Standing up to on-farm trespassers
She draws her father’s attention to the intruders.
Having just come in from the farmyard, James Molloy, like many others, has a comfortable routine for Saturday mornings during the winter.
Get the early jobs done, come in, have a cup of tea, glance through the morning paper, and discuss with his wife the plan for the rest of the day. Mrs Molloy is bringing their youngest to town for new shoes, while the other two older girls will stay around the house. James is planning to clear out one of the straw-bedded sheds with the tractor and loader before re-bedding, and then refilling the slats and easy feed with silage.
Now, looking out the window, he too spots the dogs weaving in and out of the boundary hedge. He walks to the back door, and fishes his wellies back inside before putting them on.
Stray dogs aren’t unusual; however, a number of them together can spell trouble. Down the lane is a gate into the field, bounding the back lawn. He stops as he hears a shout, he listens.
There are three voices clearly audible, with one more further off. Drawing closer to the gate, he peers through the now winter sparse hedge, and he makes out three men walking in a line perpendicular to the far ditch. Opening the gate, he takes in the whole scene. There are six men in a line across the 20-acre field, with one further back pulling a dog from under the boundary fence with the house. A further nine dogs are running in circles trying to pick up a scent just ahead of the main body of men.
“Hey you!” he shouts. “Where do ye think ye are. This is private property.”
Two of the dogs cock their heads, but the men feign deafness and continue up the field. James lengthens his stride into a fast walk, and shouts again. “Get off. Get out. This is private property.”
The men stop, looking from one to another. “Who the fuck are you. We have permission,” comes the reply from a low-sized, thick-set man, who is now walking purposefully down the field, with his friends following at a slight distance. “We got permission from the fellow in the house at the end of the road.”
“The hell you did. This is my land,” James replies sharply, gesturing with his hand to the fields on either side of the lane. “Now get out, the road is over there.”
The first man is now facing him, with his colleagues just behind. “Out!” James says, evenly. The man stretches out his arm pushing him firmly in the chest, before turning on his heel.
“Gather the dogs,” he shouts. Ten minutes later, the whole menagerie has piled into a Hiace van parked on the road bounding the field. Following at a distance, James listens to sharp-tongued abuse from the back of the van. With the tailgate open, the registration plate is obscured from view.
I too have had to deal with trespass of this sort on occasion, as have many other land owners. The striking of a landowner, however, has seen a bridge crossed.
Part of the problem for farmers is that, with the rise of political correctness, animal rights activists targeted well organised coursing clubs.
The decline of these clubs has seen landowners effectively become the only line of defence against illegal poaching and trespass.
Previously, one phone call would see local club members arrive quickly to balance the “discussion” and, more importantly, send the message very clearly that no farmer was alone and no house was unguarded.
