With work commitments from half of the syndicate and transport issues for another, the best we can muster this evening is three guns.
The weather and it does not look great. I mention to my wife that I may sack it off.
If looks could kill.
“I have bought you and the boys cake. A tub of mini chocolate rolls and a tub of flapjacks. You need to go and have a cup of tea with the boys – its not just about Stalking”.
Don’t you hate to hear your own preaching thrown back in your face?
I drive over to the home of one of the Guns. He has reminded me that the way into the village (through which I normally travel) is closed to traffic.
Bimbling through the English countryside and I am on final approach to his village. I see the sign that says “Road Closed”. But is it? Is it really closed? I turn the wheel of the truck and drive past the “Road Closed” sign. I am unsure why I have done this.
Eighty yards into the lane, I am met by a red barrier and five men in hiviz and hard hats. They are staring at me. I know what they are thinking. They are right. I gracefully turn the 110 around in the narrow country lane, using a modest six-point turn. I cannot get the image of the grounded tanker in the Suez, out of my mind.
I creep away feeling their disgust boring into the back of my head. Why do men do this?
Arriving at the Gun’s house, we are joined by the third member of tonight’s team.
Our host goes to put the kettle on and me and No.3 retire to the barn. The rains are already settling in.
No.3 is not in his first flush of youth and is not in the best of health. He also carries a wee bit too much weight.
“How have you been No.3?”
“Not great. My chest is not brilliant and the Doctor wants to test me for diabetes”.
At this moment our host returns with a tray of hot beverages. I have opened the two tubs of cakes.
No. 3 reaches across and takes a Swiss Roll in his fingers – I am so impressed with how he also “palmed” another two, that I almost failed to notice him take two flapjacks with his other hand.
“Yeah. Can you believe it. Fcuking diabetes!”
I manage to bite my lip. Perhaps if No.3 bit his more often and cake less so. I make a mental note to bring salads next time.
Our host never seems to put weight on. I decide his is either bulimic or has a tape-worm.
Turns out he exercises. Every day. Swine. I make another mental note – buy a tape-worm.
We mount up and head off to our respective areas. When I get to mine, (this time obeying the detour around the back of a golf course) I find a BT OpenReach van parked in front of my gate.
The rains have re-started. There is a BT tower in the corner of the field I am trying to access, and I assume the engineer will be in there. He is not. A few minutes later the BT engineer appears. He is soaked to the skin, arriving from direction of the golf course and carrying a putter. I assume the moral high ground that those road engineers assumed over me less than an hour ago, perhaps forgetting that we all (even BT engineers) need some Covid fresh air. We wave each other off.
Parked safely where I should be (i), I kit up, lock up and head off (ii) towards my seat. I am in the seat almost at the village clock strike five. I reckon two hours. Ready the rifle, scan with the TI and then the binocular. Nothing. It is 1710. I have been here ten minutes so you know what that means.
Refs.
Today’s culinary feast is ham and mustard bagel. Why bagel? Well following a recent disaster, when I dropped my roll out of my seat, let me share with you what I have invented. I will not patent it and it is my gift to the stalking world. Take a bite out of your delicious bagel, then impale your bagel onto the bolt of your rifle (iii) – your refs. are safe and secure! You are most welcome.
At 1715 hours I have safely consumed my treat when I notice a Muntjac exit one copse and head towards another. She does not stop and I do not have a chance to take a shot. The rains (iv) return: again. I faff about with the scope covers which is why I miss the second opportunity at the Muntjac as she leaves the second copse and heads into the tree line. Bugger.
Then a Roe Buck at my 2. He is stood in the gate at this corner of my field which leads into a large field. I can make out three Doe in this second field. My approach is via the gate that this Buck stands. Unbeknown to him, he stands sentinel for the three Doe and I cannot make progress and the Does are not disturbed.
Then the Muntjac reappears. This time she is heading up a deer track directly to my seat. She gets to about 30 yards before she stops. Her head and shoulders and masked by branches and I cannot take an ethical shot. She spooks and with tail raised in alarm, turns to run from whence she came.
My intention was to “bark” at her. I do not know whether it is because I am out of practice or my anxiety levels were raised, but what came out sounded like a poor Michael Jackson tribute act auditioning for “Thriller”. The Muntjac continued on utterly unimpressed.
The rains were coming in showers of about fifteen minutes duration. They were bitterly cold and came in at about 40 degrees angle. I was wearing fingerless neoprene gloves. After just a quarter of an hour in these conditions, I may as well have not had fingers, so cold was it.
About 1845 hours and a decent Muntjac Buck trotted across my right to left, but no chance of a shot and whilst I “tracked him” hoping for an opportunity, he seemed to melt into the fading light (v).
At 1855, I notice more deer in the field in which I had earlier seen the Does. With the Buck no longer standing guard at the gate I make a heroic late dash for glory.
I made the gate and could just about make out the deer. There were seven of them, at least three of whom were Bucks (two were sparring) but the light was gone and so I withdrew without disturbing them.
Another couple of hours in outdoors and perhaps something to look forward to come 1st April.
The weather and it does not look great. I mention to my wife that I may sack it off.
If looks could kill.
“I have bought you and the boys cake. A tub of mini chocolate rolls and a tub of flapjacks. You need to go and have a cup of tea with the boys – its not just about Stalking”.
Don’t you hate to hear your own preaching thrown back in your face?
I drive over to the home of one of the Guns. He has reminded me that the way into the village (through which I normally travel) is closed to traffic.
Bimbling through the English countryside and I am on final approach to his village. I see the sign that says “Road Closed”. But is it? Is it really closed? I turn the wheel of the truck and drive past the “Road Closed” sign. I am unsure why I have done this.
Eighty yards into the lane, I am met by a red barrier and five men in hiviz and hard hats. They are staring at me. I know what they are thinking. They are right. I gracefully turn the 110 around in the narrow country lane, using a modest six-point turn. I cannot get the image of the grounded tanker in the Suez, out of my mind.
I creep away feeling their disgust boring into the back of my head. Why do men do this?
Arriving at the Gun’s house, we are joined by the third member of tonight’s team.
Our host goes to put the kettle on and me and No.3 retire to the barn. The rains are already settling in.
No.3 is not in his first flush of youth and is not in the best of health. He also carries a wee bit too much weight.
“How have you been No.3?”
“Not great. My chest is not brilliant and the Doctor wants to test me for diabetes”.
At this moment our host returns with a tray of hot beverages. I have opened the two tubs of cakes.
No. 3 reaches across and takes a Swiss Roll in his fingers – I am so impressed with how he also “palmed” another two, that I almost failed to notice him take two flapjacks with his other hand.
“Yeah. Can you believe it. Fcuking diabetes!”
I manage to bite my lip. Perhaps if No.3 bit his more often and cake less so. I make a mental note to bring salads next time.
Our host never seems to put weight on. I decide his is either bulimic or has a tape-worm.
Turns out he exercises. Every day. Swine. I make another mental note – buy a tape-worm.
We mount up and head off to our respective areas. When I get to mine, (this time obeying the detour around the back of a golf course) I find a BT OpenReach van parked in front of my gate.
The rains have re-started. There is a BT tower in the corner of the field I am trying to access, and I assume the engineer will be in there. He is not. A few minutes later the BT engineer appears. He is soaked to the skin, arriving from direction of the golf course and carrying a putter. I assume the moral high ground that those road engineers assumed over me less than an hour ago, perhaps forgetting that we all (even BT engineers) need some Covid fresh air. We wave each other off.
Parked safely where I should be (i), I kit up, lock up and head off (ii) towards my seat. I am in the seat almost at the village clock strike five. I reckon two hours. Ready the rifle, scan with the TI and then the binocular. Nothing. It is 1710. I have been here ten minutes so you know what that means.
Refs.
Today’s culinary feast is ham and mustard bagel. Why bagel? Well following a recent disaster, when I dropped my roll out of my seat, let me share with you what I have invented. I will not patent it and it is my gift to the stalking world. Take a bite out of your delicious bagel, then impale your bagel onto the bolt of your rifle (iii) – your refs. are safe and secure! You are most welcome.
At 1715 hours I have safely consumed my treat when I notice a Muntjac exit one copse and head towards another. She does not stop and I do not have a chance to take a shot. The rains (iv) return: again. I faff about with the scope covers which is why I miss the second opportunity at the Muntjac as she leaves the second copse and heads into the tree line. Bugger.
Then a Roe Buck at my 2. He is stood in the gate at this corner of my field which leads into a large field. I can make out three Doe in this second field. My approach is via the gate that this Buck stands. Unbeknown to him, he stands sentinel for the three Doe and I cannot make progress and the Does are not disturbed.
Then the Muntjac reappears. This time she is heading up a deer track directly to my seat. She gets to about 30 yards before she stops. Her head and shoulders and masked by branches and I cannot take an ethical shot. She spooks and with tail raised in alarm, turns to run from whence she came.
My intention was to “bark” at her. I do not know whether it is because I am out of practice or my anxiety levels were raised, but what came out sounded like a poor Michael Jackson tribute act auditioning for “Thriller”. The Muntjac continued on utterly unimpressed.
The rains were coming in showers of about fifteen minutes duration. They were bitterly cold and came in at about 40 degrees angle. I was wearing fingerless neoprene gloves. After just a quarter of an hour in these conditions, I may as well have not had fingers, so cold was it.
About 1845 hours and a decent Muntjac Buck trotted across my right to left, but no chance of a shot and whilst I “tracked him” hoping for an opportunity, he seemed to melt into the fading light (v).
At 1855, I notice more deer in the field in which I had earlier seen the Does. With the Buck no longer standing guard at the gate I make a heroic late dash for glory.
I made the gate and could just about make out the deer. There were seven of them, at least three of whom were Bucks (two were sparring) but the light was gone and so I withdrew without disturbing them.
Another couple of hours in outdoors and perhaps something to look forward to come 1st April.
. Anything I have to eat has got to be thrown together at the last gasp before heading out shooting.
