When I was growing up, poachers were local celebrities.
They would appear mysteriously at the pub, making deals behind the bar and selling hidden bundles of stuff to the landlord. You’d catch glimpses of them here and there, but it was hard to square that air of mystery with the shiny, polished faces of men who emerged half an hour later for a pint in the snug.
Having disposed of the goods, they would nip home for a bath and a change of clothes before returning to enjoy the fruit of their secretive labours. Whatever money they made would be spent on beer, and they would always accept a plateful of venison casserole when it was offered beside the fire.
I was in awe of these men. They
