The Hunters Chronicles - Saturday 1st December 2012

The bite in the wind has been relentless and unforgiving. Time for hunting may have diminished in direct relation to the temperature, but needs must. The need on this occasion was not meat but material. My friend and occasional shooting partner told me that he had misplaced his gloves and suspected they were under a certain tree one of my hunting grounds. Whilst there last we were unarmed, our intention being to shoot with the camera to assess camouflage patterns, of course not one but three squirrels were spotted! This time, I took the gun!

On my walk there, numerous clusters of 'vermin' (magpies, crows and pigeon) could be seen in pockets in the fields and hedgerows. I am keen to observe their habits as the cold comes and hope to identify likely feeding sites. I did not intend this to be a serious expedition, in fact hunting was the secondary purpose, the retrieval of my friends gloves and the putting his mind to rest, primary.
The errant gloves were very quickly located and stuffed into the side pocket of my trouser leg. Having watched at least twenty pigeon lift from the trees in this small young patch of woodland, I thought I would simply sit and let them come to me.

It wasn't long at all before my first customer glided to a perch in the tree I was observing. As luck would have it, his head was comfortably settled back and consequently shielded by a stout branch. Without my noticing until later, he was joined, but this bird was the other side of the tree and the shot meant threading a pellet through the eye of a twig and branch 'needle'. I took the shot as I knew if I missed it would be a safe one, if I hit, it would mean instant death.

I missed. But through no fault of the rifle I might add. Just physics and my failure/inability to adjust for the trajectory as well as to accommodate the numerous obstacles. On the three separate occasions, pellet thumped into solid wood.
I was not dispirited at all. The weather was dry if cold, the surroundings beautiful as well as quiet. Paradise.
Behind me came a scuffle that took me aback. It was within ten yards. After ruling out wayward walkers, I correctly deduced that this must be a squirrel. It was. A wary one too. She wobbled along her naked ash branch and leaped to the stout arms of the tree under which I hid. She did not present a shot, and would not have, had I not given her a squeak.
An intrigued head peered down from its vantage point.
The new Diana 280k .177 sent a pinch and a punch for the first day of the month and displaced her. She crashed down to the leaf litter.

Shortly after, with my toes now numb, I took my bonus prize home with me. I happened upon the farm owner who expressed her delight with my efforts and renewed my contract on the magpies. I was very much pleased with how things had worked out.

Diana, my Goddess of the Hunt is now by my side. She and I will romp this land, and have lots of fun in the woods together. She will keep my belly and heart full this winter I am sure.

The Hunters Chronicles - Thursday 29th November 2012

It is evident that this year we have entered testing and trying times. For the first time, due to heavy cloud cover and protracted periods of rain, the battery and solar array have failed, plunging us into the dark both technologically and literally. The effect has been most uplifting. No longer has ones attention been frequently distracted by the 'mobile matrix'. Without emails to check, news to read and opinions to be shared you have the stimulus provided solely by that which is around you. It may frustrate those whom wish to contact you. May concern loved ones who, rather than physically visit and converse with you, have come to rely on a text message. The peace and focus gained was refreshing!

Lighting reverted back to paraffin lanterns, as peripheral gadgets such as mobiles and computers are hardly essential to survival, they were left in their state of suspended animation. Such was the delay in the return of our power source, that even the batteries in my little trusted headtorch started to sputter and wane as they gasped for energy.

Now, my time spent hunting has been reduced by the increased consumption of wood and the need for fuel for heating. Whilst my forays may have decreased in regularity, the hunter is always scanning, always seeking to spy a 'source'. More concerning than any of the above, is the distinct and notable lack. The land is still. Quiet. Seemingly devoid, at least by day, of life. No rabbits spotted at dawn nor dusk. The pheasant numbers greatly diminished, though the barrages and salvoes from the guns still echo across the valley from time to time. The leaves remain undisturbed as no squirrels hop and bound and forage amongst them. Songbirds flit from branch to tree. Crows often and noisily frequent their flight paths overhead. Only now and again will the hurried flap and flutter of the distinctive woodpigeon be detected speeding from east to west then back again according to the position of the absent Sun.

The wisdom of our ancestors in their choice to trap and rear livestock now bears new gravitas and meaning. One of our five chickens will die this week. Two more at Christmas as hopes of a pheasant gracing the table have all but evaporated.

I revel in the challenge. I delight in the supposed, though thankfully unreal, demands and pressure this places upon me. Unlike our forefathers, I have a mighty and vast commercial infrastructure to fall back upon should the proverbial poop hit the fan. It may have its failings in the eyes of many for numerous and varying reasons, but as is true of society in general, like it or lump it, whilst it is perceived to fulfill a need and purpose and it works, it works. When it doesn't we'll adapt. Or die. I sincerely hope that my brothers and the sisters of the woods have triumphed over the recent adverse conditions, for if they have succumbed, my reliance on vegetables others have grown and shipped will increase. If not for my captive creatures, it'd be little more than sprouts this Christmas!

The Hunters Chronicles - Saturday 8th September 2012

It is said that as a door closes, a window opens.

The temporary suspension of my permission, barren as it appears to be now, has weighed heavy on the heart and mind. I was resigned to being philosophical about it and hoped to remain content at punching paper, despite my 'bloodlust' being rather suppressed of late, I was deluding myself.
In truth, for me, hunting is the call of nature. We seem to require excuses in order to venture out and experience it in this era of our species. To aimlessly wander has its merits, and yet does not always appeal. Rather it can feel a waste of energy regardless of the fact you may be suffering from a frustrating abundance of it and are struggling to channel it.
A mental state we commonly call boredom.
I infrequently experience it despite my best efforts and irrespective of a long list of tasks worthy of my attentions.
Before despair set in, I resolved to remedy my condition. I grabbed the Eden XP 10x56 Binoculars with an idea of observing the crows and pigeons that can be heard in a cereal field nearby. Now the crop has been cut and harvested, I was afforded a superb view.

The evening was warm and visually spectacular. A setting sun cast its orange hue on the golden stubble. The smoke of a bonfire hung in suspended animation, cloaking and obscuring the feeding birds before melting and fading away. The smell, a  synonymous aroma and essence of the countryside I so dearly treasure.

Through the binoculars I was able to see a sharp, crisp image of the crowd in the field. To the naked eye they were merely a rabble of corvids. With the aid of these optics I quickly saw that peppered amongst them, were pigeons!

I knew what I had to do. I will secure a supply of that delicious rich tasting meat I crave. It may not be organic, but this is about as local as they come. I'm sure the farmer could be swayed with a promise to sling some of my trophies his way so his teeth can exact sweet revenge for the incessant pillaging and robbery.

Soon enough I was at the door. A dog that looked rather like a 'labradoodle' barked without pause, yet would not approach to be introduced. It was this, rather than my knocking, that brought his master to the door.
My reputation had preceded me, evidently I am known locally as 'The Squirrel Man'!

After apologising for the disturbance, my introduction was concise and direct. I explained my predicament, my observations of the pests and made my request. It transpired that this landowner was a relation of my previous one, so I believe I was already at an advantage. I make a point of always referring to, and addressing people who grant me permission, by their titles and surname, the respect this denotes may have aided my plea. Regardless, I strongly urge others to extend the same courtesy as I believe it keeps clear your relationship and standing.
I will skip the details, but suffice to say my offer to target the crows and pigeons was gratefully accepted without hesitation. Unsurprisingly I was encouraged to do what I do very well to the squirrels in a small woodland on the land.

I am very grateful indeed and look forward to capitalising on what seems an excellent opportunity for year round pigeon and squirrel meat. Here's to a new setting for many future stories and meals!

The Hunter's Chronicles - Thursday 4th July 2012

Aesop's fable of The Wind and The Sun was a fitting way of describing the weather and I this day.

The Sun smiled just long enough to tempt me out to prowl with visions of hungry quarry eagerly filling their bellies and, like I, making the most of the warmth.

Having changed both my gun and ammunition, a re-zeroing session was in order.

As a rest, I use my rucksack gamebag stuffed with the gunslip and angled on its side (it has a stiff back pad). This allows for some absorption of recoil as well as accuracy ordinarily derived from the use of a bipod. The dark green colour of the bag also breaks up my profile and aids camouflage when I stake out a potentially fruitful spot.

The breeze was gentle but at times grew strong enough for me to need to time my shots with the lulls. I got the scope near where I wanted it, then glanced down the valley to my left.

You could see the rain rolling in. Whilst not the best news, I still enjoy the build up and the visual progress as it hunts me down. A fun game as a kid was to attempt to outrun the cloud and try to dodge its bombs until you collapsed in a sodden giggling heap alongside your chum, or dived under a tree shaking your fist at the sky with a triumphant "Better luck next time!"

I elected the latter course, minus the taunt.

Without fancy scope covers, I improvised.

The shower passed, but now I had a cold patch of mud upon which to lie, dirt invariably smeared the beautiful woodwork of the TX200 despite my best efforts to keep my mitts clean.
The wind had strengthened and was now without the pauses. Rather than achieve my desired groupings, I settled for hitting a milk bottle top consistently at 35 yards.

It was now between 15:30 and 16:00, too early for rabbits I knew, but rabbits weren't what I wished to add to tonights menu. I was after my elusive feathered friend Mr Pujin.

The trees I had in mind were two fields over. In no rush and enjoying my freedom, I took my time to take it all in and savour the experience. With the temperament of the Gods recently, who knows when another opportunity might present itself?

In retrospect; I should've legged it.

The first cloudburst was another shower I weathered under a dense hedge and tree. I couldn't be sure if another was heading my way due to a mist that hung above the village and decided to chance it.
I paid dearly for my mistake.
I got caught without cover. I huddled into a hedge only to have drips down my neck, then arms and as my hat became saturated, the peak. I had to move. I then completed my unwanted bath by wading through knee high grass as I hurried to the shelter of a large beech. This soaked my trousers and the water travelled down my wellingtons and made itself at home in my socks. I stayed put weighing up my options. I could jack it in and go home, I was wet but not quite sodden, which I would be if I walked back in this rain. The rain could pass, or remain.
My answer came as the rain slackened visibly and audibly ten minutes or so later. I pressed on and arrived at my usual hiding place. This bush would not provide the required waterproof shelter should another strong downpour surprise me and it was coming back now with no sign of abating.
I again pressed myself against the broad trunk of a large tree. This time an Ash clothed in Ivy. Aside from the odd drip I was safe and dry.
After what seemed like a damn long time, the rain finally passed. I tentatively emerged and clambered up a hill that brought me almost level to the tree favoured by the pigeons. Range, a perfect 35 yards. The one beyond, 45 yards.

Three buzzards now circled, one landed to bask in the sun as the clouds parted. I used him to test the digital zoom on my new camera.

Pigeons, crows, magpies, ducks and the trio of very vocal buzzards took to the skies.

Three pigeons landed in the target trees. All behind cover. None looked likely to ever move into an exposed position.
It was a good enough chance to tempt me out stalking. I attempted a head shot, but having advanced down the hill, the angle was approx 72 degrees which made it hard to keep the rifle steady on the shoulder as well as contending with the change to the POI. I hit a branch and scared them all off.

I did what I could. Changed positions. No Joy.
Returned to my previous vantage point and after a very long time and one fleeting opportunity, a pigeon presented itself. Back facing me, I put the duplex reticle between his shoulder blades, took my time, and fired. He fluttered, hit a few branches then glided/dived to the floor and hit the deck hard. Hooray!
No. Wait. He picked himself up and flew off.
I was gobsmacked.
Still wet as a fish, here I was 4 hours after I began, with nothing but a skidmark for my efforts.

 I did march towards the tree the pigeon escaped to, but he comfortably flew away, seemingly unharmed.

I waited under that pigeon forsaken tree until 21:00. Sadly and slowly I wandered home.

All appeared to be having far better fortune than I. Ever hopeful, I kept my wits about me. A good thing too as approximately 20 yards to my front, by the woods that border 'zeroing' field, a pair of ears and a rump were feeding!
I levelled my rifle and aimed right at the head without lasering it. DUNCK! Too high. Now here's where I should have suspected something. I did, but incorrectly thinking him to be an inexperienced Kit. The rabbit hunkered down rather than bolt. I reloaded purposefully and aimed again giving it a half inch hold under. He didn't respond to my squeaks, but eventually rose his head just enough and the next shot forced him to leap into the air.

Any elation fled as I inspected my prey.
The Eye did not look right. It appeared then a hollow victory. I flipped him over and my fear was confirmed.

Myxomatosis. Sores on the eyes, below the openings of the ears and the anus. Possibly the one that got away before. Probably that one is now dead and this, another victim of that unsightly and cruel affliction. He was laid to rest in the woodland from whence he came. Something inside me rebels against eating diseased meat, regardless of what scientists may say or the popular opinion of the day. I believe the Fox won't care to make such distinctions. A well fed Fox will also not stray from his territory and happen upon my chickens!

This particular hunt was, if nothing else, an experience. I returned home. Wet and for the first time, Hungry.