Last night I sat in a covered highseat in the Forest of Dean sipping strong coffee and witnessing the surrender of day to night. I was then wrapped in night's blanket for a time and finally warmed by day's return a little over 6 hours later. Magic. I have not stayed up the whole night since the partying years of my teens and twenties. And whilst that had its allure then, I am now sure that the older me could have persuaded the young 'un version that his time could be better spent!
As the sun dipped and shadows lengthed, the intense heat of the sun mellowed and reddened, then bowed out with a few golden sunbeam encores piercing the forest's dense foliage and dappling the field in front of the hide. Just before the light had gone, a pair of juvenile fallow pronked onto the paddock, dawdled, pronked some more and then ambled into the forest. Forty minutes later a Roe doe and yearling follower strode more purposefully across the stubble intent on finding their bedding for the night.
The tawny owl heralded the commencement of the night shift. Dayside songbird chatter stilled. There was a lull before the night shift came on duty: bats whirling hither and thither plucking insects of the night in their aerial slalom.Then a warbler, next a thrush. And then I heard a call I cannot place. Definitely a bird, but really loud and piercing across the 170m distace to the far treeline. It made three rising Woo-arhhh noises. I am baffled. But from the volume I was expecting to see something that was more closely related to T-rex than turdus. It did not call again that night and I never took sight of any creature.
All around me I could hear rooting and snuffling in the darkness, mostly behind the blind. The earlier daylight inspection showed the field to be well worked by feral boar. And now I could hear them [and doubtless badgers] doing their thing in the undergrowth. With light now fully gone, I added the Nite Site to the 30.06's daytime scope. After a bit of fiddling, I had clear crosshairs and was confident I could make a good shot out to where the grain hopper stood 46m distant. But...no takers yet.
Through the darkest part of night, the field was dimly lit by starlight. My eyes had grown accustomed to the gloam and I avoided using my headtorch to break that. Every once in a while I would notice that the stubble became somehow brighter for perhaps a second or so. Initially I wondered if I had used too much aribica. Then I realised: it was probably shooting star illumination fleetingly elevating the light available. There were three of those brightening spells that night.
Around 02:40, a bat confidently swooped in through the blind's shutter slot and the wind from its wingbeats carressed my face. It alighted gently somewhere in the hide behind me, probably realised its home was temporarily occupied, and promptly took off again. At 03:00 a loud porcine discourse drew my eyes to the far corner of the field. Two sows apparently sorting out a dispute. Once settled, they lead their troup of humbugs onto the field and over to the grain hopper. The Swaros did well to make out some detail by starlight, but the Nite Site helped fill in the detail. No shooters here. All dependent young , no longer than they were tall. "Tell daddy dinner is served" I was thinking/hoping. Never happened. Those were the only pigs I saw all night. Ho hum.
By 03:40 is was clear that dawn was on its was. I took the Nite Site off in anticipation. The Zeiss riflescope could not cope yet, but a short 25 mins later and it was good to go. A little after that, I espied movement out the corner of my eye and made out a low form snaking left and right in sinuous S pathways through the field's edge. Weasel? Then it turned to the centre of the field and emerged into a clearer area: this was a fox but built like a corgi. The shortest legs pro rata body length I have ever seen. I chuckled to think that he will always have a dew sodden belly if he hunts early mornings. I let him go as I was now hoping a roe buck would present. Alas, that was not to be either.
The dawn chorus had started a little before 04:00, then grew in volume. It was in full crescendo by 04:10. Perhaps jogged by their reminder call, the owl hooted one last time delivering the night shift's last post. I lingered until the new sun had fully painted the field ahead of me. The joy of that night is etched in my mind. I know I would have felt the same when I was 20.
As the sun dipped and shadows lengthed, the intense heat of the sun mellowed and reddened, then bowed out with a few golden sunbeam encores piercing the forest's dense foliage and dappling the field in front of the hide. Just before the light had gone, a pair of juvenile fallow pronked onto the paddock, dawdled, pronked some more and then ambled into the forest. Forty minutes later a Roe doe and yearling follower strode more purposefully across the stubble intent on finding their bedding for the night.
The tawny owl heralded the commencement of the night shift. Dayside songbird chatter stilled. There was a lull before the night shift came on duty: bats whirling hither and thither plucking insects of the night in their aerial slalom.Then a warbler, next a thrush. And then I heard a call I cannot place. Definitely a bird, but really loud and piercing across the 170m distace to the far treeline. It made three rising Woo-arhhh noises. I am baffled. But from the volume I was expecting to see something that was more closely related to T-rex than turdus. It did not call again that night and I never took sight of any creature.
All around me I could hear rooting and snuffling in the darkness, mostly behind the blind. The earlier daylight inspection showed the field to be well worked by feral boar. And now I could hear them [and doubtless badgers] doing their thing in the undergrowth. With light now fully gone, I added the Nite Site to the 30.06's daytime scope. After a bit of fiddling, I had clear crosshairs and was confident I could make a good shot out to where the grain hopper stood 46m distant. But...no takers yet.
Through the darkest part of night, the field was dimly lit by starlight. My eyes had grown accustomed to the gloam and I avoided using my headtorch to break that. Every once in a while I would notice that the stubble became somehow brighter for perhaps a second or so. Initially I wondered if I had used too much aribica. Then I realised: it was probably shooting star illumination fleetingly elevating the light available. There were three of those brightening spells that night.
Around 02:40, a bat confidently swooped in through the blind's shutter slot and the wind from its wingbeats carressed my face. It alighted gently somewhere in the hide behind me, probably realised its home was temporarily occupied, and promptly took off again. At 03:00 a loud porcine discourse drew my eyes to the far corner of the field. Two sows apparently sorting out a dispute. Once settled, they lead their troup of humbugs onto the field and over to the grain hopper. The Swaros did well to make out some detail by starlight, but the Nite Site helped fill in the detail. No shooters here. All dependent young , no longer than they were tall. "Tell daddy dinner is served" I was thinking/hoping. Never happened. Those were the only pigs I saw all night. Ho hum.
By 03:40 is was clear that dawn was on its was. I took the Nite Site off in anticipation. The Zeiss riflescope could not cope yet, but a short 25 mins later and it was good to go. A little after that, I espied movement out the corner of my eye and made out a low form snaking left and right in sinuous S pathways through the field's edge. Weasel? Then it turned to the centre of the field and emerged into a clearer area: this was a fox but built like a corgi. The shortest legs pro rata body length I have ever seen. I chuckled to think that he will always have a dew sodden belly if he hunts early mornings. I let him go as I was now hoping a roe buck would present. Alas, that was not to be either.
The dawn chorus had started a little before 04:00, then grew in volume. It was in full crescendo by 04:10. Perhaps jogged by their reminder call, the owl hooted one last time delivering the night shift's last post. I lingered until the new sun had fully painted the field ahead of me. The joy of that night is etched in my mind. I know I would have felt the same when I was 20.
