'A Squatters Write' (Part 17) - Memories of growing up in The Camp at Millwey Rise

The day I shot a rabbit

Where my father aquired his .22 rifle I never knew, but obviously in those days it was possible to own one without too much formality unlike today.

Two stories come quickly to mind associated with this gun. One Saturday afternoon we were walking the grounds at Hartgrove Farm on Trinity Hill, my father with a 12-bore shotgun and myself (12-years-old) with the .22 rifle! We had come across several rabbits out in the open which he'd quickly dispatched with the 12-bore. We then moved into a small coppice and as I looked down, not five metres in front of me, a rabbit was hunched up, shivering under a bush, too scared to move.

Dad whispered: "Shoot it." I knew he couldn't because at that range his 12- bore would have blown the rabbit to pieces. With trepidation I raised the .22 rifle to my shoulder and fired with every intention of missing it. I must have been a terrible shot because I killed it outright. My father was very impressed and quick to congratulate my marksmanship.

The other occasion I remember well was him shooting rooks with the .22 rifle on which he had attached a telescopic sight. We were laying down in the grass on one side of a valley watching rooks pitching into a ploughed field on the opposite side. Taking careful aim, my father shot several before the others eventually decided there was a problem and flew off but as the noise of the rifle was practically imperceptible at that distance they soon returned. In a very short time several more met the same fate as their predecessors. He really was an excellent marksman.

Ferrets and rabbits

I was never very keen on rabbiting as I really didn't, and still don't, enjoy killing anything. Walking miles on a miserable winter day, soaking wet, my hands and feet aching with cold, added little to its allure. My father used nets and a ferret in his pursuit of rabbits. These, together with his 12-bore (and myself), proved very productive.

We would net all the burrow entrances on one side of the hedge and then put Joey (he called all his ferrets Joey) into the final burrow. Dad would then stand on the opposite side of the hedge, several metres out into the field with his gun at the ready for any rabbits that bolted from the unnetted holes. I patrolled the netted side and would drive any rabbit that escaped the nets back towards him. Thank goodness he was well versed in the use of a gun because rabbits would appear everywhere when the ferret moved around the warrens and I would be left standing in the middle of carnage as he shot them all around me.

When his gun had accounted for the rabbits that had escaped the nets his attention turned to those that were entangled in them. These were quickly despatched as he pulled their neck with a sharp jerk. He then sliced the stomachs open and removed the contents with a deft flick of his wrists. This task completed, he cut a slit through one hind leg and pulled the other leg through it creating a loop by which he hung the rabbit on a convenient branch away from other predators while we moved further on.

After finishing for the day, we boxed the ferret and collected the dead rabbits in an old galvanised bath to transport them home. Most times we'd end up with 15 to 20 rabbits and after selecting those for our own use, Dad had no problem selling the remainder around the TheCamp for two shillings (10p) each. As I've said previously, my mother's cooking wasn't the greatest, but her rabbit pies and stews were delicious. I still enjoy rabbit to this day, especially in Spain, where they cook it in loads of garlic.

One problem using a ferret was their tendency to make the most of their freedom and carry on exploring the warrens when we wanted to move on. Sometimes it could take hours for my father to coax it out. I recall many times seeing him on his hands and knees, head down a burrow cooing "Joey, Joey, Joey. Here Joey. Good boy Joey." Joey always turned up. Most times from a different burrow, or even another hedgerow from the one where we started. One was missing for more than a week until the farmer, on whose ground we were rabbiting, rang Dad to say he had found it six fields away from where we had been.

Mishaps

My father, apart from being very accurate with his 12 bore shotgun was also very careful, but I do recall a couple of mishaps. One involved a ferret, who unfortunately was so close behind the rabbit it was chasing out of the burrow it received a share of the lead shot which proved fatal. To make matters worse, it was probably the best ferret we ever had.

When I was 11 he bought a second hand 410 shotgun for me to use which changed our method of rabbiting. Instead of using nets, I would patrol one side of the hedge and he the other while Joey ran riot through the warrens. What rabbits emerged on my side of the hedge I would shoot and he would do the same on his side. As a safeguard, we arranged that when we came to a gateway or gap in the hedge we would inform whoever was on the other side before going through it.

This worked fine until one day a rabbit doubled back from my side and ran through an opening at the precise moment my father was coming through from the opposite side and had not indicated he was doing so. As I pulled the trigger with the rabbit in my sights I saw Dad's leg emerge. The gun went off, the rabbit lay dead at his feet but unfortunately two or three pellets had hit him in the lower leg. He swore a little before admitting it was his fault for not warning me. I was so relieved. It could have been so much worse. As it was the pellets did very little damage and as far as I know they remained in his leg for the rest of his life.

A final word on the vast number of rabbits there were prior to the deadly myxomatosis disease which decimated their population. I once saw my father kill three rabbits with one shot from his 12-bore. That was profitable.