There’s something wonderfully smug about being up at 3am on a Sunday. The world’s dead quiet, save for the occasional fox — and the last of Saturday night’s heroes weaving home, kebab in hand, spirits broken. I smiled as I passed them, feeling rather superior in my hangover-free state (although with only three hours’ sleep, I was running on equal parts caffeine and anticipation).
Waiting at the rendezvous, as dependable as ever, were Kev and Chris from C&K Suffolk Wild Venison — the stalwart guides I’ve had the pleasure of stalking with on several occasions now. I jumped in to truck and off we went. By the time we reached the stalking ground, the moon was fading and the sky hadn’t yet decided to wake up.
As usual, they were fully kitted up: thermal monoculars, pockets full of stalking essentials, and the estate rifle — a tidy .243 topped with a thermal scope and the inevitable moderator. I didn’t bother asking for the full tech spec; I trust these blokes implicitly. If it’s in their hands, it’s proven, zeroed, and deadly accurate.
Kev passed me the rifle so I could get a feel for the scope — the modern miracle that turns the pitch-black woods into something resembling a nature documentary. Once I’d confirmed which button did what, we set off.
The gravel path crunched underfoot despite our best efforts to tiptoe, but thankfully the brisk wind helped hide our misdemeanors. Once inside the wood, the darkness thickened — the kind that eats torchlight and makes every fallen twig feel like a personal betrayal. Still, we crept on, single file, eyes scanning, thermals sweeping.
After about forty-five minutes of tension — a few stubborn heat signatures lying low but nothing offering itself up — both Kev and Chris froze. When they stop, you really stop. I was signaled forward, sticks set, rifle handed over. Through the thermal, I could see a cluster of bodies —large, glowing shapes — and then smaller ones beside them. My heart kicked but then came the quiet groan of recognition; three does and their dependents. Lovely to watch, but strictly off the menu in October. The rifle went down, and we melted back into the shadows.
Then, as the faintest grey light started to seep into the world, it happened. At the end of a long, straight ride, a group of fallow ambled across the far field — ghosts against the dawn. Game time. My heart thumped like a drum in my chest. Calm down, mate, I told myself. You haven’t even checked the sex yet.
Sure enough, front and centre was a medal buck — a proper head-turner. “He’s too good to take,” Chris whispered. “Want to keep those genes in the area.” Fair play — I couldn’t argue with that logic. But the big lad wasn’t alone.
“There — that one on the right,” came the quiet instruction. I found him in the scope: a solid fallow pricket, standing broadside-ish, calm and oblivious. Not quite offering the shot yet. We waited — what felt like an hour but was probably twenty seconds — until one of the lads called the group. Every deer froze. Then he turned, just enough.
Crosshairs settled. Breath held.
The trigger broke clean. The buck leapt, kicked, and bolted twenty meters before folding into the grass. A perfect heart-lung shot. Job done. My first fallow pricket — down humanely, cleanly, and with every ounce of adrenaline still fizzing in my veins.
Kev and Chris grinned. “Good size,” one of them said, and I’ll admit, I was quietly chuffed. Not for the head, but for the meat — a freezer soon to be brimming with beautiful Suffolk venison, ready for the family table.
I left the carcass with the lads to work their usual magic — larder, butcher, pack (unbelievable service!!) — and by Thursday I’ll be collecting my spoils. As for dinner that night? Let’s just say it’ll be a venison-heavy offering — and I’ll be tucking in with the self-satisfied grin of a man who got up early, stayed sober, and made it count.
Waiting at the rendezvous, as dependable as ever, were Kev and Chris from C&K Suffolk Wild Venison — the stalwart guides I’ve had the pleasure of stalking with on several occasions now. I jumped in to truck and off we went. By the time we reached the stalking ground, the moon was fading and the sky hadn’t yet decided to wake up.
As usual, they were fully kitted up: thermal monoculars, pockets full of stalking essentials, and the estate rifle — a tidy .243 topped with a thermal scope and the inevitable moderator. I didn’t bother asking for the full tech spec; I trust these blokes implicitly. If it’s in their hands, it’s proven, zeroed, and deadly accurate.
Kev passed me the rifle so I could get a feel for the scope — the modern miracle that turns the pitch-black woods into something resembling a nature documentary. Once I’d confirmed which button did what, we set off.
The gravel path crunched underfoot despite our best efforts to tiptoe, but thankfully the brisk wind helped hide our misdemeanors. Once inside the wood, the darkness thickened — the kind that eats torchlight and makes every fallen twig feel like a personal betrayal. Still, we crept on, single file, eyes scanning, thermals sweeping.
After about forty-five minutes of tension — a few stubborn heat signatures lying low but nothing offering itself up — both Kev and Chris froze. When they stop, you really stop. I was signaled forward, sticks set, rifle handed over. Through the thermal, I could see a cluster of bodies —large, glowing shapes — and then smaller ones beside them. My heart kicked but then came the quiet groan of recognition; three does and their dependents. Lovely to watch, but strictly off the menu in October. The rifle went down, and we melted back into the shadows.
Then, as the faintest grey light started to seep into the world, it happened. At the end of a long, straight ride, a group of fallow ambled across the far field — ghosts against the dawn. Game time. My heart thumped like a drum in my chest. Calm down, mate, I told myself. You haven’t even checked the sex yet.
Sure enough, front and centre was a medal buck — a proper head-turner. “He’s too good to take,” Chris whispered. “Want to keep those genes in the area.” Fair play — I couldn’t argue with that logic. But the big lad wasn’t alone.
“There — that one on the right,” came the quiet instruction. I found him in the scope: a solid fallow pricket, standing broadside-ish, calm and oblivious. Not quite offering the shot yet. We waited — what felt like an hour but was probably twenty seconds — until one of the lads called the group. Every deer froze. Then he turned, just enough.
Crosshairs settled. Breath held.
The trigger broke clean. The buck leapt, kicked, and bolted twenty meters before folding into the grass. A perfect heart-lung shot. Job done. My first fallow pricket — down humanely, cleanly, and with every ounce of adrenaline still fizzing in my veins.
Kev and Chris grinned. “Good size,” one of them said, and I’ll admit, I was quietly chuffed. Not for the head, but for the meat — a freezer soon to be brimming with beautiful Suffolk venison, ready for the family table.
I left the carcass with the lads to work their usual magic — larder, butcher, pack (unbelievable service!!) — and by Thursday I’ll be collecting my spoils. As for dinner that night? Let’s just say it’ll be a venison-heavy offering — and I’ll be tucking in with the self-satisfied grin of a man who got up early, stayed sober, and made it count.
