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- Herausgeber: Merlin Unwin Books
- Kategorie: Lebensstil
- Sprache: Englisch
The secret life of woods and fields is brought together in The Naturalist's Bedside Book, that delightful collection of BB essays on the seasons of the British countryside. This book was first published in 1980 and is now redesigned and back in print for a new generation to dip into. As he moves from winter through to spring, summer and autumn, BB covers such topics as: * fighting starlings and where to site tit boxes * how to identify old nests in winter hedgerows * BB's pet rook Percy, an injured fledgling * separating a clinging, amorous frog from a carp * what makes a good taxidermist * albino birds and mammals * the perfume of the balsam poplar * how to keep horse flies and midges at bay * a search for the eggs of the purple emperor butterfly * the 15-year-old hand-reared goldfinch * a perfect field pond * autumn deer ruts * long-eared owls mobbed by jays Illustrated with 20 of his beautiful scraper-board illustrations, this new edition is in an improved, larger print and contains the addition of a BB illustration of the Bowcase Stone.
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Seitenzahl: 331
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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The Naturalist’s Bedside Book
‘BB’
Illustrated by D. J. Watkins-Pitchford A.R.C.A., F.R.S.A.
To
Des, Mione and Di
For the Golden Years
CONTENTS
The wonder of the world,
The beauty and the power,
The shapes of things,
Their colours, lights, and shades,
These I saw.
Look ye also while life lasts.
The above inscription was copied from a north-country tombstone by BB’s father and reproduced in all the writer’s books.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I would like to thank the Editor of the Shooting Times for allowing me to include these extracts from my regular contributions to that paper. It is really in response to the numerous readers who have written to ask if these might be published in book form, and I have also added some extra pieces hitherto unpublished.
It is a book designed for casual reading and deals with many aspects of natural history and the countryside. I only hope it will bring a breath of the open air to those who have to live in our cities and towns. Each year the English countryside is shrinking at an alarming rate with the spread of new towns and fast highways, and the time may come when those who know and love nature as I do will be driven to the Highlands and border lands of England and Wales to find the wild life, the flowers, birds, and woodlands which some of us can still enjoy.
‘BB’
The publishers would also like to thank James Fraser for kindly allowing us to add for the first time the ‘BB’ illustration of the Bowcase Stone (see page 101) to this edition of The Naturalist’s Bedside Book.
WINTER
Winds of Winter
I like to hear the pipe of the wind in my bedroom window these winter nights. Perhaps rabbits in their holes, and hedgehogs and badgers in their nests share my view in these matters. There is something satisfying in being warm, tucked up, and wide awake, when outside the wind raves across the miles of countryside. I can imagine it sending the grey ripples chasing into the dead reeds on the lake, the great oaks flailing their arms in the lonely forest rides, the dead leaves whirling upwards into the darkness.
The sound of the wind brings back to me mental pictures of wild days and nights on the coast, the Solway whins at Carlaverock and Kingston tossing their cordlike branches, and the roar of the tide continuous and menacing, and, faintly on the wind, the yapping of the barnacle packs. In time long ago I used to crawl after them in the moonlight, hearing their low buzzing sound like a swarm of bees as they guzzled on the fine grass of the merse. In the high wind the clouds sped over the moon, flying shadows which, from time to time, broke suddenly to reveal the greenish ghostly landscape and the chasing icy ripples on the merse flood flashes, where the bright wigeon loved to come under the moon.
And again, the play of light and wind on the great reed beds on another estuary, that strange rushing and hissing and swaying of the plumed heads which bowed before each sudden onslaught. What difficult shooting it was, too, when the geese and duck came in with the gale behind them! On one such morning I saw my old fowling pal, Major Oakey, bring down seven geese one after the other, and Arthur Cadman, lying on his back among sugar-beet (or was it turnips?) knocking down a grey out of a party which came over at x miles an hour, right over his head.
One morning last November, during my goose hunt, we had such a wind which sent the leaves flying past me horizontally and tossed the geese all ways. I do not like shooting in these conditions.
Enough of these rather pointless musings (I am typing, you see, to the sound of the wind outside the window, where the solemn Irish yews are bowing and bending). I have been mystified lately by a hen house sparrow which comes each day and taps urgently on my dining-room window. There is a creeper growing outside, a clematis (Jackmanii) and it sits on this, close to the window, and hammers on the glass. I think it must have a message for me, and I am a little uneasy about it. Long ago in my childhood when an elder brother was dying at school (the fact was concealed from me at the time) a pied wagtail came each day and fluttered at the schoolroom window. It was winter time, there were no flies about, and these wagtails were a rarity in our part of the midlands. This little sparrow, which seems fat and well fed, shows no fear of me, even when I go close to the window. I shall be glad when she has gone.
Last night a farmer friend rang me up to tell me that there has been a green ‘macaw’ flying loose in the woods by his farm. It has been about ‘since harvest’ so he said and chatters and scolds whenever it sees him walking with a gun. It is larger than a pigeon. This bird must be an escapee or wanderer from Lilford some six miles distant, for there the parrots fly about quite freely and nest in barrels in the trees. They have some good things at Lilford and it is well worth a visit, if only to see the magnificent snowy owls which are surely the most attractive of all the owl family. Their eyes are not huge like those of the tawny and long-eared, and they regard one with contemptuous stares out of their catlike barley-sugar optics with the fierce black iris. All the birds of prey have these merciless eyes, quite unlike those, say, of the duck tribe.
With daughter Angela, I went the other week to Peakirk near Peterborough. It was a dour autumn day. Men were burning leaves in the grounds and a dense choking pall of sweet-smelling smoke was blowing over the ponds, though the wildfowl did not seem to mind. I missed seeing greylags and could not spot a pink, but no doubt they were somewhere about. There was a very high wind blowing that day, too, and the pinioned duck were very excited and kept trying to take off against it and taking some tumbles in the process, very frustrating. The fantastic beauty and design of the duck family is delightful; it is difficult to say which is the most artistic in shape and plumage.
Some of the Cape geese were very tame, coming to feed out of our hands. It was so amusing to feel their warm bills shovelling up the grain in the palm of our hands. Each feather, too, exactly in place, all looking so sleek, happy, and well. We have much to thank Sir Peter Scott for; he must have given pleasure to thousands by his fine collection of the wildfowl of the world. The very small pygmy duck are almost unbelievable for they are so tastefully plumaged, and tame as well, toddling after one as one walks along the winding paths. The whole set-up is exceedingly well done and so well looked after. I was last there in the summer on a day of hot sun and watched a very ponderous carp swimming gravely round the pond just by the warden’s cottage. But it was not visible the other day, for the water was clouded and rippled by the wind.
What a dreary time is this for the keen gardener. The late John Moore, the nature writer, whom I knew well, as I often broadcast with him, told me that the only time his garden looked really neat and pleasing was in the spring when all the seeds were in, the earth raked to a nice tilth, and all the rubbish of autumn out of the way and no plants showing. I have more or less given up any hope of tidying up my garden until all the leaves are down. They blanket the pond and the moorhens swim about, pushing them aside as they go. The subject of keeping leaves out of an ornamental pond is a difficult one. Mine is far too big to stretch a net over. This can be done with the smaller jobs. All I can do is to let the wind blow them near the bank and I can then rake them out, but they soon become sodden and sink. I don’t suppose the carp will mind the leaves, they are such tough fish and can live in a few inches of water and, in a severe drought, can even sustain life in wet mud for a time.
As for the reservoirs in my part of the country they are almost as low as they were in the long dry summer we had a couple of years ago. A friend has offered to pump my big pool dry with one of his agricultural pumps this winter so I can get out all the sludge, but I am in two minds about the proposal. It means one pool will have to be filled again from local sources and my moorhen family would most certainly depart and I should be sad without them.
Whilst I was away wildfowling our caretaker took to feeding them three times a day, morning, midday and evening. Now the four of them wait around at these times, coming up to the french windows and peering in to remind me it is ‘nosh’ time. They seem to be getting on very well together and at the moment of writing they have not attempted to drive either of the two young away.
The Last Flight
My wildfowling week in January started ill for me as my back strain was plaguing me, so I missed a spectacular flight which Tom and the Doctor had on a high stubble not far from HQ. We had watched a build-up of greys for some days and the field was remote and not easy to view without powerful binoculars.
Apparently Tom and the Doc arrived at the field just before sunrise and found five other fowlers in the best places, armed with pump guns, and with decoys out. Whether or not they had permission to be there I do not know; each party challenged the other. So the Doc and Tom had to take the two lower positions.
I knew this particular ground well, as some three years ago I had shot on that very hill in a blinding snowstorm. A stone wall ran up the hill to a timber belt, with a steep bank which was sheer enough to give cover without a hide. It was one of those mornings when the greys are completely foolish, when not even shooting will turn them away.
The gang up the wall, apparently from all accounts, close together in a bunch, opened up a murderous fire on the incoming skeins. Tom told me he thought at least thirty-five or forty geese paid the penalty. Under such a barrage it is not surprising that the massacre was large, for each time the geese came in, two or three fell in a hail of lead. Tom and the Doc, being in the outlying position, only collected a goose apiece. Hearing their account made me glad I was not there on that morning, for the use of repeating guns is an abomination – no true wildfowler will own one.
Those flights I missed through my wretched back trouble were mostly uneventful, and I will only describe our last morning flight. Snow had whitened the high tops the night before and the dawn was clear of cloud and very cold with hardly any wind. We were on our chosen ground early; indeed, we had to wait in the car before the first peep of dawn told us to be up and moving. There is always the chance of that early wandering goose in the dim half-light, geese which usually come without sound. I have an idea these are birds which have lost a mate, or maybe it is a loner seeking a gaggle for company.
We closed the car doors carefully so as not to wake the farmer and his wife and set off across the field. It was a long tramp. Ahead of me were the Doc and Tom, their forms barely visible in the half darkness, mere vague shapes which might be bushes or trees. I took up my position close to a fence in which grew quite tall trees, and over the fence was a deep burn in full flood which fretted and gurgled round a protruding root. There was a keening of plovers somewhere in the darkness and once, surprisingly, the ‘cruik’ of a moorhen. There was little need for a hide where I stood, for the grass on the burnside, bone coloured and dead, rose almost to my waist, and inter-mingled with it grew rusty stalks of sorrel and burdock.
To the east the sky was quickly paling as the earth rolled over. Soon I could see the silhouettes of trees etched against it, their edges ‘burred’ as in a drypoint etching. Soon there was goose talk afar off and intermittently. The skeins were restless and moving. Suddenly a dark shape, silent and with steady beat, passed wide on my left and in a moment was gone, one of those early customers which sometimes open proceedings. More goose talk! A curlew wailing, then silence again, and just the light growing. It was not unlike watching one of those ‘instant’ prints from a modern camera slowly taking shape, trees, hills, a water flash, growing more distinct.
I prefer the morning flight to the evening. When darkness closes down you know the thing is finished, no more chance of a shot. The growing light of dawn is full of promise and there is no stumbling walk back to the car. I had with me my game gun with which I had never shot a goose. I chose this as it was considerably less weight to carry and I am more used to it. In the right chamber I had a number three, in the left a number one. I heard, afar off the call of a greylag. It was coming my way.
One would have thought that, down the years, wild geese had learnt to be silent. Is there any other bird worthy of the gun who will announce to all and sundry he is coming? The cock pheasant, always a fool, advertises his bedroom for the night, mallards sometimes mutter among themselves as they fly, though it is a muted, cautious conversation. But the wild goose, whether it be grey, pink, or whitefront, announces his arrival in clarion tones. Very soon I spied my customer coming high across the now visible stubble. It never saw the silent figure with the pale labrador standing in the shadows.
The little gun swung up. At the shot the goose collapsed and fell not ten yards away on the edge of the burn. Polar slipped away and came back with it, delivering it right into my hand. Some minutes later a skein of seven greys came by, but I let them go for they were heading straight for Tom. I watched them swing up and right handed, one dropped, and soon after Doc had one down as well, across the burn.
So did our last flight end. And what better way than to get a goose with one’s last shot? I was pleased, too, with my dog, who now knew what goose shooting was all about, and he had saved at least two greys from reaching the sideway. I must say that one’s enjoyment is greatly enhanced by having a well-trained dog (an untrained one can be one hell of a nuisance, especially when flighting geese inland).
The sun was up when we reached the car. The busy world was about its business, tractors setting forth, all the work of the day began. And on that last morning, bacon and eggs seemed to go down with a greater enjoyment. There is nothing so hungry as a goosehunter after early morning flight!
Down to Earth
Last year a kind reader of my literary efforts arrived on my doorstep with a sack of the most marvellous potatoes, Désirée. This autumn, the potato-lifting period was almost over, and the twitch fires from the burning haulms ascended the soft grey skies, following on the stubble fires of September and late August and I almost gave up hope of further undeserved largesse, so much so that I purchased two bags of King Edwards from a neighbouring farm. I had hardly completed this transaction when I returned one day to find two half-hundredweight bags in my garage which had not been there when I went out. Yes! My faithful friend had again been generous. Such is the power of the pen!
And what potatoes they were! None of your big ’uns at the top layer and small ‘pig’ potatoes underneath, which is so often the case (unless the prospective buyer plunges the arm in deep). Every one would have graced a harvest festival layout; huge, perfect potatoes, as big as a baby’s head, enough for two people and three meals. For a Désirée potato baked in its jacket, served up in a white clean napkin, scalding hot and steaming, with the addition of salt, black pepper, and knob of butter, is indeed a meal in itself, though not perhaps the diet for the weight watcher.
These gargantuan tubers can also be peeled, boiled for twenty minutes, and then cut up into knobs which are thereafter fried a golden russet in deep fat (making sure they are well salted before consigning to the boiling fat). These too are wonderful fare for a hungry man and you need little else to go with them unless it be two well-fried, rusky-dry bacon rashers. I have also tried a jacket Désirée with a knob of butter and dash of Worcestershire sauce within its burning heart – this is good, too, after tramping the winter fields with a gun.
One of the sacks contained Désirée, the other Pentland, a Scottish potato I suppose. Désirée has a rosy hue before being subjected to heat, a comforting glow such as one sees on the cheeks of old countrymen. Pentland is more a son of the soil, with an ordinary potato-colour outer skin, good enough on the table though I prefer the rosy one. King Edwards are of excellent flavour too, for I like a rather broken, floury flesh and not the soapy kind.
Richard Jefferies in one of his books, Amaryllis At The Fair describes the old farmer eating his potatoes ‘Vorty vold’ which he washed down with his home-brewed ‘Goliath’ ale. The description of the way the butter melts into the broken flesh of the tuber makes one’s mouth water. It is Richard Jefferies at his best. His eye was so keen it missed nothing, and once read you never forget his description of how the old farmer’s favourite fireside chair and oak panelling was worn through years and years of sitting, of the wearing away of the fibres of the wood, just as the feet of pilgrims wear away the stone steps to a shrine.
When Richard Jefferies wrote those words he was poor and almost a dying man and could eat little. One can sense a certain wistful longing in his description of the old man’s enjoyment of his food. Most of the farming community enjoy their ‘vitulls’, as well they might, always working in the open air, a fine healthy life indeed and a natural one – the envy, I am sure, of many a factory worker or coal miner. I look for the day when men need no longer grub like moles in the darkness of the earth, shut a way from this glorious world (which could be even more delectable if we only watched our step). Man was never meant to toil in the bowels of the earth; to my mind no wealth can ever recompense those who have to win a living at the coal face. This time is coming very soon; atomic power will make it unnecessary, if only we can get our priorities right, and keep iron hands on this potentially deadly discovery.
Sadly, in the hard frosty and snowy weather around Christmas-time my moorhens departed I know not where, though they showed up at intervals to share their morning feed with a multitude of starlings. But long before dark they were gone. I could not guess where they went to roost. I have a thick planting of conifers all down my outside fence, they may sleep there, or again there is an ivy-clad apple tree, a venerable tree which provides us each year with small, old-fashioned cooking apples, bad keepers but delicious in a pie.
I planted the ivy there myself when I first bought the property. In the space of a dozen years it has raced up, smothering the branches. The old tree now wears a thick winter overcoat in which other birds love to sleep – the sparrows, wrens, and finches.
The ivy produces many berries. To them the fat woodpigeons used to come in the hard weather, clumsily shaking the thick leaves until the snow fell in little avalanches and gulping down the berries like greedy boys gobble sweets. But we have few woodpigeons now in my part of the country, and when the flocks do come they do not stay more than a day or so and then pass on. The recognised roosting woods are empty, as they were last winter.
I love to walk in the forest when the snow lies white. You can see a long way between the hardwoods now the leaves are down and mysterious undiscovered alleyways and clearings are revealed. Everywhere are the footprints of the wild creatures of the woods, the tiny fairy-like lacing of mice, the single-track spoor of foxes, the ‘sturdy-toes’ spoor of the badger, the cloven marks of delicate-footed deer. Rabbit tracks loop about the bramble thickets, the three-toed marks of pheasants are there plain to see, and many a midnight kill can be traced: rose-pink blood marks soaked into the snow, and feathers, and the fox’s ‘pounce’ can be read by those with eyes to see.
Again and again on my woodland walks I see the black and white pictures which I can later transfer to my drawing board for I have always been an admirer of black and white, almost in preference to colour. In dead winter the sky is bruised ochre, the snow so white in contrast to the delicate filigree of bare black twigs, and sturdy trunks of oak and ash. See how the ash branches curve over and sweep upwards at the tips like some of the hairstyles that women adopt, see in contrast the wriggly higgledy-piggledy oak boughs and twigs which never seem to know where they are going. Then look at the graceful beech trees whose branches, like those of the ash, tend to sweep downwards in graceful curves. The tall ash poles swing and rock like no other woodland tree, they swing in the winter wind as though they had heavy weights on their tips and the trunks seem to take a long time to taper off. In the cold winter dusk when the snow lies blurred in the half light they rock uneasily and make a faint, dry clatter. Sometimes where one branch bears upon another they creak and wheeze as though they were something more than trees.
I like to be there in the gathering winter gloom to listen to the talk of the forest, there is something there which appeals to the primitive man, the hunter maybe, walking soft-footed through the woods intent on winning his next meal. The old tawnies are vociferous on these snowy nights calling one to another down the dark aisles; maybe too you can hear the bark of a fox as he sets out on his evening hunt with perhaps the vision of a nice trim vixen somewhere around.
The North Wind
On the very top of my roof there is a weathervane of my own design, cunningly wrought for me by a local ironmaster. Needless to say this weathervane is in the shape of a greylag goose with neck astrain and wings raised so that his beak always cleaves the wind. It is (at the time of writing) the only one in the village which is visible to the wayfarer. I often see the rustics cock an eye as they pass by on the road to see which way the wind blows. (The townsman takes little notice of the weather, it means nothing to him, why should it? Most of his working life is spent under cover.)
The other night, in a frozen and forbidding dusk, I looked up to see the old bird with his beak to the north and before I went to bed small rustling flakes had started to fall, mantling the ice on my big pond, where, in the faraway heats of summer, my moorhen family reared their two broods. Sure enough, when I awoke next morning, along with my daughter, dogs, and garden birds, the earth was white. Even the old goose was white and the sky was the colour of putty.
At noon it seemed like late afternoon. The snow fell steadily all day, traffic crawled, spewing slush in filthy bow waves, and the thrushes hopped miserably about the lawn, trying to find the last of the apple fallings which I had left for them. Certainly it was an afternoon for a walk in the forest. I would take my .22 rifle and the labrador. The rifle is more akin to the bow and arrow, therefore it pleases me. There is no scatter of shot, just the one crumb of lead which must fly true.
Over the forest the sky was menacing; trees seem to gather dark vapours (fog is always more dense in a wood), and against the black firs multitudes of white flakes flew diagonally. I find woodland in snow quite enchanting; there is mystery everywhere, along the ridings, up the narrow alleyways of the firs, where, even there, in those sheltered aisles, the snow had found its way. As I walked along the path I thought of a day last July when I passed along this very track, how the heat was almost unsupportable and I wore no coat or shirt. What a change it now was! A different country entirely.
I passed up the narrow track to where it joined the main riding. The snow fell ever more thickly. Standing at the junction of a path I listened. There was only the soft rustle of the flakes and now and again the faint sigh of the wind in the firs. At any time conifers are dark and lacking in bird life, save for goldcrests and the nefarious jays and magpies. I remembered that somewhere here the long-eared owls have nested, noble owls indeed, more regal, and far less common, than the tawny. And a little way on among new plantings the nightjar churrs in the scented twilights of June.
In the snow were the prints of fallow deer and the little hunchbacked Japanese deer which somehow found their way here from Woburn, many miles to the south. Strange little misshapen creatures rarely seen and, I believe, extremely good to eat. And here let me say, since we talk of appetites, what better afternoon to stalk the woodland rabbits, or even a hare, for there are a number in the forest? It is the hunter’s hour.
In any other year the woodpigeon would be coming in, seeking out the warm firs this winter night, but of late they and the collared dove also have become much less plentiful, so much so I suspect some poisoning is going on and the powers that be are keeping it dark.
I left the firs and was soon among the hardwoods. It was surprising to find so much leaf on the oaks and the beeches too. Everywhere the tracks of rabbits were laced about and other lesser spoors of mice and little birds. I stepped back under a solitary stunted fir which grew beside the ride. Beneath was a mere dusting of snow and the dark tasselled boughs above my head were thick and dark, forming a cosy thatch. Against the grey sky three woodpigeon arrowed over, making for the firs. Something moved at the far end of the ride. My glasses were focused in a moment. It was a fallow buck. He appeared intensely black against the white background and for quite two minutes he stood staring down the ride towards me. Then he slowly walked across and vanished in the dense cover.
The deer here seek out the thickest and most remote part of the woods in which to lie up during the day, choosing those places where the blackthorn grows and the undercover is thick. They shun the fir forest, though I have seen the little humpbacks there. When the buck had gone a great loneliness seemed to fall about me, nothing but the ceaseless snow and the hardly heard rustle and caress of the flakes. No bird flew against that sombre sky, no rabbit moved against the white snow.
Quickly the dusk came down on the wintry wilderness. By the time I reached the road the lights of the village were like stars through the snow. Looking upwards, I said goodnight to my goose weathercock. His beak was still cleaving the north wind. Then I went in to muffins and a blazing fire of applewood.
The Last ‘Cocks Only’
When, during the last few days of January, I heard that the keeper’s wife had found her false teeth embedded in ice over night (resembling those prehistoric insects which have been found embedded in amber) I knew that this winter was becoming pretty rough. I awoke on the 26th to find all the outside pipes frozen, and there was a sullen lake in the bottom of the bath which refused to gurgle away. I have no truck with blow lamps. I wrap rags round the pipes and set them alight with the help of paraffin. Then I sit down and await that discreet gurgle and the subsequent rush of water down the plug hole. This system of unfreezing pipes is better than calling the plumber or fiddling around with blow lamps which snuff out in the slightest breeze. But don’t make the fire too big or you may have to call the fire brigade. This method is not recommended for wooden bungalows or lath-and-plaster Essex walls. But never fear, I am not going to talk about the weather, though it must be admitted that a covering of snow does simplify a landscape in rather a charming way. Trees are plain silhouettes, so are hedges and woods; there is no such thing as a ‘complicated’ landscape when snow covers the ground.
I had a go at the cocks on the last Saturday afternoon in January. It was a day of brilliant sun and blinding glare from the snow which made one’s eyes ache, and one really needed sunglasses. From Bob’s kale there arose a mighty concourse of pigeon. Some even sat hunched on the kale tops until we were well in range, but we did not shoot for we were after the wily old cocks which harbour in the lane close by. I took station by a gently steaming muck heap which no doubt the poor black-birds, thrushes and tits found comforting in the terrible cold; indeed their delicate footprints were all over the snow, as were the prints of partridge and pheasant. Fred Johnson was in the lane, the Doctor along the side of the straggling trees, and Charlie, Bob’s ‘orraman’ and Bob himself drove the lane towards us. Two cocks went out of the kale, saluted by Charlie without visible damage, and a few hens came rocketing out and a swerving blackbird or two. That was that. We then went down into the valley to the artichoke belt, planted for the express purpose of harbouring pheasants. I wonder more shooting men do not make refuges out of artichokes, the cover lasts for years and if you want an artichoke for the table there you are!
I stood in the snow on the east side of the cover, the other guns were out of sight of me on the far end. I saw Bob and Charlie beating out a boundary and Bob’s retrievers and spaniels diving in and out of the thickset hedge. Charlie went across the snowy field. I saw hares getting up and running. He shot one before it reached the artichokes. I expected a cock to come my way but only hens came whirring overhead with quivering tails. After the drive was over I found I had Fred’s Purdey, and he had my AYA; we had unwittingly changed weapons in the Land-Rover when we piled in with the dogs. A tight fit it was, too. I felt I was at the bottom of a rugger scrum. When the tail board went down we all fell out in a heap.
After this abortive drive, we then again crammed into the Land-Rover, dogs and all. How the dogs enjoy this intimacy with their masters! Steaming coats, panting tongues and clambering, oblivious of curses; a real man’s outing this and no mistake. I must say I found the warmth of about six dogs’ bodies was not unwelcome on that freezing afternoon.
We next debouched around Bob’s fir spinney where surely there must be a cock or two. I was in my favourite spot down by the brook facing the firs. Fred was up on my left and two other guns over the stream to guard the southern boundary. For a while, utter silence, that silence which is always so puzzling to the waiting guns. Whatever can the beaters be doing? The sky is already showing signs of the day’s end, a huge red sun is burning down behind the dead elms by Fred Allen’s farm. It’s an intriguing farm, for it has a walled garden and an old monastic pond close by which I persuaded Fred to stock with carp. Though the pond is shallow these carp have grown hugely and double figures are not uncommon. At one end is a reed-mace bed and a pheasant often harbours there – but we haven’t reached the farm yet, let us concentrate on the matter in hand, i.e. the fir wood.
A startled blackbird came swerving out of the firs followed by a pigeon. There was a distant shot but it sounded very far away. Something was moving down by the brook, and I saw it was a rabbit. It came out of the hedge and sat in the snow looking very miserable, rolled up like a ball. I wondered if it was a ‘mixy’. Far off, a shout. A cock came out of the firs, tail streaming behind, It offered a shot which I like above all others, passing high and to the right. It crumpled and hit the snow and I sent Polar for it before anyone else loosed his dog. It does annoy me when another dog is sent for my bird, which so often happens in a rough shoot. When I get a bird down, whether it is a goose or a pheasant, I like my own dog to retrieve it at once. A cock went past Fred on the hill but it was a long shot – we saw it go back to the shelter of the kale we had ‘beat out’ at the beginning of the afternoon. Then I saw a cock come out of the firs, run along the fence, and dodge back in again.
The beaters were getting closer now. A shot or two rang out and several hens came out; some over Fred, some over me. Then another cock coming straight for me, an easy shot! I swung the gun up. I had two shots at him and missed with both; he, too, went back to the kale. What had I done wrong? Perhaps it was too easy! I don’t like a bird coming straight over me. I cannot quite remember how we finished up at the fir wood. I think Bob had had one on the way up, I know the Doctor missed one. We went on, now to Fred Allen’s farm. I went over a plank bridge some fifty yards or more from the reedy carp pond. A snipe flickered along the brook and went into the snow-clad bushes opposite the Doctor. I thought at the time it was a woodcock. I only had a fleeting glimpse. Fred and his spaniels came up to the pond and a cock pheasant burst out of the reeds coming straight for me, a shot which was exactly like my last one. This time the gun seemed to come up more easily. I blotted out the cock and squeezed the trigger. The pheasant fell in the stream to be retrieved by Fred’s black labrador before I could loose Polar.
What the total bag was I cannot quite be sure, something in the region of eight or nine pheasants, and a hare. A paltry enough bag by most standards but how much more enjoyable than a great slaughter! The brilliant day, the crisp snow, the cold clear blue sky, it was just the sort of day I enjoy with the gun and I had had a pheasant with my very last shot of the game season, something I always like to do.
