The Confessions of a Poacher

An eighty‑year‑old woodsman reminisces about a life that walks the line between outlaw and naturalist, insisting that poaching is ‘one of the fine arts’ known only to the initiated. He describes the woods as a living companion, each rustle and nightsong echoing his own heartbeat. The confession feels less like a defense and more like a portrait of a man whose love for wildlife has never faded.

Born on the edge of a sleepy game country, he learned to set simple snares for mice and squirrels before he could read, working for farmers who hired him to protect their fields. Early mornings beside a babbling brook taught him the rhythm of water, the flash of trout, and the secret routes birds use for midday rests. Those childhood scenes—bracken, lime trees, the constant hum of insects—sharpened a keen eye for woodcraft that defined his later exploits. Listening now, you hear not just the thrill of the chase but a quiet respect that makes him as much a guardian as a hunter.