Rum gets my goat...

Well it is day three, of our wee adventure in the small Isles.

After two days on the hill, I had rather hoped that I would be “excused boots” and allowed to join the fishermen for a day on the Lochans.

But no, the assumption from my host was that I was here for a Goat, and you do not get a goat by throwing flies into a lochan.

So strap yourself in, and get ready for another day on the hill.

I offered my wife the charity that my host denied me - but she is made of harder stuff.

“No. We are here to stalk and stalk we will”.

I was too tired to argue and trudged off to the boot room like a truculent child. Having only packed one pair of stalking socks (I know) I was struggling to kit myself out. My host generously lent me his Harkila gaiters. If you are in the market for a pair of gaiters (and I am) then these are the way to go.
Gentlemen of a “certain” age are at serious risk of a cardiac incident when they are hunched over trying to put their sock, books and gaiters on. These Harkila gaiters might just save your life.

Anyhoo.

Dressed for the hill, we once again board the boat to the isle of Rum. The boat crossing eats into your stalking time. Good. The longer the crossing the shorter the time on the hill. I was exhausted. “Dead slow” for me Captain…

Just over an hour later and we are back up the hill. All the old aches and pains let me know that I am getting old. We give it a good four hours but are beaten by a sea mist that rolls in and blankets the hills. I do not care, it is a magical place.

The head stalker has a boat to catch and so it will be a slightly shorter day today. Good. I love a short day.

We regroup back at the mausoleum (I know), which is right down by the shore. The book “Eccentric Wealth” explains it all. The history of a privately purchased island by a man for whom money was no object. He actually had a castle built on the island and this mausoleum is his and his parents final resting place.

The head stalker goes off with one of the family friends who has been trying for his first stag. I struggle to hide my relief at seeing him and his young charge, disappear (at speed) over the brow of the hill.

Mrs S62 takes a pew next to the mausoleum and lays out in the sun. This is a good idea. Lay down in the sun and have a rest whilst the head stalker beasts the young lad.

Then suddenly the under-stalker appears.

“Are you still wanting a goat?”

I want nothing of the sort. I want to be left alone to lie down in the sun.

“Of course - if it’s not too much trouble”, I replied - hoping it would be way too much trouble.

“No trouble at all sir”.

Damn.

I look back at Mrs S62 hoping for sympathy. She is asleep.

Both I and the young stalker head off.

About half an hour later and we spy a good sized Billy and two kids.

It is a long circuitous route to get the wind of them, and then a long crawl through the grass. As we crest the ridge the young stalker whispers “We are too close”.

We reverse crawl out of the way and cut across the dead ground to bring us up to bear on the goat (got to love the English language).

The Billy is a big fella and his coat is long and shaggy.

The distance for the shot is 80 yards and he drops into his shadow. There he is. My first goat.

The young stalker offers me his hand and congratulations. He is fairly new to the game and the congratulations were reciprocated.

Now for the proof. Do goats smell terrible? I take the sensible option and send the young lad forward to find out.

Actually they are not terrible, but this was on a rocky coast with the wind in my favour. I would not want to share a car with one.

As we begin to make our way back, I see another (slightly smaller) Billy. He is laid up and watching us from about 100 yards. He eventually gets up and starts to make his way off.

It is clear to me he is not right. His front off-side leg is at an angle and he is not putting weight on in. It is obviously broken. With the speed and agility I thought I no longer possessed, I ran to get into position and dropped him with a neck shot.
In a week where I took an Imperial Stag and my first Goat, it was that shot which gave me the most pleasure.

Post-mortum examination revolved a badly broken leg with some calcification healing being to take place. The poor beast must have been in agony and I was glad that I was there to put an end to it.

At this stage of the week, and after three days on the hill, it would have been a similar mercy for me.

I would not have missed it for the world.

 

[Foxyboy43]

How fascinating! On a similar vein there is a bothy high up the hill above Pitlochry where in the thirties the laird used to go for a day at the grouse, he drove up in his Bentley and the track is just about “doable” in a four track and with some very steep hills and tight bends!
Different days and times and characters long gone but the stories remain and no doubt gain a little in each retelling.
I wonder what the generations to come will think of our shenanigans? Maybe best not going there……

 

[Stalker62]

Following on from my little Goat adventure.

Yesterday a friend of mine donated this little book to me. It is "The Wild Goats of Great Britain and Ireland" by G. Kenneth Whitehead (1972).

Chapter 6 is - "The Chase of the Wild Goat" - and therein is a wonderful paragraph by the late Frank Wallace - a much travelled sportsman.
It relates to his hunting Goats and the "Goat fever" he experienced: which caused him to completely miss his first two Goats.


"He was standing with his head up, every inch of his splendid horns thrown into strong relief against the pale lilac of an evening sky, and as I watched him that attack of goat fever began, which in the end nearly made me lose him, and for the best part of three days rendered me the most unhappy man in Sutherlandshire"



I was also delighted to see a photo of a Rhum Goat, taken in 1944