With new laws threatening peaceful activism, how is this affecting the UK’s longest-running animal rights protest?
Through the steady hum of traffic on a busy road, an occasional passerby will sound their horn, not in frustration but instead solidarity. Each beep is a gesture of support for those gathered at the gates of MBR Acres, a beagle breeding facility that supplies dogs for scientific research across the UK. These demonstrators are part of Camp Beagle, the longest-running animal rights protest in UK history.
Camp Beagle marked its third anniversary this July. However, the camp now faces its greatest threat yet. New anti-protest laws have criminalised many core aspects of peaceful demonstration, putting the future of the camp at serious risk.
Victoria Asplin, 54, is a permanent resident of the roadside campsite. Her decision to stay was solidified after a powerful experience, “I went down the side of the facility, and I heard the sound of the dogs inside the buildings. It cemented it for me. It’s a noise that I will never, ever forget. So I’ve said I’m not leaving here, I’m not walking away until every cage is empty. That’s what I promised them,” she says.
However, Victoria’s fight is now more challenging than ever, following the passing of the Public Order Act 2023 by the UK government in May of last year. This law gives the police more power to crack down on protests, particularly those that are deemed disruptive, “I was gobsmacked when it was passed but it’s not going to stop me at all. I’ve got a right to be here. I’ve got a right to say how I feel, that this should not be here,” says Victoria.
John Curtin, another dedicated protester at the campsite, has been involved in activism for over 40 years. Reflecting on the new laws aimed at curbing protests, “We’ve faced these kinds of laws before and it didn’t stop us. All it did was bring us together against it. Now, with this mental draconian law they’ve passed, let them try. Let them It’s not going to stop us,” he says.
Despite the challenges, the encampment remains vibrant and resilient. The area is strewn with colourful tents and tarps, each serving a vital role. From living quarters to kitchen and dining spaces, the protest site has evolved into a fully functioning village, brimming with a strong sense of community and determination.
However, the recent Public Order Act 2023 has impacted the dynamic at Camp Beagle. Protesters, including Victoria, have noticed a shift in how the police interact with them. Victoria, who had never been part of a protest before joining Camp Beagle, reflects on this change: “I’ve not got the respect for them anymore like I did have three years ago. Three and a half years ago, I had total respect for the police. I really did. If I saw a police car behind me, I would start panicking, wondering if I’m driving correctly, if I’m taxed or not,” she says.
But last November, tensions at the campsite reached a boiling point when a confrontation with the police erupted. Protesters had blocked two workers’ cars attempting to leave the facility, “there were three police officers and about 50 people around the cars. One of the police officers didn’t know what to do and ended up shoving people out of the way. I recognised him because he had been around before and knew about my health problems. He shoved me once, then, facing me, he pushed me hard in the chest and shoulder, shouting, ‘get out the effing way or I’m going to arrest you’. I flew across the road but was caught by, another activist, before I hit the ground. Despite the adrenaline, I just carried on,” explains Victoria.
The escalation in police actions at the campsite coincides with the implementation of the Public Order Act 2023, which grants officers broader powers to arrest protesters on the spot in England and Wales. Human rights organisation Amnesty International has criticised the Act as “deeply authoritarian,” highlighting that it introduces “new vague and undefined police and government powers to clamp down on any protests – including by one person.”
Victoria’s experience reflects this shift in enforcement. She has noticed a stark contrast in police treatment depending on her location. “I can go into Huntingdon, the local town, and not have my Camp Beagle top on, and they treat me completely differently,” she explains. “When I’m here, they’re smirking as they hear the dogs in the vans leaving. There’s no respect for us whatsoever, which makes us more angry and then that makes us look bad.”
However, not all activists at the site share Victoria’s perspective on the intensity of police interactions. Sole Iriart, 48, whose parents were political refugees from Argentina, brings a different viewpoint based on her extensive experience with protests around the world. “I think I may have a very different view to other people for several reasons. Say, because I’ve dealt with the police in other countries, and I know they’re far more restrictive than they are here. And partly because I’ve been involved so long that I just totally expect it now. I don’t expect any less. In fact, I find them a little bit soft compared to what I’ve seen elsewhere. Every so often they do something that pisses us off, but I haven’t found them to be too bad,” Sole explains.
Despite this, broader concerns about the erosion of the right to peaceful assembly are emerging. Amnesty International’s latest report underscores a troubling trend across Europe: many states are increasingly targeting, criminalising, and imposing severe restrictions on peaceful protesters, using harsh measures to suppress dissent.
Sole reflects on how these emerging restrictions compare to her experiences abroad. “The UK is more lenient in general, but it’s becoming worse with these new legislations and more similar to my experience in other countries. In Spain, you need a permit to do a demonstration. If you’re going to organise anything, we would have to have asked the council for a permit to gather people. That doesn’t happen here. There’s still freedom to gather. I think the worrying part of the new legislation is this thing about being a nuisance or serous disruption, which is something that you can’t really define. What is a disruption? What is a nuisance to me? Maybe something is a nuisance that isn’t to somebody else,” she explains.
Sole is specifically referring to the ‘Serious Disruption Prevention Orders’ (SDPOs) introduced by the Public Order Act 2023. Under this legislation, a court can impose an SDPO if you are over 18 and have been convicted of a protest-related offence at least twice in the last five years, and the order is necessary to prevent future protest-related offences. These orders can require you to show up at a specific place and time or stay at a location for a certain period. They can also ban you from going to certain places, meeting certain people, joining certain activities, carrying specific items, or using the internet to help with protest-related offences.
Kevin Blowe, a founding member of The Network for Police Monitoring (NETPOL), provides a critical perspective on this issue. He explains, “the motivation behind all those pieces of legislation is about making it far more difficult for people to be able to protest in ways that are acceptable to the government, who have now set a very, very narrow bandwidth of acceptability. Anything causing anything other than minor disruption ends up being seen as being somehow illegitimate.”
NETPOL is an organisation dedicated to overseeing police conduct during protests in the UK, ensuring it remains lawful and respects human rights by gathering evidence, providing legal support, and holding law enforcement accountable for any misconduct.
Kevin highlights a critical issue with the government’s approach to protest. “The biggest concern is that by labelling some protesters as ‘good’ because they fall within the narrow bandwidth of acceptability and others as ‘bad,’ the government has encouraged people to view any form of disruption as inherently wrong. This assumption leads to arrests and has made many feel they can’t risk participating in demonstrations,” he says.
Despite the risk of arrest, members of Camp Beagle remain undeterred. Sole, who works as a midwife on weekends, splits her time between her job and the camp, where she lives five days a week. “I stay here for the dogs. It’s a massive commitment and effort, but it’s manageable. For me, protesting is not a sacrifice—it’s just part of who I am. Protesting comes naturally to me, so any sacrifices I make are specific to this particular protest, not to protesting in general,” she says.
At the camp this sacrifice takes the shape of makeshift tents, dilapidated portaloos and a lack of running water. The wind cuts through the camp, rustling tarps and sending anything that isn’t secured into the air, while the distant howls of the beagles remind them why they’re here. It is akin to festival living, minus the pop superstars and any sense of fun. Despite this, there is a shared resilience and commitment to the cause.
In spite of the harsh conditions at the camp, the sacrifices extend beyond the physical. The daily interactions with the police add another layer of challenge. John says, “We have actively engaged police liaison here in order to build up some complacency in the police. Make them think we are a bunch of muppets who aren’t going to do anything- theres no need for them to hang around. Little did they know we are a bunch of muppets who aren’t doing to do anything. We are a protest camp at the end of the day and its very unpopular amongst many people to say fuck the police. Fuck the police is in my DNA. We don’t do anything illegal, if you gave me ten thousand pound for grassing every person here who is doing something illegal, I’d be skint.”
The police have withdrawn their liaison with Camp Beagle, leaving John and his fellow protesters feeling abandoned and targeted. “We don’t do anything illegal,” John explains, “If you gave me ten thousand pounds for grassing every person here who is doing something illegal, I’d be skint. But they still don’t interact with us anymore. It is very unprofessional. They refuse to speak to us anymore. They’re going to come and break our ribs instead.”
John’s frustration is rooted in an incident that underscores his concerns. During his arrest for flying a small drone at the site, he experienced what he describes as excessive force. “It was like a Monty Python sketch when they arrested me. They busted my ribs for flying a tiny drone. They whacked me. They just got me on the ground and they hurt me. I was in pain for 3 weeks. That’s not part of their policy but they did it anyway,” he recounts.
Now awaiting his court date, John plans to plead guilty, not because he believes he’s in the wrong, but because the charges are based on technicalities. “The drone we are using is a toy, it’s 249 grams. I was meant to keep it in my line of sight all the time. When they asked me where it was, I was pointing to it, pretending it was in the sky. I kept saying, ‘It’s there, a tiny dot up there.’ When the custodian read out the charges, he started laughing.”
John sees this incident as part of a broader pattern of government crackdowns on protests. “If you look at history books, it’s just a continual clampdown. It’s a further restriction, a further restriction. Then it becomes normal. It’s normal to be searched for the younger generation. Not for me.”
The recent Public Order Act 2023, which grants police the power to conduct suspicion-less stop and searches related to protests, exacerbates these concerns. Saunders Law, a London-based firm, warns of the risk of discriminatory application, noting the overuse of such powers against ethnic minority communities.
“This law has been put onto a bunch of zombies anyway, people don’t even pay attention,” John observes. “The younger generation is now used to being stopped and searched for no reason. Suspicion-less stop and search has been legalised. Going in and out of festivals, you get searched. That is absolutely unbelievable to me. I will never allow anyone to search me. Get your hands off me.”
Victoria, too, is troubled by the tightening grip on protest rights. She feels strongly about her right to voice disapproval of MBR Acres, “people should come and sit here, they want to go down the side of the facility, they want to listen to the sound of those dogs, they want to see what happens in these labs. We’ve all got a right to speak about how we feel, whether it’s animal rights or the climate or anything. We shouldn’t be silenced by some people in government,” she says.
As they face an uncertain future amid increasing government restrictions on protesting, the people who call Camp Beagle home plan to stay as long as they can, Victoria says, “It’s for the dogs you know, I would lay out in the snow in a sleeping bag if it meant getting those dogs out, so yeah, I’d do it all again, definitely…definitely. I don’t regret any of it, and I’ll be carrying on no matter what.”