The Hunters Chronicles - Tuesday 4th December 2012

For a town mouse, the opportunity to venture out is never as frequent as desired. My accounts, as they reportedly do for many, had the motivations of my friend Mawders enlivened. I cleared his presence with the landowner, and we were set. Keen to capitalise on his window of opportunity, he did not wish to hang about. 06:30 this morning, man and gun were chomping at the bit.
A quick coffee and chin wag and off we trotted. On the way I explained that the quarry marked for termination were the numerous, loud and mischievous magpies. My plan was to slit the squirrel caught on my previous outing (whom the freezing temperatures had kept fresh!) and place the crow decoy nearby.
As the farmyard and chicken enclosure that they raided were far from being safe to shoot in, the nearest ambush site was a small grove of tall trees they were known to haunt.

As the sun rose, we approached, but it was not magpies that were plentiful. Mawders attempted an ambitious shot on a seemingly dozy pigeon. Potentially a superb boost straight out of the blocks.

We holed up in our ambush positions and waited.

Nothing. Not even a cackle. In the distance sea gulls lazily traversed the sky. Later a large buzzard wheeled, sunlight bouncing from its majestic and impressive wingspan.
The magpies may not have been around, but we both spotted numerous pigeons landing and idly perching in a sunlit tree just a few yards down the hedgerow. In favour of a stalk, we abandoned our ambush.
Amazingly, we crept within range undetected. We each got a shot off. Though my aim seemed good and the shot sounded true, somebody neglected to inform the pigeon that this was the point he should fall to earth. Defying credibility, if not physics, He elected to continue his day.
This pattern and outcome repeated itself more times that either myself or my shooting partner dared nor cared to count.

We continued on to our favourite woodland and spied numerous birds. To add to our hopes and expectations of what still seemed a potentially very high scoring day, a large flock of pigeons swooped over our heads and amassed in a sitty tree right to our front. Certainly to my eye, once they landed, they disappeared. A wrong move and a number lifted off. Thinking they were gone, you could scare off the hidden remnants. And again! Unbelievable. Nearly all shots were fouled by twigs or branches in some manner. If not, then fate would bar the way or the pigeon would simply lift off just as a bead was being drawn.

Keen to check on the squirrel bait and decoys, I periodically left Mawders under his tree and patrolled the hedgerows. In my absences, pigeons either dodged his rounds or were impervious to them.
A text message kept me abreast of developments and his rising bewilderment, bordering on frustration. My luck was no better.
Upon one of my returns, he was clearly lining up for a shot. Not seeing a target, I crouched. I awaited his impending shot as I scanned the tree his rifle muzzle indicated.
His HW95 thudded. No bird fell nor lifted. It was at this point he gestured. 2. Ears. ahead.
Being that rabbits have yet to develop the ability to climb trees, I deduced he must have seen two squirrels. After he'd reloaded, I waited what seemed an age for him to take the shot he appeared moments away from taking.
Carefully, I crept forward to the right of the target tree. I scanned it and yet could find no evidence of any living creature. I discussed this with him. He was adamant they were there, so I resolved to flush them out.
Standing at the base, I raised my gun aimed high into the branches and fired into the wood.
It was then I saw the tail. Protruding from the bark was a wispy bit of fluff that could only be attached to a squirrel, as I took this in, its mate burst out from cover and made an all or nothing run home. I shouted to Mawders, "That one's yours!" figuring as it was running almost at him he could hit him head on. My squirrel nervously bolted a short distance, but stopped, pausing and exposing her flank. I shot her broadside factoring in the extreme angle and the higher point of impact of the pellet.
She dropped like a stone. A small wound behind her left shoulder indicated heart and lung/spine shot. Though life was clearly absent from the eyes, the expiring heart was still beating. A follow up shot was granted that passed across the brain, exiting the other side.

The Diana 280k .177 (right) and Weihrauch HW95k .22 (left)

I was extremely grateful to the squirrel. Not just for the nourishment she would provide, but also for the affirmation of mine and my rifles abilities.

Clearly, the Diana was spitting death, but what about the HW95?! Yet more opportunities came and went. The shooter was not seemingly at fault. Not the scope, nor the rifle.

I have subsequently concluded that Mawders must have been firing jelly beans.
Either that or pigeons have become immune/impervious to lead which may be the true reason shotgunners have changed to steel!

In truth, I feel that this is just how it is. Sometimes there is no physical, reasonable explanation as to why a hunt may be unproductive. I can fully appreciate how and why in the past Gods such as Diana were worshipped and revered.
Tonight, a squirrel has been left as an offering in her name to the Gods, Diana has returned and lives again in these woods and I shall see her satisfied.

The Hunters Chronicles - Tuesday 30th October 2012

Keen and eager to utilise the bodies of the fallen magpies (my research tells me they are edible, though "fishy chicken" is not an appetizing proposition for me) I was up this morning before dawn.

Daybreak is surely the most magical time of day.
The peace, the clarity, the promise.
Saddled up and fuelled by the mandatory caffeine I tramped down the old bridle path to the grounds upon which I would test the wits and cunning of my sky dwelling brothers.

Whilst there is some remaining semblance of natural cover and concealment from the bushes and trees still sporting leaves, I do my utmost to harness it to my advantage. This essentially means finding a gap big enough to squeeze my backside in and doesn't leave my feet poking out.

An old tractor harrow, gripped in a thorny embrace seemed ideal. The support it offered would have been useful too. Things looked most promising when, within minutes, a crow swooped in to investigate and landed on a branch to the right of my position. I took my time, lined up the crosshairs and thud. I succeeded in burying the pellet in the slimmest of branches and promptly away the guardian of Valhalla flew.

Still, it was early, the day had yet to unfold.
But I don't think it ever did.
I tried all magpies.

I tried just the one magpie.

I moved positions.

I went home.

Whilst slurping on a cup of joe I read up on crow decoying and found an entry on how a chap had had good results by plucking some of the feathers from a dead magpies breast to suggest the crow was tucking in. This, upon my hasty return, I did.

This got the attention I craved, and yet so long I sat there with the same routine occurring out of sight above my head, I fancied I learnt the language of the crow.

You'd get the lone one lazily flapping along his way, then he'd exclaim "Oh dear god! What are you doing man!" This would turn to an indignant "Errrr who are you? ANSWER ME!"
Now a bunch would join in the circular flight pattern.
"Yeah" "Yeah" "Answer" "Maniac".
Some would swoop almost threatening to land then pull away. More than once this caused me to toss my phone into the hedge mid text thinking 'this is it!' Only to find they were jerking my chain and at the arrival of a magpie chatter, would melt into the horizon with "He's not with us!""We tried to tell him"...
This set piece twice drew in offended and horrified magpies. First shot I missed and pulled right due to holding the rifle too tight.  The second ducked just at the last minute as he clacked his disapproval at my stoic and silent bird.

A while later, a third mag pie materialised. God only knows what happened with that shot. I fired and watched through the scope. He almost seemed to lean back. I heard the pellet impact, but I guess it was the ground behind.

Its hard to be certain, but I think that magpie may well have 'Matrix'd my pellet!

He flew off seemingly unharmed, I checked the trees and tracked in the direction he flew with no sign of feathers nor dead maggie. Most perplexing.
I'm out of ideas and my backside ran out of blood.
I've ordered an owl. That should do it!

I sloped off to the 'feed room' to collect my bounty,

and now await....The Raptor!

The Hunters Chronicles - Saturday 27th October 2012

As anticipated, the grey wet that has lingered over the valley and been woven among the trees, passed. With it went the warm it trapped.

In spite of the chill, the sunshine that was cast was most welcome indeed. The light lifts the mood and aids my motivation, though any plans I had made for the day evaporated with the clouds.

Around 10:37 I received a call. It was the owner of my permission and neighbour. Exasperated by the thievery of magpies, she put out a contract. I accepted it with enthusiasm. My efforts of late have reaped little reward, so the offer appeared akin to shooting fish in a barrel. A sup of coffee, and I was eagerly marching to the location.

Though the camera fails to do them justice, the contrasting mix of colours in the ferns is most pleasing to the eye.

As I neared the house, three of the miscreants were seen fleeing the scene of the crime. I circled the house after identifying the bird table that had been robbed of its offerings. The landowner was not home, so I carried on with my assessment, reconnoitre and setting up.
The bird table was in a poor position for safe shooting. Its proximity to the house narrowed options down considerably, to shoot from the direction of the house made unsafe by the farmyard and stables below and beyond it with no safe backstops.
But, there was a much much much better spot for my 'pest control'.

The raised platform proffered many safer alternatives as well as concealment. I considered siting my position below the platform, behind the tree with the rifle rested in the vee of the two trunks.

Whilst the wall would trap any over-penetrating pellets, and the platform above conceal my presence from the air.
Still scouting and weighing up the pro's and cons, I climbed up to have a quick look.
After slotting myself snugly into the corner, I was joined by my favourite of the avian species.

 As promising as the omen was, I will spare the reader the many and foul obscenities that gushed through my mind. My rifle was still in its bag. Below me.
Of course, I attempted an agonizing super slow motion crawl to try and get behind the cover of the tree trunk, but it was inevitable that I was spotted and my sharp sighted acquaintance hurriedly took his leave. Ahh well.
Very much encouraged, I set out my crow decoy along with the two wood pigeons.

The Crow decoy was later relocated onto the wall.

This time, I had brought the two wooden eggs we use to tempt the hens to go broody, and once the landowner was back, I procured a reject egg that I split and lay at the crows feet.
The railings, I knew would be attractive to any magpie curious to wish to survey the scene.

I settled down to begin the wait. The wind was very unpredictable and icy cold. Thankfully it came from the one direction, directly behind me, though in gusts of varying (and sometimes worrying) force. I was  soon grateful for my numerous layers! The hours soon merge and the concept of time fades, but it did not seem too long before the first 'Curious George' was smacked off the railings with a fatal and precise heart and lung shot.

His addition to the pattern was most welcome, and I had only just started shivering when a second was spied hopping from branch to branch then alighted onto the rail.

In the periods of inactivity I pondered the term 'pest control' with mild amusement. What constitutes a 'Pest' is completely subjective. Any annoyance is within us and therefore not based in fact. We have numerous grounds for justification of course, but nothing is truly, fundamentally, a pest.

'Control' is a myth and completely inaccurate. By shooting and killing I am not controlling numbers, I am reducing them. My activity isn't even an effective, lasting deterent. In conclusion, this was contract killing plain and simple. A more accurate term for it may be 'Bird/Animal Reduction and Depopulation'. So why, I asked myself, was I doing it?

Brownie points. Here was someone who has something I want, land to shoot over. This person wanted me to shoot on it, not only that, but trusted me and my skill enough to allow me into the curtilage of her dwelling. This was a high honour indeed, not to be dismissed out of hand, certainly not when I wish to visit this land for as long as I am welcome. It still chaffed on the morals though that I was killing a being I could not eat.

But, Gods bless him, a pigeon came to assuage and alleviate my conflicting emotions somewhat and perched barely 15 yards away with his back to me.

I gave him a swift, clean, instant dispatch in thanks.

My third 'pest' hove into view and repeated the behaviour of his fellows. Bowled off the railing, he joined my latest victim.

By now I feared for my extremities. I had been here from 11:00 and the Sun was sloping to the horizon, 15:30. The odd crow had passed, but with activity having slackened I packed up. I knew that if I hung on I could potentially bag some more, but in honesty I had done, and had had, enough by now.
A bag that impressed the owner, with supper thanks to the woodpigeon, thrown in as payment.

The walk home got the jellified blood moving again and warmed the limbs I had feared the wind had cooled to beef chunks. Still, a day spent doing what I love, though bear it in mind chaps, you want permission? Sometimes you need to put yourself out to earn it. Oh, and dress warmly eh!

The Hunter's Chronicles - Thursday 25th October 2012

By noting the date of the first frosts, and comparing to my observations, I can say with some degree of certainty that we are approximately two to four weeks ahead of schedule this year.

Every so often, the trees seem to randomly and spontaneously shiver, dropping a shower of leaves that as they fall, make a sound similar to that of rain.

Clouds, heavy and laden with moisture, find themselves snared in the near skeletal forest, trapped until the Sun eventually burns them away or the wind manages to dissipate them.

The same clouds, though they make for a grey day, keep temperatures fairly even. So it was in preparation for their dispersal and the resultant plunge of the thermometer that the procurement of fuel took precedence over meat and food. 

 These activities still provide windows for surveillance, an important part of hunting. An empty garden trolley rattling and bouncing along the woodland path can make for a lonely afternoon however...

The savvy hunter, certainly in this day and age, has a few modern technological aids at his disposal. A recent sell off of surplus rifles has released equity with which I have purchased a 'Trail Camera'. This sentinel may be secured via an adjustable strap to a tree or suitable anchor at likely 'hotspots'. This tool has provided useful intelligence on the intrusions and visitors to my little patch of woods. 

As one hunter sleeps, another prowls...

By analysing the time stamps, and recording the positions the photographs were taken, I am quickly building a picture of the various species and their habits. I am not the only one.
As shown above, a fellow hunter (albeit utilising a far more primitive and specialised 'aid') has been doing the same. I cannot say how his rabbit hunt is faring, but we have lost two chickens in as many days during the night following the pictures captured and a recent dip in temperatures. The raids have been expert. I have not proof a fox is to blame, though I do have my suspicions.
As I followed the trail of feathers of the ill fated cockerel, I experienced how easy it is to take the 'theft' personally. It was as though my ego delighted in there being an adversary. I had purpose, focus, an aim, an objective, a goal. It rapidly constructed plans of how to trap, capture and ultimately exterminate this new foe.
But he is not my enemy. Quite the opposite. We have much in common.
I will continue to offer the remains of my kills that are beyond my use to the 'gods'. Though my gifts may in fact attract carnivores I would wish repelled, I keep the site of the sacrifices on the extremes of our boundaries and trust they will appease and distract those who would take more than I wish to give. For let us not forget, I too take from my environment. I too maraud the countryside, raid and slaughter (of course, only where permitted!)

The information gleaned from my sentry has resulted in the fine tuning of my timings. I know better when to keep the rifle to hand and not long after, my tax was exacted and the toll for entering my domain paid.

As I plucked this errant bird, I marvelled at its plumage. I was fascinated at the multitude of subtle colours, more so by how, collectively, the pattern served to create one of the finest woodland camouflage patterns I have ever seen (or not as the case may be!)
I pondered how it may be put to use. I am certain my ancestors would have sought to put such a gift to good use, to provide that edge and advantage on the hunt. It also led me to question how much of the new is really better than the old. An interesting line of enquiry warranting further investigation, though for another day.

Funds were also put towards decoys. Twice into the grey I ventured out with them. One Crow, two Pigeons. The first thing to be attracted took me most unawares. A buzzard plummeted from above and booted my crow three to five feet across the deck. The hollow sound of talon upon plastic shell took him by surprise causing him to retreat a good metre. As he regained his composure I watched in fascination and awe. Half fearful he would make off with my decoy. I soon had camera in hand, though he took his leave just as I pressed the 'on' button. Typical.
The next species to be fooled, was again, not any of the ones being targeted. In many ways it is one of the potentially most ignorant and stupid of all those that walk the earth despite its capacity for awe inspiring intelligence. I'm not talking about the dog, I mean Humans!
A woman, her son and black lab were heard approaching from my left so I made my rifle safe as they passed. The footpath runs to the rear of my position, yet some choose to not to stick to it.
It wasn't long before the dog and boy bounded past. It looked, for an instant, like the labrador would pass my pattern and leave it unmolested. The boy stopped to catch his breath and bent over, leaning on his knees. The dog, no longer being pursued, had a chance to glance about and quickly investigated the birds that did not flee. He went straight for the crow and nosed it.
Bugger. He's going to make off with that, I though to myself.
The womans voice called out. The boy communicated his confusion. The lad stood not three yards to the front of my position. In the hope he would call off the dog, I shouted "They're DECOYS mate!" He cast his eyes about the hedgerow uncertainly. "I just heard a voice" he intoned, half to himself and evidently forgot the message, even that one had been issued.
For the next ten minutes, a back and forth ensued reminiscent of a farcical pantomime. The boy twice took to hurling stones at the plastic birds, the woman seemed unwilling, even fearful of approaching them. Over and over they would ask each other, why weren't the birds flying away, were they dead? Why would someone leave birds out in a field? What should they do? Should they enquire at the house?
As the dog had been put on the lead I kept quiet, watched and listened incredulously. I was dumbfounded. Eventually and thankfully, they returned from whence they came and I was left in peace. Very much amused, I packed up and counted what I had seen as reward enough. I smiled and chuckled to myself all the way home, not before congratulating myself on what must have been excellent concealment.

I Choose Not Fear - Saturday 07/05/11

Emma's mother Dianne arrived last night to visit for the weekend. We ate dinner, went for a walk around at dusk and stayed up until 23:00 chatting.
Today we utilised her insured car and showed her our haunts. Namely Cardigan town and Poppit Sands.
Whilst mooching with Fran (I made the excellent suggestion of splitting up, pre-empting the possibility of shoe shopping) she revealed that she had been given ten pounds by Em's mum to reimburse her for the money stolen from her by the foster boy living with Dianne. She had left her purse at my parents after our last visit. My parents had then posted it to Dianne knowing she would be coming here to visit. This foster boy found it, and relieved it of its contents. The second occurrence. Him and a 'girl friend' stole mothers day gifts made by Frances and intended for my mother.
My feelings towards this delinquent disturb me. In less than a month, circumstance will force us to share a roof. My inclination is currently to smack the bastard and issue some of the discipline he obviously yearns for.
But it's not my place.
Plus, it would be in contravention of my personal moral code to cause no harm, injury or loss to any other being. Some would say it better to direct ones efforts to ensuring he never is presented with the opportunity to steal from us. Lock doors. Surveillance. Ultimately, live in fear. Distrust. What modern society is founded upon, and the weapon with which our government chooses to govern.
My approach will be to confront the issue, state my grievance to the little bugger and hopefully stamp it out. A "you know, I know, you know I'm watching you".

The fact is, physical assault is tiring and if you use your hands, it can cause aches. I'm a lover not a fighter.

My Webley, loaded with SMK Spitfires took another victim this evening. A young Magpie. He flew across my path and momentarily settled in a tree on my left. He then flitted off and alighted at the top of another as I dropped to my knee. Range approximately 30-40 yards. Aimed half a mil-dot above his head. Breathed. Fired. He jumped at the crack right into the path of the pellet. Head shot. When I got to him, the final twitches of nerves animated his legs and beak. Another close range mercy shot ensured his spirits exit.
I might not be a fighter, but I am a hunter. This quarry is in fact edible. Research recommends soaking the breast meat of older birds in milk overnight. This bird, like the pigeon, will be a decoy, then i'll sample his breast.
My expectations are not high. without soaking, magpies are said to taste like "fishy, chewy chicken".

M Jones