Ray Davis, one of the last true ‘countrymen’ of East Anglia

There’s a sub-county of East Anglia comprising Suffolk south of Bury and Essex north of the conurbations, an area of little villages and small towns, a few large estates and until recently many small mixed farms. Through this runs the beautiful Stour Valley. It’s a land of country folk and there, in its middle, Ray Davis grew up to become a countryman in the traditional sense of the word.
He became the go-to person on any country issue, from trapping vermin to butchering game, and was also a reliable source of information about animal life or knowledge about plants and how to grow them. Davis was the embodiment of friendship, known for his good humour, his tales and his sense of mischief.
Raymond (always Ray) Davis was born in 1947, the son of an undertaker and grandson of a butler on a landed Scottish estate. His childhood in the village of Little Cornard in Suffolk was spent outside, ratting or rabbiting, ever with his catapult. As a boy he had an aquarium filled with life that he had caught with his mother’s stockings in the nearby River Stour and ponds. His first fishing rod was made from a tank’s aerial, some dowels and a clipped-on reel. Later, with a bought rod, he fished for pike, perch, bream and eels in a local millpond.
From his youth he was always his own man, affecting bushy sideburns that were maintained until late in life. He left school at 15, having made sure he failed his 11-plus to avoid having to stay on to 16. Even then he was a familiar sight on his bicycle, always with his shotgun, correctly broken, tied alongside and often with rabbits hanging from the handlebars.
In early life he was a poacher when there were many gamekeepers but he soon received invitations and realised it was better to be guest rather than thief, if less fun.
His first job was at a local butcher’s, where he learnt skills he applied ever after for any game, for himself or anyone who asked him. He gave lessons on it too.
He was also passionate about cars and at 17 passed his driving test. At 18 he became a driving instructor at a new school when it opened in Sudbury and five years later, when it was disbanded, he bought his own car on an overdraft to carry on the teaching, which he did for the rest of his life. To this car he fitted a sunroof from which he was able to shoot rabbits should opportunity suddenly present itself — occasionally interrupting a driving lesson to do so. He never had to advertise his services. Clients came from farmers, their children and grandchildren. Later he had his own shoot and was inundated with invitations to others. He went sea fishing, stalking in Scotland and once to Australia where he shot a wild boar.
Davis had special pleasures. One was driving his friends in a Land Rover over farmland at night to shoot vermin: foxes that he could squeak up and later muntjac which he could bark up. Another was vehicles. He helped to rebuild several old ones and especially loved his green, short-wheelbase Land Rover, which he maintained in pristine condition for the last 20 years or so of his life and which served as a hearse for his funeral.
Yet another pleasure, and it dominated his life, was sharing, in a variety of ways, such as introducing people to new experiences: fishing, shooting, ferreting or trapping, for example. He would never visit anyone without taking them some gift from nature — a joint of venison, a plant or some seed — and if the person was out he would leave it on their doorstep. His nephew tells of a time when he was young and went whelking with other children in Davis’s boat. After much effort they collected a bucketful. On the way home Davis kept meeting people he knew and gave them each a cupful of whelks. The nephew said he became worried there’d be none left for them.
Late in life Davis acquired and developed his own four-acre wildlife sanctuary with an old shepherd’s hut for comfort and to brew his favourite “Co-op milk” containing a slug of something stronger. There Davis kept bees and encouraged every kind of wildlife, even foxes.
He had his own language, referring to seagulls, for example, as Clacton pheasants. He bestowed on everyone he knew a nickname, played the organ, was an excellent mimic of people and accents, and could do conjuring tricks for children. There was a poetic quality to his sayings, such as: “One log can’t burn, two logs won’t burn, three logs might burn, four logs will burn, five logs make a fire.”
He never married or had children but had many friends. At his funeral the church was packed with hundreds for what was a joyful rather than a sad occasion. He is buried in his home village of Little Cornard. A measure of the extent of his friendship circle is that in the days when sending them was popular, he used to receive more than 500 Christmas cards each year.
Ray Davis, countryman, was born on October 13, 1947. He died of cancer on June 9, 2024, aged 76