How I became the savage woman

As a 14 year old I signed up to the mailing list for all the animal rights groups. The brown envelopes would arrive, with newsletters and badges and updates on the latest undertakings of these hero’s. Fighting for the victims of blood sports, I admired their courage and resilience. It seemed like something that happened in another world, or time. The sleepy cotswolds with its quaint stone walls and beautiful peaceful landscapes held no opportunity for me. Having grown up in a strict Catholic home, educated by the same oppressive religious beliefs I was like a caged animal. I had an insatiable desire to roam, discover, adventure, far beyond the restrictions of my life at that time.

Between a misspent youth, experimental drug and alcohol use and the right of passage of frequent fall outs with my mother, I somehow managed to leave secondary school with 11 GCSE’s.

I went on from there to enroll in an animal care course, my dream - or so I thought - to become a veterinary nurse, was to start at the agricultural college.

A fish very much out of water. Surrounded by the young farmers, and the inevitable celebratory approach to hunting and game keeping I found myself consumed by such resentment that the inevitable began. Rebellion.

I proudly arrived at college one morning to greet the local hunt who had met nearby. Wearing my prize possession, a white t-shirt depicting a beautiful red fox, and the slogan ‘For fox sake, ban hunting’. It’s 1996.

A scrawny 6st and standing at 5ft, my flame red hair, whipping my face as the cold bit into my skin. I had no idea what I could possibly do.

With my good friend, whose boyfriend was a keen motorcyclist we had acquired some very heavy duty chains and padlocks. We had a game plan. We locked every exit. Giggling, as much with nervousness as with devilment we wrapped the thick chains around the gates.

We weren’t subtle. In defiance I marched straight through the middle of the gathering. Every ounce of my being screamed ‘Fuck You!’

Some 25 years later I can now identify the look which was etched on so many of the ruddy faced hunt supporters that morning. Disbelief.

As I walked through the meet one supporter stopped me. Farming sort, tweed, red faced, hands like dustbin lids. He smelt like dirt, grease, diesel and tobacco mingled with alcohol. His fingernails were thick with dirt, the skin red and stretched tight across his knuckes from years of working out in the weather of all seasons. He jabbed me in the chest with his sausage like finger, and said “What’s this”. He gestured to my t-shirt, having undoubtedly by this point having grasped that I was not one of them.

Lost for words, out of my depth and woefully unprepared for this showdown I simply replied, “it’s the beginning of the end, for you”.