I see that badger culls are in the news again, with a Government plan to end them by 2029. This is not the place to get into a discussion of the rights and wrongs of culling, which is purportedly to prevent the spread of bovine tuberculosis, though I will say that many I have spoken too, including some farmers, feel that the slaughter of these beasts, with over 200,000 killed since the start of culling in 2009, is both inhumane and ineffective.

I remember watching for badgers one holiday evening in a wood near Cilgerran, crouching in some undergrowth not far from a rather muddy sett beneath a mossy oak. The minutes go by; I watch the patterns of ash leaves darken on the darkening sky; a blackbird pinks, a wood pigeon murmurs, far off a horse whinnies. I start to nod off, head on knees, pleasantly lassitudinous from a day of sun and exercise, but a sudden prod from my wife brings me alert. There, a few feet away, a badger is looking at us, its black-and-white mask vivid in the gloom. It turns its head from side to side, making a curious ticking, whiffling noise; then another appears, larger and not so clean looking, that rolls lumberingly along the path for a short way, then disappears down another hole. A brief enough encounter, but still a privilege, and one that it will be sad if future generations can no longer enjoy.

Edward Thomas’s poem  of course, relates not to the possibly excusable practice of culling but the quite inexcusable practice of killing for sport. Though he does not openly condemn, it is clear where his sympathies lie. And the closing appellation, ‘That most ancient Briton of English beasts’, is a masterstroke, especially given that the traditional name ‘brock’ for a badger has Celtic roots.

The Combe

The Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark.
Its mouth is stopped with brambles, thorn, and briar;
And no one scrambles over the sliding chalk
By beech and yew and perishing juniper
Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots
And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter,
The moon of Summer, and all the singing birds
Except the missel-thrush that loves juniper,
Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark
The Combe looks since they killed the badger there,
Dug him out and gave him to the hounds,
That most ancient Briton of English beasts.

Edward Thomas