R and I had been fruitlessly searching for quarry most of the week. Our first outing had been for a roebuck, and dog walkers had haunted us the whole evening. One passed totally unaware beneath the high seat we'd so painstakingly moved to after spotting a deer on the field from some distance away. We'd crept, crawled and climbed to get there, then watched our quarry flitting in and out of sight for what felt like an hour. And now, just as our hope was building that the deer may be about to present itself for a shot, a human voice and the tinkle of dog tags alerted us to the waste of all our effort.
The rest of the week continued in a similar fashion of bad luck, no-shows and frustration. I was staying with my wife in a holiday cottage near to R's house and he (previously a stranger) had very kindly offered to get me out shooting a few times during the stay. Indeed we did get out most mornings and evenings, but for all our reconnaissance and guesswork and best efforts we'd failed so far at bucks, does, and ducks.
And so it came to Saturday. The last day of my holiday before heading home on Sunday morning. With the merest hint of desperation we'd formulated a plan the night before. We'd get out first thing and try for some geese we'd seen coming into the stubbles, then spend the day rough shooting, and culminate in a doe stalk.
R arrived at the house not long after first light, accompanied by our comrade in arms for the day, Mike. A short drive got us to the stubble field where R and I had watched the previous day as two skeins of geese had come in. Between us we set up a hide and a pattern of decoys, then cosied up under the hedge and waited. Our recon told us that 8:15 should be goose-o-clock. The first skein would come in, circle once, then come in range.
No sooner had we finished complaining that the tarp we were sitting on was in no way waterproof, than the tell tale honking could be heard. "They're here, they're early!"
The next few moments were organised mayhem. Mike leapt to his feet and let fly both barrels, the geese had come in lower than we expected and were near to landing. As they turned in panic, Mike was back down safe and I stood and swung onto the retreating geese. I got one barrel off at the straggling tail end goose, then spotted a runner from Mike's barrage attempting to get itself airborne and took an aimed shot to stop it. One of us had dropped another goose on the stubble, which R dispatched with a final shot.
As our adrenaline subsidised, we got back under cover and waited, hoping for another skein, but after 30 minutes or so all we'd heard was the distant honking of geese heading elsewhere. We packed up hide and decoys and returned to R's place for a fry up (including venison sausages, of course) cooked up by his good lady. Banter and tea flowed, but soon it was time to get moving. Accompanied by R's intrepid terrier we headed out and began a systematic searching of various farms for game. Hindered again by a dog walker at one point, we managed a humble bag of one hen pheasant, shot by Mike, from a flush of about a dozen birds all from the same field. However, we all had a few empty cartridges to show for the day, and had we all been excellent shots the bag may have extended to three or four brace of pheasant, a few woodpigeon, 3 snipe and a couple of squirrels. Alas, it was not to be, but it can't be said that we didn't thoroughly enjoy ourselves trying.
Mike left us late afternoon, taking with him his lone pheasant and the breasts of the geese, and R and I headed back to collect his 243 for a doe stalk.
We'd been to this farm earlier in the week for a morning stalk, and although we saw no deer (our fear was that the vehicle had spooked them when we arrived) the fields were covered in sign. Some detective work told us they'd been browsing on the dandelions.
This time we parked in a different spot and stalked in by another route. Before long R had spotted a roe feeding in the hedge line at the opposite side of a field. We were too far out to call the sex, and retreated slowly to an out of site corner to plan our stalk in. We'd stalk around in the adjoining fields, where the hedge would hide us, then come through at a gateway where, we hoped, the deer would be identifiable and shootable.
We set off quickly and quietly, until we were in the gateway, masked by the thick hedge. R edged out from the gate, binoculars in hand, and we waited. The northerly wind was biting at my exposed hands and ears as I crouched behind R. I resisted the urge to crane my neck around him for a look. He was very still, totally silent and obviously had eyes on, so I'd wait for him to fill me in when he could. The thrill of the chase was building now, in spite of the sudden icy wind.
R edged back into the hedgerow, and I turned my ear for him to whisper. "They're still feeding down the bottom corner, you can get a shot off the bipod. They might see you, you'll just have to go for it." with that he passed me the binoculars and I crouched down where he had been. It room me a moment, but I spotted the doe tucked in by the hedge, feeding with her head down. I couldn't shoot from here, I'd have to get further out. I edged out a couple of feet and sat down, with the rifle on the bipod and rested my elbows on my knees as R had instructed. I found the doe in the scope and after a few seconds she turned broadside.
All thought of the cold had disappeared, as I squeezed the trigger.
There was a mighty whack and she kicked out, then ran. A second doe appeared, panicked by the shot and ran straight past us. I watched the first doe, my attention focused. As suddenly as she'd started running, she stopped and fell. We watched her for a moment, then slowly approached to find her dead from a good lung shot.
In the final hour of opportunity we'd achieved what we'd been attempting all week. A deer in the bag after a challenging stalk. I gralloched her under R's advice and we soon had her in the chiller. It had been a long day, but nobody could say we didn't deserve the results!
What a great end to a memorable holiday. I hope some day I can repay R's kindness.
The rest of the week continued in a similar fashion of bad luck, no-shows and frustration. I was staying with my wife in a holiday cottage near to R's house and he (previously a stranger) had very kindly offered to get me out shooting a few times during the stay. Indeed we did get out most mornings and evenings, but for all our reconnaissance and guesswork and best efforts we'd failed so far at bucks, does, and ducks.
And so it came to Saturday. The last day of my holiday before heading home on Sunday morning. With the merest hint of desperation we'd formulated a plan the night before. We'd get out first thing and try for some geese we'd seen coming into the stubbles, then spend the day rough shooting, and culminate in a doe stalk.
R arrived at the house not long after first light, accompanied by our comrade in arms for the day, Mike. A short drive got us to the stubble field where R and I had watched the previous day as two skeins of geese had come in. Between us we set up a hide and a pattern of decoys, then cosied up under the hedge and waited. Our recon told us that 8:15 should be goose-o-clock. The first skein would come in, circle once, then come in range.
No sooner had we finished complaining that the tarp we were sitting on was in no way waterproof, than the tell tale honking could be heard. "They're here, they're early!"
The next few moments were organised mayhem. Mike leapt to his feet and let fly both barrels, the geese had come in lower than we expected and were near to landing. As they turned in panic, Mike was back down safe and I stood and swung onto the retreating geese. I got one barrel off at the straggling tail end goose, then spotted a runner from Mike's barrage attempting to get itself airborne and took an aimed shot to stop it. One of us had dropped another goose on the stubble, which R dispatched with a final shot.
As our adrenaline subsidised, we got back under cover and waited, hoping for another skein, but after 30 minutes or so all we'd heard was the distant honking of geese heading elsewhere. We packed up hide and decoys and returned to R's place for a fry up (including venison sausages, of course) cooked up by his good lady. Banter and tea flowed, but soon it was time to get moving. Accompanied by R's intrepid terrier we headed out and began a systematic searching of various farms for game. Hindered again by a dog walker at one point, we managed a humble bag of one hen pheasant, shot by Mike, from a flush of about a dozen birds all from the same field. However, we all had a few empty cartridges to show for the day, and had we all been excellent shots the bag may have extended to three or four brace of pheasant, a few woodpigeon, 3 snipe and a couple of squirrels. Alas, it was not to be, but it can't be said that we didn't thoroughly enjoy ourselves trying.
Mike left us late afternoon, taking with him his lone pheasant and the breasts of the geese, and R and I headed back to collect his 243 for a doe stalk.
We'd been to this farm earlier in the week for a morning stalk, and although we saw no deer (our fear was that the vehicle had spooked them when we arrived) the fields were covered in sign. Some detective work told us they'd been browsing on the dandelions.
This time we parked in a different spot and stalked in by another route. Before long R had spotted a roe feeding in the hedge line at the opposite side of a field. We were too far out to call the sex, and retreated slowly to an out of site corner to plan our stalk in. We'd stalk around in the adjoining fields, where the hedge would hide us, then come through at a gateway where, we hoped, the deer would be identifiable and shootable.
We set off quickly and quietly, until we were in the gateway, masked by the thick hedge. R edged out from the gate, binoculars in hand, and we waited. The northerly wind was biting at my exposed hands and ears as I crouched behind R. I resisted the urge to crane my neck around him for a look. He was very still, totally silent and obviously had eyes on, so I'd wait for him to fill me in when he could. The thrill of the chase was building now, in spite of the sudden icy wind.
R edged back into the hedgerow, and I turned my ear for him to whisper. "They're still feeding down the bottom corner, you can get a shot off the bipod. They might see you, you'll just have to go for it." with that he passed me the binoculars and I crouched down where he had been. It room me a moment, but I spotted the doe tucked in by the hedge, feeding with her head down. I couldn't shoot from here, I'd have to get further out. I edged out a couple of feet and sat down, with the rifle on the bipod and rested my elbows on my knees as R had instructed. I found the doe in the scope and after a few seconds she turned broadside.
All thought of the cold had disappeared, as I squeezed the trigger.
There was a mighty whack and she kicked out, then ran. A second doe appeared, panicked by the shot and ran straight past us. I watched the first doe, my attention focused. As suddenly as she'd started running, she stopped and fell. We watched her for a moment, then slowly approached to find her dead from a good lung shot.
In the final hour of opportunity we'd achieved what we'd been attempting all week. A deer in the bag after a challenging stalk. I gralloched her under R's advice and we soon had her in the chiller. It had been a long day, but nobody could say we didn't deserve the results!
What a great end to a memorable holiday. I hope some day I can repay R's kindness.
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