by Colin Elford
So here I am at 2.30 a.m., in the frost, looking for a deer that could be injured or dying in the blackness. At least the road is quiet. Scanning the road edges my spotlight doesn’t find any pairs of eyes, just the glint of glass from a beer bottle some idiot has thrown out of their car while on the move. It landed well within the hedge, and has me fooled for a while.
My dog is excited about being in harness and starts leaping like a husky when I attach his fluorescent collar with the hawkbell. Even this early, occasional lights of cars come past us and slow, their occupants wondering what we are doing. My dog and I wander the length of the road until he finally takes some real interest; with the light of the torch I see the flash of coloured glass from the car that struck the deer.
Things start to look up as the trail gets easier, and our pace quickens. Once under the barbed wire I am on a farmer’s land that I have permission to shoot on. Then the dog leaps high again near a hedge and I know we are close. Although the dog is keen to go, I sit him on the spot and use the torch to scan the inside of the hedge. A pair of soulful eyes meet mine. Eyes can tell you a lot, and these are lost eyes, like those of a dog that has been beaten, unable, no matter what it does, to please its master. This deer has given up on life. I feel for the poor fallow buck, lying injured in the hedge, and end his pain without any qualms, for no wild animal with a will to live would let you get as close as I manage to in order to dispatch him without a struggle.
This late into the season it’s a waste of time and effort even attempting to stalk fallow does on foot. I’m sure they have eyes that can see through trees and hearing that can detect me even as I leave my house.
Fallow stalking becomes a matter of ambushing, sometimes called bush-whacking, which involves waiting undetected as the deer go about their business within the forest. Trying to outsmart the deer can be a chore on its own, and with reduced numbers in a big block of woodland the chances of them passing your position are fairly limited. You have to attempt to be in the right place at the right time as they pass.
This morning is no different to usual. I placed the high seat in position in the dark the previous night. Now, at first light, the sky is full of strange-shaped crimson clouds that appear to hang from the heavens like upside-down mountains. The image is endless, an infinite pattern of landscape views. I sit in my seat watching as the clouds jostle positions, ever changing, within minutes taking the shape of Antarctic ice pressure ridges erupting through encrusted snow. Above this scene, narrow horizontal streaks of orange and gold attempt to peep and flicker around the ridge of grey cloud resembling an ancient galleon.
I turn my attention to the landscape around me. Through a fir screen of bottle green a lone silver birch stem shines out, thrusting itself into my vision with a seemingly special need to be noticed. The dogwood bushes look spectacular with their blood-red leaves, old berries hanging like jewellery from the plant. Draped around the shoulders of the dogwood, like a cloak of royal ermine, the fluffy seed heads of old man’s beard thread themselves between its branches. When the breeze finally parts the low, ground-hugging mists, I get a chance to glimpse the steep grassy slopes opposite and beyond through the yellowing peppered leaves of the birch.
I listen to the bird calls, naming each species in my mind: the rasping jay; a long note from a distant nuthatch; and, closer, the pip-pip of the robin, all entwined with the laughing tones of the green woodpecker. A lone raven croaks, its call growing louder and then fading, while above me a territorial buzzard cries its disgust at the raven, at what it sees as misuse of its airspace.
Behind me in the Christmas-tree plantation, dozens upon dozens of silhouetted pigeons noisily leave their overnight roost site, heading for their day-feeding grounds like bees exiting a hive. Then, not quite believing what I am seeing, I spot a small group of fallow, walking in a direction I never thought they would, in the same ride that I used to approach the seat. They must be able to smell my scent on the grass, still shrouded in ground mist, but they seem oblivious to it. They take me by surprise, making their entrance like this, but I still manage to drop one.
March
At last it is the end of the winter doe cull, which gives me a part break from the early starts and late-night finishes. It’s a joy in itself not to have to unlock the rifle safe. While starting work slightly later today, I can’t help myself and already in my mind I start arranging and organizing all the jobs, other than shooting, that will need doing this coming season.
I must visit the gunsmith for the yearly service check and maintenance. Before putting the weapons in the truck, I double-check that all the guns are unloaded, and do the same checks again at the dealer’s. It’s a form of routine, almost a ritual, that I go through; you can never be too safe.
It’s a real day of grey today, the empty sky blending into the colourless earth with no divide, like an endless veil. On this windless day, a lone pigeon-sized bird of prey courses low over the fields, gliding and twisting in a slow determined flight. As it turns and heads towards my stationary truck, the wings appear to form a V. The black on the ends of the wing-tips makes it look as though the bird has dipped its primaries in a pot of dark paint. I identify the bird as a visiting male hen harrier. I am surprised how thorough his hunting technique is, covering the ground in sharp sweeps and turns, yet looking completely relaxed in flight. As he rises and twists over the vehicle I notice that, like a barn owl, he makes no noise as he cuts overhead through the still, moist air.
First red admiral today. This fast-flying, rich blood-redcoloured insect flies inside the cab of the truck. I’m unsure whether any overwinter here. Possibly they hibernate in sheds or in other weatherproof shelters. Or perhaps it’s the first migrant to reach our shores? Like most, if not all, butterflies, its life is linked to certain species of plant, and in the case of the red admiral it’s the stinging nettle on which it lays its eggs.
On the side of a ride, on a carpet of discarded dry Corsican pine needles, I find the remains of a partially skinned carcass of a male adder, killed and eaten by a buzzard. In the past I have watched adders and smooth snakes taken by birds of prey and corvids, but what makes this find more interesting is that, only last year, the same incident happened to another male adder, almost to the day, in almost – literally within feet of – the same spot in the forest.
Many times I have observed different species of birds of prey favouring certain trees and branches when hunting, in particular those that give both clear vision and access to the forest floor. A favourite trick of the sparrow-hawk and buzzard is to use a series of wind-bent branches on the ride edge to fly on to and observe from. Then, if nothing of interest is seen, they slowly and silently flight their way up the ride to the next windblown perch.
Today I see my first pale yellow brimstone butterfly; it is the colour, flitting about on the newly cut growth of a winter coppice area, that first catches my eye. The brimstone male is an eye-catching yellow and the female a lighter shade, almost white. The sight of this insect in the forest is a sure sign of spring and a promise that better weather is on its way, though not necessarily imminent. Of all butterflies, I think it appears the most delicate, as looks as though it’s made of crêpe paper.
Now the weather has warmed a little, it’s time to set up my squirrel trap line. Squirrels do enormous amounts of damage to many species of trees within the forest. Grey squirrels are non-native to our country, unlike our smaller red squirrel. The poor reds are not as competitive as the larger, stronger greys, which have increased in numbers, pushing the reds up to our most northern borders.
However, it’s not all doom and gloom; greys can benefit the woods by killing a small number of trees, as all forests benefit from a percentage of dead wood. Dead trees left standing are food and home for insects, and the insects are then fed on by wild birds. Dead wood is also home to many species of birds and mammals. Fungus and beetles then make use of the fallen giants brought down in a storm, forming an ecosystem of their own. But too many sq
uirrels can leave the forest short of future healthy trees, so the number of grey squirrels does have to be regulated.
Twice a day I check the cage traps in which the captives are caught alive. Trapping only reduces numbers and certainly does not exterminate them, which wouldn’t, in any case, be feasible. Trapping is only one tool of the suite used to control them. Like deer, grey squirrels have no real native predators to prey on them, and left unchecked their numbers can spiral out of control; and any great increase can be detrimental to the forest environment.
There is a big difference for me between stalking as a job and recreational stalking at the weekend. It’s easy to get too concerned with numbers and put yourself under mental pressure when working alone. Trying to keep the majority of farmers and most foresters happy is almost an impossible task, for the number of deer they would truly like to see is zero. Recreational stalking in my own time is somewhat different, as I go when I want to go, not when I feel I should go.
My private piece of ground gives me enough joy through my just being there, let alone shooting there. The area itself is a mixture of field systems, sometimes flooded, and small woods and copses that reach down to the sea and salt marshes. On the fringes is another set of separate, stand-alone habitats of both wet and dry lands, the heath home to many rare reptiles and amphibians. It is heaven on earth.
Tall reeds hide a large herd of resident sika deer for a good part of the year, but at certain times in the seasons you can witness the amazing sight of these wonderful deer, who have always been my favourites. On still summer evenings I watch them beachcombing in and around the sandy tussocks, while in the autumn I delight in the primeval fury of the rut, the fights and the shrieks of stags throughout the nights. In winter, the weather can change this region into a wild place, as wild at times as the Arctic, or so it seems to me. Huge delinquent sleet squalls can level swathes of the reed beds, flooding the black sunken-mud ditches in a relentless fury of ice, water and wind. To be out on a night like that ignites your imagination. On a balmy summer’s night, though, it is hard to remember the wind, the biting sleet harassing frozen cheeks, the torchlight that struggles with the dark streaks of ice when you’re out collecting the evening’s harvest of carcasses as spectral harbour buoys flash in the distance. It’s cold, it’s wet and it can be scary.
The deer leave their daytime resting places at almost last light. I have positioned a high seat in an old oak on the edge of the field where it joins the marsh that overlooks open water in the bay.
On the marsh, if you strain your ears, the calls of the oystercatcher and curlew are picked up on the air and blown across the writhing reed tops. Small flocks of black duck skim the waves, overhead geese call out their rhythmic cascades of tales of wild places. I listen as the clamour dies away and the birds disappear into the blackness of thunderhead-shaped clouds.
The richness of my stalking area cannot be measured: to be silent and alone in such a place, to witness the sights and sounds, whatever the season, leaves you richer, so who cares if you don’t shoot anything?
My first thought is that it’s a solitary sika stag way out on the marsh, and to put distance between it and myself I actually crawl to the safety of the sea wall, where I can finally stand upright and stretch my back. Content that I have not been seen, I am in no hurry and merely stroll with the wind in my face to the ridge of the rush-covered bank. Spreading myself low I level my binoculars at the dark object within the reeds. Eventually, after what seems like a long time, the wind parts the reeds enough for a good view. It is no sika stag that I see, unless it is able to sit on the wreckage of an old fence stake.
From my viewpoint the bird appears huge, my binoculars exaggerating its size. My first marsh harrier. The gold crown tells me it is a female; she looks a heavyweight in the bird world. The number of times I have flicked through the pages of my guide book and admired this bird, and now here she is. With no deer to be seen, I preoccupy myself with my newfound friend, who sits motionless, unconcerned by me or anything else. Not even the attentions of a crow trouble her.
After an hour the harrier shakes herself, fluffing up her feathers, which make her look the size of an eagle. I half expect her to call out in a regal voice to tell the bird kingdom that the queen of the marsh is in the air when she finally leaves her post. Instead, like an assassin, she slips low, coursing in between the reed glades.
Flocks of waders leave the estuary, erupting skywards, twisting away from the dark harrier shape in a panicking mass. Larger waders push their bodies into the mud, hoping not to be noticed. Several times I watch the harrier pounce on something on the edges of the reeds, but it is too far for me to see what has fallen victim. After her eighth pounce I notice a small dark object clutched in her clasped talons. There is no jubilant cry; the call instead is high, soft and long, unlike a hawk. As she skims over the drying straw-coloured reeds I lose sight of her behind a thin veil of low clouds.
For me, another sign of spring is the sight of your first adder. The soul feels that the weather’s warming up and so your senses heighten, and the adders must feel the same.
The first to emerge are the males, short and thick in body, fresh out of hibernation. Contrary to popular belief, adders are not short-tempered, and you can approach them at this time of year quite closely. The males enjoy lying out on a sunny spring morning, basking on the dry pine needles caught within the lower branches of a pine in a cascade, but now cast from the tree. Once on the floor the needles extract and retain that extra warmth from the weak March sun.
Many forest walkers have a fear of the adder, and if you get up close enough you can see the copper-red eyes that make him look angry. As with most wildlife, it is more scared of you than you are of it. As the saying goes – and it’s sound advice – you leave them alone and they will leave you alone. Having toiled in the forest almost every working day, I have never felt threatened or had a bad experience with the adder; in fact, it’s the reverse. I actually look forward to my first meeting with this sentry to the gates of spring.
We humans seem to spend much of our time making judgements about who is good-looking and who, like me, never went to handsome school. Beauty, it is said, is only skin deep, and some religions teach that the body is a mere shell, that even the most hideous-looking person has something to bring to the table of life. I do hope so. It is the same in the world of nature – things are not always what they seem. How can you compare, for example, the brilliant colours of the ordinary-sounding bullfinch to the drab appearance of the wren, whose wonderful, melodic song is almost hypnotic?
There is one bird I look forward to hearing more than any other at this time of year. When you first hear her calling out her own name it is usually from the tip of a freshly foliated lime-green birch. So sweet are the initial irregular calls that I am forced to listen and linger: ‘Chiff chaff, chiff chaff, chiff chaff.’
April
Today I notice a dark tan butterfly, its ragged, torn outline giving its species away. It whisks past me, sailing on the stiff breeze, its agile, flowing flight resembling that of an oak leaf blown along on the wind. I follow its progress until it comes to rest on a sunlit field maple leaf on the corner of the ride; it is almost impossible to see. The comma butterfly, with its amazing disappearing camouflage, rests on the damp leaf and is instantly shrivelled, absorbed into the field craft of nature.
Spring is a good time to spot stoats and weasels, for at this time of year they are hunting for food for their young. In the wilds you come across them more by chance than skill: a glimpse of a quick-moving small animal streaking in almost a blur across the road; or a short, chance meeting on a forest track.
Both the stoat and its smaller cousin, the weasel, are elusive, keeping well out of the way of man, and for good reason. Gamekeepers persecute them, even today, by setting tunnel traps, knowing well that the species Mustelidea are extremely curious about investigating holes and tunnels. Many have perished that way. With modern game-rearing techniques I�
��m not fully convinced of the argument for killing them. In fact, I would imagine the car is a bigger killer of young pheasant poults than an army of stoats or weasels.
Today, a pair of stoats crosses the road in front of the truck and, personally, I am glad to see them: natural, ancient little helpers controlling rabbit populations like they have always done, mostly out of sight of man.
Without even looking to the sky, I hear a sound and recognize a friendly chatter from the air.
Long missed, but never forgotten, like the call of the first visiting fieldfare, one a song of summer, the other of winter, and equal in my appreciation. A welcome voice and always a joy to hear, a natural calendar within my life, a reminder of things to do, of things left undone, a prompt: the trill chittering of our own bluebird, the swallow.
With sickle wings and extensive tail, swallows slice through the warm spring air. My first pair of the season is freshly returned from as far away as Africa. Once their territories have been established the swallows will become a common sight, flying low over the stock fields, their happy voices taken for granted amid the chorus of summer.
I have a great view of a low-flying kingfisher as it passes me, not even slowing down on the bend in the stream, a bird always in a hurry. Even when it streaks under a large willow that casts dappled shade on to the bank and water, the tree’s shadow does nothing to dull the brilliance of this bird’s incredible fluorescent metallic colours. With its tropical look, this is a truly beautiful bird of orange and hot-summer-sky blue, striking in colour and flight, a miniature Concorde of the bird world.
