It was a soft twilight when I first met Derek Gow, standing ankle-deep in goosegrass and ragged sedges beside a pond newly carved into what once was regimented pasture. Frogs trilled in the dusk air. Konik ponies grazed in the distance, their silhouettes low against the sky.
In that moment, I glimpsed the quiet tension at the heart of Britain’s rewilding landscape: that flicker between order and wildness, between law and conviction.
Gow—a former sheep farmer turned rewilding maverick—has quietly become emblematic of Britain’s insurgent nature restorers. On his land in the West Country, he has reintroduced water voles, white storks, even beavers, and nurtures populations of glowworms, harvest mice, and turtle doves. He dreams of wildcats roaming on his hillsides.
“They’re species we never had any right to deny,” he told me. “We’re trying to set an example of how things can shift.”
But Gow’s work exists partly under the radar. In recent years, a growing cadre of “guerrilla rewilders” have, in the words of Positive.News, “secretly breed[ed] butterflies, birds, and beavers, and illegally releas[ed] them across the country.” Their motives, though impassioned, provoke sharp debate about risk, regulation, and what happens when idealism collides with ecology at scale.
The Rise Of Rogue Restoration
The phrase “rogue rewilding” often stings with implication: lawbreaking, recklessness, unpredictability. Yet for many involved, it signifies urgency and necessity. In the face of accelerating species loss—and what some perceive as governmental inertia—these individuals are acting from deep frustration with bureaucracy.
One rewilding insider, who asked to remain anonymous, described moving beavers “up and down the country … aiding their spread to rivers from Devon to Kent.” He also claimed to release pine martens and was preparing to free white storks. “It’s easier just to crack on with it,” he said.
But critics in the scientific and conservation sectors push back hard. Among them is Alastair Driver, former head of conservation at England’s Environment Agency, now at Rewilding Britain, who warned that the practice “may well end in tears.” Unlicensed releases, they argue, risk diseases cascading through fragile ecosystems, or unnatural population booms that fail to hold.
Journalists and editors have begun charting this tension. The Guardian’s feature “Abandoned lynx, roaming wild boar, ‘beaver bombing’—has rewilding got out of hand?” traced a surge in high-profile unauthorized releases, from feral pigs to lynx, contrasting them with established conservation methods.
In Scotland, the drama became sharper. In January 2025, two Eurasian lynx—perhaps four—were found roaming in the Cairngorms National Park, wild in appearance but tame in manner. Police quickly captured them; speculation soon arose that rogue rewilders had released them illegally. Critics labelled the act “irresponsible.” Prime among their fears: these animals might not survive, suffer, or disrupt local ecology or livestock.
That incident pushed the conversation into political terrain. Some saw it as sabotage of process; others hailed it as civil disobedience for ecology.
Between Passion And Precaution
Back in Devon, as Gow guided me past experimental ponds, he acknowledged the critiques. “It is not a risk-free path,” he said. “But there’s a greater risk in doing nothing.” His style is incremental, careful, patient—and partly strategic: by restoring habitat and species quietly, he hopes to shift public imagination before policy catches up.
His earthworks and release programs are visible, but his more controversial injections—species introductions—move in the shadows. That’s by design, he admitted. “If you wait for permission, things won’t move fast enough.”
Gow is far from alone. According to multiple conservation reports, unlicensed beaver releases—sometimes called “beaver bombing”—have renewed wild populations in England’s rivers, despite being illegal and subject to fines and even jail sentences. And sightings of wild boar—possibly translocated—have surfaced across Dartmoor and beyond, with locals puzzled by their sudden return.
Yet the questions press on: Are these maverick moves healing the land—or undermining trust? Do ecological systems tolerate such ad hoc rewilding, or will they buckle? Medical contagion, genetic bottlenecks, unexpected species interactions—all lurk as possible consequences.
And the law looms: in England, releasing a non-native or lost species without license carries a potential prison term and unlimited fine. The authorities’ tolerance is low; their surveillance, high.
The Lynx, Politics, And Shifting Tides
The lynx incident in Scotland crystallised many divides. Critics saw it as reckless; advocates saw it as overdue. The lynx has long been considered among Britain’s most promising candidates for official reintroduction. As scientists note, they exert what’s called a “landscape of fear,” meaning they can regulate deer populations and allow woodlands to regenerate.
After the January release, one Guardian headline asked: “Abandoned lynx … has rewilding got out of hand?” and The Washington Post posed similar questions in “Lynxes, ‘beaver bombing’ and Britain’s fraught history of rogue rewilding.”
In a twist, the head of Natural England—Tony Juniper—has since voiced openness to bringing lynx back in England, provided community dialogue is prioritized. The agency received a proposal to trial reintroduction in Kielder Forest, Northumberland, drawing rescued Swedish lynx; but political ambiguity and legal hurdles remain.
Still, the public sentiment is shifting. In recent years, polling shows increasing support for rewilding projects across Britain—perhaps a signal that the conceptual space for ambitious restoration has expanded.
Healing With Humility
Walking fields transformed from pasture to wildflower-rich mosaic, I sensed that much of this movement is spiritual. It asks not for grand permits or legislative triumph, but for trust—between humans and land, between science and intuition. With every pond dug, every seed scattered, and every cautious release, rewilders are testing new relationships with nature.
Yes, there are missteps. Yes, ecology is not a forgiving canvas. But even critics now concede that unlicensed rewilding has played a role in beaver resurgence—albeit imperfectly. Some bridges may be burned; others, repaired through dialogue and humility.
If Britain is to heal ecologically, its future likely lies in neither blind rule-breaking nor bureaucratic paralysis—but in a convergent path, where policy, science, and grassroots passion meet. The rogue rewilders have thrown down a gauntlet: nature recovery cannot wait. Their question to institutions is loud and simple: Will you help build bridges—or build fences?
Epilogue: Seeds In Soil, Hope In Action
That night, back at Gow’s pond, frogs flickered like silver shards. The rewilded landscape around hummed with insects and whispered promise. Farther off, in Scotland’s snowy glens, lynx tread quietly, uncertain. Somewhere, a wild boar snuffled in ancient woodland.
These are fragile arrivals, breathless experiments in contrarian care. They ask us to reckon—and to imagine. The greatest risk is not in experimenting; it is in doing nothing, content with soil depleted, species ghosted out, and silence as our legacy.
If the rogue rewilders teach us anything, it is this: healing begins when someone dares sow the first seed. May policy, science, and local voices come together to tend what they have sown. The land is waiting.
Sources:
The Guardian
Positive News
