BY GARY BAXTER

So, Dear Readers of Country Squire Magazine, it’s Sunday morning and I’m mucking about on the internet. I’ve just found out that some so-called “wildlife saviours” have decided they want to raise £25,000 fucking pounds to save curlews in just 6 FUCKING DAYS!

I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF THESE CLOWNS FUCKING ABOUT WITH THINGS THEY KNOW NEXT TO NOTHING ABOUT! It’s nothing more than a massive, bloody con game—a fiddle. Al Capone had nothing on this lot!

We’ve got Natural fucking England roaming the countryside, picking up curlew eggs for artificial incubation, then rearing them for release on reserves. It all sounds very nice and wonderful. And all these other wildlife conservation bodies just hop on the bandwagon to do the same with any other species they can make a ruddy quid from. Then some dodgy BBC shill ends up printing this rubbish.

If these useless bastards had a fucking braincell between them, they would see that the ONLY way these species will EVER BE SAVED is if they get off their fat-cat arses and deal with the problem at its root cause: PREDATOR CONTROL.

These organisations don’t like us—the folks who actually know what we’re doing—because they think we’re cruel and barbaric!! Really? What we do is done properly, with little to no suffering at all. And what we do is a bloody sight less cruel than the nightly activities of your poxy, ruddy cat that slaughters everything in its path that it flaming well can!

Many years ago, in the valley below our village on the estate, there was a huge water meadow dating back to Saxon times. Every year, the curlews would turn up. For years, there was one pair that my father went ALL OUT to protect. He made sure NOTHING GOT NEAR THAT NEST. Every carrion crow within range, every magpie he could trap, every stoat, every weasel, every rat—if it was a threat to those birds, it was gone! And slowly, the numbers started to grow. The high point was one year when we had 19 nests on that meadow. When it came to hay-cutting, the nests were cut around and left alone. In some cases, areas were even fenced off. With us and the farmer looking after them, they thrived.

I remember one year, we were shooting at the stone pit. A hen pheasant went back and dropped into the reed beds of the old pond that sat in the middle (by God, that pond had some big tench and bream in it—but that’s a different story, Ed.). At the time, we had a lady picking up for us, Mrs. George. She went back after the drive was done to look for that pricked bird. I went with her and worked an old ditch down with my spaniel and labs.

Now, Jane and I sent our dogs in from two different directions, as the reed bed was rather thick. Within seconds, a rather large brown bird flew out, much to our amazement. I nearly fell over in the cattle drink, and Jane was spluttering like an old single-cylinder Field Marshall tractor. The bird was a Bittern! It was the first one I had ever seen this far inland. It swung out towards the cattle gates and flew off down the river towards Lilford Hall.

When I later asked my father—that little ray of sunshine and happiness—he told me that when he came to the estate in 1968, they were often seen up by Lord Lilford’s old duck decoy and heronry. That was the place where, as a boy in 1975, I saw my first otter.

Now, I don’t believe for one minute that the bittern just happened to be on that meadow that winter. I believe that due to mine and my father’s predator campaign, we certainly made a big difference.

I can tell you this: the estate owners wanted to use that haven as a permanent overflow flood meadow for the Nene Valley. We fought them hammer and tongs and did manage to stop them, keeping it as natural as possible. As it flooded naturally, I, along with many others, told the powers that be: LEAVE IT THE HELL ALONE.

Earlier this year, I did manage to get my hands on some books: Volume 1 and 2 of The Birds of Northamptonshire and Neighbourhood, first edition copies from 1893. I have been looking for these since I was 14 years old! They’re definitely worth a read if you can find them. For those who don’t know, the author was one of the founders of the RSPB, along with Conan Doyle, as well as being a founder of the old Hawking Club and a serious game shot.

Funny that, a field sports enthusiast helped found the RSPB!!!

---

Gary Baxter is the son of a gamekeeper, is an ex gamekeeper and has run his own falconry based bird control business for the last 20 years.