Hazel Joe. "A Bit Sheepish................"

[Traditionalist]

Firearms and the like were not Joe?s cup of tea at all. He disliked practically all weapons. He carried three knives, which he used for various things, and also used a catapult quite often with deadly accuracy, but he did not consider these things to be weapons. One day I had managed to buy an air-rifle very cheaply, a .22 BSA break action, and took it up to the caravan to show him. My idea was to shoot starlings with it. Huge flocks of these birds were everywhere in the meantime, and one simply needed to place some bread or corn on the grass somewhere, and a swarm of them would eventually arrive and start waddling about with their peculiar nodding gait, squabbling and fighting over the scraps.

We used quite a lot of starling feathers in our flies. In fact there is not a single feather on a starling which may not be used. But Joe was a very fastidious fly-dresser, and a stern taskmaster, and he often discarded large numbers of hackles and other things, as being "not quite right".  More time was spent in the preparation of material than in actually dressing the flies. This is in any case essential when  dressing flies from the hand. Your left hand is engaged in holding the hook, and it is very difficult, and often impossible, to prepare things with only one hand. This type of preparation is a good idea anyway, even if you use a vice.

Joe dressed in dozens. Everything required for a dozen flies of one type was prepared and laid out, and then he commenced. I acquired the same habit.

Joe looked at the gun with quite obvious disapproval. Most unusual for him. "You don?t want guns lad. Guns is nothing but trouble" was his rather disappointing reaction to my proud acquisition.  "If you want the feathered rats, just say so", and he continued feeding his ferrets.  Starlings were already a great pest in many places, and they were also invariably crawling with lice and other pests themselves. Like many at the time, Joe disliked the creatures, while acknowledging their extreme usefulness for fly-dressing.

Somewhat crestfallen, especially as I had just read a book about hunting with an air-rifle, I shoved the gun under the corrugated iron at the end of the caravan, and helped him clean out the ferret boxes.

Ferrets are really nice creatures when tame, but they are also highly strung, vicious, aggressive,unreliable and unpredictable. Hazel Joe had several strains. He himself only used large polecat ferrets, and not very often anyway, but apparently he sold quite a few of the smaller varieties to various people.  A good ferret is a valuable animal, and Joe?s animals commanded high prices.  he was extremely careful with his animals, as there are a few diseases like distemper, among others, which can wipe out a complete stock very quickly.

Joe refused to sell his animals as pets.  It is far more difficult to keep a ferret healthy than one might imagine. Ferrets are pure carnivores, of a type similar to stoats and weasels, which will only normally strike living and active prey.  They must be taught to take dead meat, and a supply of such fresh raw meat is required, preferably warm. A  number of other things are fed to keep the animals sleek and healthy. Joe fed his ferrets on a variety of things, trying to give them a balanced diet, and he was obviously successful in this regard, his animals were always in superb condition.

Quite apart from their other characteristics, which can vary considerably from animal to animal, ferrets are completely fearless, and will attack anything that moves, quite irrespective of its size. I have actually seen a ferret attack a cow again and again in a frenzied rage, and I have also seen a few people bitten. Usually as a result of their own foolishness.

Joe was rather worried about his animals at the time, as a number of wild cats, basically domestic cats which had been abandoned etc, had been sniffing around his place, and he knew the damage they could do, and that they also might transmit disease to his animals.
Shortly after Christmas was always a very bad time, as numbers of people who had unthinkingly bought pets for their children, or had them given, discovered  that taking care of various animals is rather a chore, and often a costly business to boot, and abandoned them in large numbers, Usually by the simple expedient of taking the animal out into the countryside and chucking it in the bushes.

Practically the only way to tame and train a ferret, is to handle it as often as possible. Even this will never make the animal obey you to any appreciable extent, or even behave as you expect it to. There were one or two of Joe?s animals which would come when I called, or whistled softly, which impressed him quite a lot, he said on a number of occasions, "You have the touch lad", which of course made me very proud indeed.  In the years since, I have indeed discovered that most animals will come readily to me, very nervous cats and similar animals, which often surprises their owners. Oddly enough, even wild birds will land on my hands sometimes, this fascinated my wife, among quite a few others.  Of course I have to feed the birds, but this is nevertheless also quite unusual. I don?t like some dogs though. Joe also disliked dogs. Most remarkable for a poacher, and he did not have any. "Dogs is unreliable, lad" he told me more than once.

None of Joe?s animals had names, and he seemed very surprised when I asked him, quite early on,  what one of his favourite ferrets was called.  "He looked rather puzzled, and said "It?s a ferret lad, ferrets don?t have names".  He never expanded on this, so I simply accepted it. He would talk to his animals, saying things like "Now then, me beauty", or "Come on then, precious", but he used these terms quite indiscriminately, and independently of the animal concerned.

None of the ferrets ever made even a sign of attacking or biting me, nevertheless, I took his advice, and invariably wore heavy gloves when handling the animals, with only rare exceptions. Several times he had offered me really excellent animals, but I always declined.  I did not want to be a poacher, ( although I was already of course,  de facto),  I simply wished to know how it was done, and be taken along on "trips". The whole thing fascinated me.  I never went poaching alone, either before or since. He found this very odd, to say the least.

One of the large local livestock markets was being held not too far away, and Joe wanted to take a batch of ferrets along to sell.  He never seemed to need much money, and he never bought very much either, but he was occasionally forced to buy some things, and so money was indeed essential.

I had always wondered why he carried various sticks and stakes along in his pockets, or even in small bundles in sacks, when these were readily available from every bush. He hardly ever cut sticks from bushes,only very rarely. But I had never directly asked him, I rarely asked him anything directly, as I had learned that I was unlikely to get a direct answer. His eyes would take on that faraway look, and it would not be long before he suggested a "trip", which invariably held the answer to my question, but it was quite a while before I realised this. Once I had realised it of course, I was far more careful with my questions.

We had boxed up the ferrets, and Joe fetched a spade and began digging a hole. This was most unusual, manual labour of such a nature was not his strong suit, he was not lazy in the accepted sense, he just saw little point in manual labour, and I was rather surprised that he had not asked me to dig, although I had no idea why he was digging anyway.

In a remarkably short time, he unearthed several obviously very carefully sorted bundles of hazel twigs.  For all I know, this may be how he got his name.  Using the spade, he carefully rolled the bundles to one side, and proceeded to fill in the hole. Meaning to help, I bent to pick up a bundle, and he said very sharply "Don?t touch".

I was extremely surprised, and rather miffed.  He then said, rather more mildly, "If you touch ?em first, they?re useless".  He fetched some old newspapers, poured some liquid on them without touching them, and then using a pair of old gloves soaked in the same liquid, he began packing up small bundles of the twigs, and laying them on one side.

"What?s the liquid?", I asked extremely unadvisedly, but my curiosity simply got the better of me,. Much to my surprise he gave me a direct answer!  "Sheep shit", and carried on working.  The smell was rather unpleasant, especially when he stirred the old pot containing the stuff.  "Covers any scent", he said, "preserves the wood, and colours it as well".  "Good for tomatoes"  ( I sincerely hope he meant for growing, them, but did not want to ask!).  It was extremely rare to be offered so much information "in one lump" as it were. "Always have a piece in my pocket, works best when it?s a bit warm".  he further volunteered.

This explained a lot! No wonder he smelled ripe! Although in the meantime I was so used to the smell that I no longer noticed it.  "No good if you touch the wood beforehand" he added.  Now this was most interesting information, and such a lot at one go. I was immediately enthusiastic, and decided to enquire further.   "Is that why you always carry sticks, instead of cutting them?".  I really should have known better than to expect another direct answer!   

He looked up at me, and his dark eyes took on the familiar distant glint. "We could get a few rabbits tonight", he said after a little while. "Need some more shit anyway", he added rather cryptically, and then he said "We?ll have a brew". At which I knew further enquiries were hopeless, and thus dismissed, wandered off to the caravan to make the tea.

Other duties obliged me to go home for most of that day, but I walked to the market in the early evening.  Hazel Joe had a space on a market stall together with a fellow who was selling various leather goods. Apparently Joe knew the fellow fairly well, and had his ferret muzzles and one or two other things made there.  It must be remembered, that things like ferret muzzles were not at all easy to come by. There is only one reason for using a ferret muzzle usually, and that is for poaching. Rabbiting to be exact.

Techniques are quite simple usually, although like most of the other things I learned from Joe, the technique is considerably less important than the other knowledge required. Even if you know how to do some things, this is quite useless without the precise knowledge of where and when. Other "incidental" knowledge like how to disguise your scent properly, cover your tracks, and leave no trace of your presence are also essential factors. Reading about poaching will not make you a poacher, just as reading about angling will not make you an angler either.

Rabbiting with ferrets requires quite a bit of knowledge and preparation.  A burrow is found, all the entry and exit holes ( yes there is a difference!), are discovered, and either blocked, or  a loose string net is pegged over the hole.  The ferret is then placed through the net mesh at one of the main holes, and wanders through the burrow. Normally the rabbits are so terrified by the scent  of the ferret, that they rush out of the burrow, and get caught in the nets. One has to be quick then, and kill the rabbits quickly with a blow to the neck, most think of the "rabbit chop" so beloved of early detective film authors. It is a lot easier with a heavy stick, like a priest though.

The ferret is muzzled to prevent it killing a rabbit in the burrow, and "holing up".   There are other methods of doing this, some very cruel. Some poachers sew the ferrets mouth up, or break its teeth, and things like that. Joe did none of these things, he used muzzles.

Many "beginners", and would-be poachers, make the mistake of believing that a well tame ferret will obey them, or come when called or whistled. Of course, it will do nothing of the sort, and when placed unmuzzled in a rabbit burrow, will invariably corner and kill a rabbit, and simply hole up with its kill. If it is a valuable animal, then it must be dug out.  This may be a major task, and not something a poacher can afford to do at night in the middle of a large estate!

Sometimes, "lined" ferrets were used. This simply means that a piece of string is attached to the ferret, usually by tying it to a hind leg, and this is paid out from a ball as the ferret advances. It may hang the ferret up of course, but one can at least follow the string when attempting to recover the ferret. Contrary to popular belief, it is not used for pulling the ferret back out of the burrow. This would be quite impossible. Rabbit burrows are veritable mazes of tunnels, and there is absolutely no way to pull a ferret through them. This is in any case not a suitable method for a poacher.

Joe made his own nets, and also taught me how to do it. It is quite easy to do with a little practice, but is very boring and time consuming. There are ( or were) a number of reasons for making ones own nets, some of which might not be obvious.  First of all, not just any old net will do, it must be designed for the purpose. Nets at that time were quite expensive, and last but not least, if you bought a net at a shop, then somebody knew you were up to no good somewhere with it, and such shopkeepers were not averse to tipping off the local gamekeepers that "so and so" bought a gate net yesterday, or a set of purse nets, etc.  This was an important consideration.

Poachers are of necessity secretive people, at least the good ones, and going around broadcasting their intentions by buying nets would likely result in them landing in prison. Although poaching has not been a hanging offence for a long time, and at the time I write of usually only resulted in a fine, a persistent offender could indeed land in prison.  The technical charge is ( or was, it may have changed),  "Trespassing in pursuit of game".

Wandering up to the stall, I said "Now then", ( basically "hallo" in dialect), and had a look at some of the stuff on display.  Probably due more than anything to my rather romantic leanings, and the fact that I was convinced that all good woodsmen from Robin Hood, ( who was actually a bandit, not a woodsman) to Davy Crockett, wore green, preferably Lincoln Green, I had indeed entered my "green period".  I had scoured the army and navy stores, and any similar places for green coloured clothes. Everything I had on was green, even my boots were dyed with green dubbin.  Looking back, I have no idea why I was so fanatical about it, but at the time it seemed like the best idea since sliced bread.

When I first turned up at the caravan wearing the gear, Joe had made no comment on it.  He looked up from knitting, ( a net), and gazed for a long moment at my verdant splendour, but made no comment other than "We?ll have a brew". It was impossible to discern whether he approved or disapproved of many things, most especially when all he said was "We?ll have a  brew". Despite my  straining to hear any fine nuances, it always sounded exactly the same.

My large shock of bright red hair accentuated the green to a ridiculous extent, and I must have looked a bit silly to quite a few people.
Accompanying Joe to a couple of the other stalls, I must have looked even worse Presumably resembling a large reverse coloured carrot!

Whatever, at the time I was blithely unaware of the fact that my "camouflage" made me stand out like a sore finger, except in the woods, and wandered quite happily around the bustling market with my friend. Several months later, Joe gave me a green hat, it was something similar to an Australian bush hat, and he handed it to me without preamble, saying "Here, found it. Might keep the sun off".  Had I harboured uncharitable thoughts at the time, I might have imagined he was trying to get my bright red hair covered, but I did not think anything of the sort at the time.

Having looked at various things, and bought one or two small items, we went back to his stall, and I stood around for a while watching.  Quite a few disreputable looking persons sidled up to the stall, and asked something like " a packet of smalls", or "a packet of hangers", even a few fairly respectable looking people came up and bought, including a couple who wore the obvious "livery" and authoritative air of gamekeepers. Joe handed them packets of varying sizes, which I knew to contain nothing but hazel twigs soaked in sheep shit, and took in a fair amount of money. The packets were apparently not cheap. One can learn a very great deal, simply by keeping one?s mouth shut, listening and observing carefully.

We got back to the caravan fairly late. It was still light,  but it would not be for long.  Joe disappeared into the caravan for a while, eventually emerged carrying a long packet, and said "let?s be gannin".

Not too far away, there was a large field bounded by a roughly v-shaped hedge, and a low hill. We stood at the top of the hill looking down into the "V", and Joe extracted an ancient brass telescope from his pocket, the first time I had seen him use anything of the sort, and began scanning the field practically inch by inch. Whatever he was looking for, took a very long time to find. Replacing the glass, and removing his jacket, an action that somehow shocked me, as I had never before seen him outdoors without it, he took the long packet, and a small sack, said "Stay put, watch me jacket", and marched off down the hill.

Crossing and recrossing the field apparently at random, he occasionally stopped, placed a stick from the packet in the ground, bent it over, and made various other manipulations, and then moved on.  It took about an hour, and then he returned to the vantage point, put his jacket back on, began his usual cursory search of the pockets,  and said, "bait".  The word "bait" not only means food, or a snack, in Yorkshire dialect, it can also mean a pause. A "bait-tin" in Yorkshire is a sandwich-box. "bait-time", can be anything from lunch to supper.

We had no tea, only a bottle of water, and I had a few nutcakes bought at the market.  We ate the cakes, not a cake really, but nuts and raisins and various grains in a sort of honey toffee, and swapped the water bottle. We did not talk.  We very rarely talked at all on "trips".  Joe was not only silent himself, he exuded silence, and somehow commanded it.

There was no need to talk anyway. In retrospect, I would have liked to just talk with him for hours, but it simply was not his nature, and he would have been offended had I insisted on useless prattle, so I refrained. It was not hard.

We sat for quite a long time as the sun went down, and for an hour or so afterwards.  Then he got up, and said ""tha goes thither lad", and walking off towards the hedge on the right, he promptly disappeared. More or less accustomed to his often cryptic instructions in the meantime, I adjudged this to mean ( actually meaning "you go there lad"), that I should also walk down the hedgeback. Which I commenced to do.

(Cont?d next post. Character limit)

[Traditionalist]

I had not gone more than ten yards when there was a faint noise, and something rustled in the grass.  Knowing quite well that it would be a mistake to ignore his explicit instructions, I continued down the hedge to the point of the "v", where he was waiting. He handed me a sack, saying "Gather up lad" and moved into the field.   At various intervals, once again apparently at random, there were rabbits hanging by their necks from the long twigs he had stuck in the ground.Nearby was a small stake with a notch.  I carefully gathered up the rabbit, and the equipment.  I collected five rabbits, and he had four. Not all the traps had sprung, and he unerringly went to these and dismantled them.

We arrived back at the caravan pretty quickly, he said "We?ll have a brew", and disappeared around the back.  By the time I had made the tea, which incidentally was made from rain water, for which he had an ingenious filter system, he had skinned the rabbits by the light of a petroleum lamp, had pegged the skins on frames, and was doing something nasty with the blood and entrails.   "Blood soup, lad", he intimated, taking a slurp of tea.  I refrained from comment.  He gave me three rabbits, and when I had finished my tea, I set off for home.

When I got home, I remembered  my rifle.  But it was too late to go back for it now. I placed the rabbits on the draining board. Had a quick wash, entered up my diary, and went to bed.

As was usual, although it was not always the next day, sometimes it might be weeks before I found some things out, Joe showed me the assembled trap. The long pliable hazel sticks were "hangers".  These were used for a variety of things, and also had other descriptions, depending on their usage.  They were gathered at certain times of the year, cut,  sorted, bundled,  and then buried under a light moist covering of black earth.  This gave the freshly cut sticks some colour, weathered them, and made them more pliable still. They were then dug up as required and treated with a solution of sheep manure dissolved in water. One had to use a ceramic or enamel pot for this. Metal was no good, it apparently tainted the mixture.

No human scent was then on the sticks. And they were also extremely well camouflaged. It seems the manure from any herbivore could be used, rabbit droppings, cow-dung, and one or two others if absolutely necessary. But sheep droppings were best. Droppings from carnivorous or omnivorous animals like pigs etc, were useless.

Once treated, the sticks could be handled, as long as this was done carefully, But it was best to use gloves soaked in the same solution.   One must only use one type of droppings, mixing them caused problems. The pliable stick, anything from a yard to four feet long, of a dark greenish colour by this time, was twisted into the ground about a foot deep. A circular brass wire running  noose,darkened in the same mixture,  was attached to the tip of the stick by means of plain string, also treated with the same mixture. A further short piece of string was attached to the tip of the stick, and this had a small peg of wood attached to it. This peg was placed in a notched stake, which was stuck in the ground, and the wire noose was then held at a certain height by a further small stake with a split in the upper end. This whole assembly, which actually sounds a great deal more complex than it is, had to be placed in a rabbit run, without leaving any scent. Joe told me that some people painted their boots with sheep shit, but he never bothered.

The main trick is to find the runs.  Rabbits, hares, and a number of other animals, nearly always use the same runs, and in the same way. That is why Joe had scanned the field so carefully. He could tell by the lay of the grass which way the rabbits ran. There are certain times of the day when it is much easier to tell where a run is. After dew fall for instance, and later in the evening. At night, grass and other plants do not return to their upright state so quickly after being bent, or moved. One can tell by the way the light falls on the disturbed grass where the runs are.

Our walking down the hedge, was sufficient to cause the rabbits to panic, and make a run for it, and they ran into the nooses, this dislodged the peg from the stake, the pliant stick sprang straight, and hung the rabbit. Remarkably efficient, and seemingly easy when done by an expert.  It does not work very well for hares, as they will often lie doggo in the grass when a human walks down a field. A dog is really necessary if one wishes to use the same technique for hares. The dog must be either much larger, or much smaller than the hare, as you are otherwise liable to hang the dog.

It took me quite a while to assemble all this information from various snippets. Joe never gave complete explanations of anything at any one time. It sometimes took me months to discover some key fact about some trap or technique. After showing me the trap, Joe invited me to sample the blood soup.  I declined. I am rather squeamish about such things.  He tucked into a couple of platefuls. It did not look too bad, and it smelled quite nice actually.

Afterwards he handed me my rifle, and said "I borrowed the gun, shot a cat". he showed me the skin of a large dark ginger cat hanging behind the caravan. He had no ammunition for the gun, and had used a one inch steel felting nail!  The rifling did not seem damaged. "Don?t like guns much", he said, "All right for cats though".

I once more placed the gun under the corrugated sheet, but it only stayed there that day, after that it lived in the caravan. We never took it anywhere, and I don?t know whether he ever used it again. We walked out quite a way onto the North York Moors, and spent the rest of the day walking the moor gathering sheep droppings.  These are hard and black, and don?t smell at all, unless you are foolish enough to warm them up in your pocket!

TL
MC