zillion ducats a day to ambush it from a butt, so when we are declaiming about the best sport to be had, we tend – out of a perfectly reasonable urge to recognise that not everyone may be able to shoot driven grouse for several weeks each season – to temper our excitement and point instead towards shooting pigeons over decoys.

I got bored of waiting and got lucky with hope and practical activism   Don’t laugh, but I once nearly went into mainstream politics. Never mind when and for whom, but let me reassure you that the dream was a short one. I came to the early conclusion that there was a limited amount that a thin-skinned Etonian of no settled world view and the attention span of a mayfly had to offer people fighting real battles in their everyday lives, let alone deal with volcanically unpredictable leaders elsewhere in the world. Besides, there was always that comment in one of my earliest army reports in the back of my mind: ‘I fear that this man will go through life pushing doors marked ‘pull’. Precisely. As I said, don’t laugh. I lost interest in politics and instead rediscovered the natural world. I spent the next two decades coming to understand that other than climate change, most of the environmental challenges that beset us are much easier, quicker, cheaper and less controversial to fix than we imagine. When I walked through Britain in the spring of 2022, I saw evidence of this over and over again- re-wetted peat on Kinder Scout, a re-meandered tributary of the Tweed above Peebles, a regenerating ‘ancient’ forest in Glen Affric- and I have been seeing it ever since. Over the last year and a half, I have walked another 2000 miles or so round the coast, and seen it again in the offshore no-take zones, the eagles on Mull, the transformation of Holkham in Norfolk and many other things besides. Nature is resilient. So long as you haven’t killed it off, as we did with the Great Auk, you can probably bring it back.

Finding a copy of Trout & Salmon from 1994 shows that we’re still talking about the same environmental, and geopolitical, issues three decades on. A wormy start “Look what I’ve found Papa!”  I held up an oozing earthworm, my hands blackened by Hebridrean peat.  The year was 1994, I was five years old, and we were on a family holiday to the Isle of Lewis.  My enthusiasm for a day spent trout fishing was waning.  We’d seen and caught nothing and I couldn’t really get this casting lark.  My father took the worm from me, squished it onto the hook of our Teal, Blue & Silver fly, glanced around to make sure his friend and host hadn’t seen him, and said, “try this.” I lobbed it into the black waters of the burn.   The next moment a trout was writhing on the other end, and with all the awkwardness of a child who’d never done this before, I lifted the poor thing onto the bank.  It probably weighed a quarter of a pound.  Thirty years on I can still recall my uncontainable excitement.  My first fish, and the moment that ignited a lifelong interest in angling.

Creating a wildflower meadow will put you in touch with nature and feed the soul. Here's how any old fool can do it...   At the bottom of my garden there’s a long wooden fence that, in my mind’s eye, performs a vaguely-similar function to the Berlin Wall of the late 1970s. On one side, you find a small paddock grazed by half a dozen Jacob sheep. They belong to my parents, who live next door, and this particular area is the German Democratic Republic of our situation: it’s a world of order and conformity, where grass is the only plant tolerated, and any rogue wildflower that happens to pop up gets immediately chomped to pieces by our ruminant Stasi. On the opposite side of the fence is a quarter of an acre of what used to also be part of this paddock, adjacent to the patio. Last summer, Mrs Adams and I asked a local garden designer, Kylie (hat-tip here), how we might make our outdoor space more presentable. She suggested fencing out the sheep from this parcel of land in an effort to create a “wildflower meadow.” And here we are. In my increasingly-laboured Cold War simile, this little corner of my Welsh homestead is now the equivalent of Western Europe: a place where freedom, liberty and occasional decadence has become the order of the day.

A day out with the Eastern Counties Mink Hunt is never dull nor dry. I ventured out with this wonderful group of eccentrics to recapture my lost youth and pass on the mink hunting baton to my son   I learned many life lessons on river banks in my early teens. I gleaned the art of stealth and concealment when watching wild trout and chub take naps, the only indication their piscine hearts still pumped was an occasional wave of a pectoral fin as they lay in their riffle beds. I discovered if I shut up and stayed still, wildlife swiftly forgets your presence. Dippers would dip, kingfishers fish and otters would gambol, either dealing death to other river dwellers or playing energetic solo sports with stones, shells and twigs. In those aquatic margins I also picked up a taste for botany, becoming well versed in the old country names for the wildflowers that delight in the lush edges. I’d challenge myself to mutter the names of tree species, plucking at the leaves of the branches that bowed to wetly kiss the bubbling surface of the running water below. Much of this sodden education was in truth a by-product of the primary reason for my being on the water, that purpose being my pursuit of mink. During my senior school years, mink hunting was for me what fox hunting was to John Jorrocks, what football was to John Motson, what shagging and drinking was to Ollie Reed. I loved it, it dogged my every waking moment and crept its way into my dreams, I wrote about it, painted its image, noted notable hunts and praiseworthy hounds. I took water temperatures and measured wind direction. I turned this humble form of venery, a form of hunting that the snootier foxhunters of the time derided as little better than rat catching, into an amalgam of science, high art and ecological survey.