The sands of time, have flowed sufficiently through the hour-glass, to tell me that it is once again time to point the old jalopy North and to keep my appointment with an unlucky Red Stag in the Inner Hebrides.
The days of wrestling (you do not drive a Landrover) the old truck, the length of the country in one go, are thankfully a distant and painful memory. My P.B. for one of these Biblical journeys was 17 hours - the diesel was eye wateringly expensive yet still cheaper than the chiropractor.
This year I had a plan so cunning, it would have made Baldrick blush.
Break the journey up with a couple of 'stop offs'. Genius.
First pit-stop was the M6 Travel Lodge. Cheap, cheerful and more welcome that I thought possible for accommodation on a motorway.
Despite having paid for breakfast, my body-clock had me awake and back on the road long before that became an option.
About eight hours later and I was (for the first time) crossing the Bridge to Skye. The last time I was on Skye, I was working, and there was only the ferry. I do not know what I was expecting (actually, I was expecting the Golden Gate Bridge, or the Sydney Harbour Bridge), but the bridge left me completely underwhelmed. Before you all jump down my throat, (and for reasons I cannot understand) on the return journey, that same Bridge looked magnificent.
Second pit-stop was The Skye Inn on (guess what?) Skye. Expensive, 'shabby chic' and with beds so narrow that we were obliged to request a move to a room which catered for 'adults'. Why they try and pass off this room (15) as appropriate for adults was beyond me. However, we were changed rooms without any drama. The bar is well stocked and the food was not terrible. The place is dog friendly and so is forgiven most of its sins. Speaking of sins. Their display of Roe heads in the bar area has to be seen to be believed.
The following morning was a flurry of activity. You cannot take your car onto the Isle - everything you need has to be unloaded on the dock and then loaded onto the small passenger Ferry for onward transmission to the Isles. There is (for me) just something magical about these places.
The crossing took about an hour. I looked back at the truck in the local 'long-stay' car park (£10.50 for a month - must be pre-paid on-line) and wondered if I would ever see her again.
Pushing such unhappy thoughts to the back of my mind, I enjoyed the crossing, the wind, the waves, the sunshine, the rainstorm and the hail -yes hail - all in the one hour. Christ it is good to be back in the Highlands.
Met at the jetty on the Isle by our hosts, our (considerable) luggage and provisions were loaded onto a quad and trailer and disappeared over the horizon. We were pointed in the direction of our accommodation and told to 'crack on'. I asked about the local bus time-table. This did not go down well.
Had I known how brutal this 'road' to the accommodation was, I would have ensured that I was wearing my stalking boots. I didn't and so I wasn't. Mistake. Big fing mistake. The topography was brutal, and the 'road' was the hardest to walk on I think I have ever experienced. I said a silent prayer to a God I do not believe in, that I had left my two dogs at home. Both are aged and one of whom is frail now - they simply could not have managed it. Frankly, it was touch and go whether I could manage it...
After what seemed an age, our accommodation finally hove into view - the relief I felt was physical. I saw our luggage piled up on the decking (our host was still astride the Quad) and looked forward to the next couple of hours, just unpacking, getting sorted and getting stuck into a bottle of Gin. I had been on the go for two days, and just wanted to settle in.
Out host looked at the skies, then at me, then at my kit.
"Get changed. The weather is good. We will check your rife and go out this evening. I will be back in an hour - make sure you are ready".
"Get fcuked!" said my inner voice.
"Great. Look forward to it", said my coward's voice.
It mattered not - he was already disappearing over the horizon - the bastard.
Just over an hour later and I have sent two rounds into the target to the satisfaction of my host. I am using my home-loads which I produced when I had a day with Richard from YewTree, (@Yew Tree Fieldsports) on load development. I am using my .308 and the YewTree bullet is their 126.5gr bullet.
Confident that they are both accurate and precise, (when I behave) I have not yet used them on live quarry. This will be a first.
Before I know it, I am back at the Jetty and loaded into my Host's boat and launched into the sea. It is just stunning.
I have already seen Sea Eagles, Golden Eagles, Seals and porpoises. I am at peace. I have not heard the news for two days and I am at peace.
We head towards a small island and as we do so, I scan with the binocular and can make out a group of six Red Stags.
"You see yon bottom Stag? He is a poor one and needs gone. On you go!"
With that, my host nudged his boat up against the rocks and with my rife in one hand and my heart in the other, I leapt onto the rocks.
My host, put his boat into reverse and withdrew to watch me make a fool of myself.
I had the wind in my favour - and for a bloke carrying too much weight and too many years - and an enthusiasm that should have waned long ago.
With six pairs of eyes watching, I had to be slow, steady and methodical.
There was a mantra playing on loop in my head.
"Don't shoot the wrong one. Don't shoot the wrong one."
Leopard crawling and dragging myself across the ground, I managed to close the gap (later ranged at 87m) onto my target Stag.
He was looking in my direction. I managed to get the bipods out and starting looking in his. I checked and double checked his antlers.
He was the one. Poor antlers (six points).
I could only see his head and neck. I do not as a rule (less than 3% of my deer) take head and neck shots. However. This was the stag the Stalker wanted taking. I was rock steady (literally rock steady) and the stag was stationary. I was confident to take the shot.
The stag fell where he stood.
Before the noise of shot had faded away, I heard, booming across the water, "Get up there and cut its throat".
My host had witnessed everything and he is very particular about bleeding his deer as soon as possible.
I made the rifle safe and got on with the job in hand.
I was shortly joined by my host, and together we dragged the deer down to the water's edge.
If you have not done it before, recovery of a deer by dinghy is an added dimension to a day's stalking - it is harder than one might imagine.
I am fairly sure, I am not the first to have stumbled into the sea, when trying to load a stag aboard...fairly sure.
Left leg. Up to the thigh. Thanks for asking.
There is however, something magical about it, and it very much added to the enjoyment of the day.
As we headed back to base, me with my chest all puffed out, like the Great Hunter like what I am...
"Do you think we will go back to that island again this week?"
"Why?"
"Because that is where I have left my range-finder Swarovski binoculars..."
The Skipper, turned the boat around to head back from whence we came. It was going to be a long week...
The days of wrestling (you do not drive a Landrover) the old truck, the length of the country in one go, are thankfully a distant and painful memory. My P.B. for one of these Biblical journeys was 17 hours - the diesel was eye wateringly expensive yet still cheaper than the chiropractor.
This year I had a plan so cunning, it would have made Baldrick blush.
Break the journey up with a couple of 'stop offs'. Genius.
First pit-stop was the M6 Travel Lodge. Cheap, cheerful and more welcome that I thought possible for accommodation on a motorway.
Despite having paid for breakfast, my body-clock had me awake and back on the road long before that became an option.
About eight hours later and I was (for the first time) crossing the Bridge to Skye. The last time I was on Skye, I was working, and there was only the ferry. I do not know what I was expecting (actually, I was expecting the Golden Gate Bridge, or the Sydney Harbour Bridge), but the bridge left me completely underwhelmed. Before you all jump down my throat, (and for reasons I cannot understand) on the return journey, that same Bridge looked magnificent.
Second pit-stop was The Skye Inn on (guess what?) Skye. Expensive, 'shabby chic' and with beds so narrow that we were obliged to request a move to a room which catered for 'adults'. Why they try and pass off this room (15) as appropriate for adults was beyond me. However, we were changed rooms without any drama. The bar is well stocked and the food was not terrible. The place is dog friendly and so is forgiven most of its sins. Speaking of sins. Their display of Roe heads in the bar area has to be seen to be believed.
The following morning was a flurry of activity. You cannot take your car onto the Isle - everything you need has to be unloaded on the dock and then loaded onto the small passenger Ferry for onward transmission to the Isles. There is (for me) just something magical about these places.
The crossing took about an hour. I looked back at the truck in the local 'long-stay' car park (£10.50 for a month - must be pre-paid on-line) and wondered if I would ever see her again.
Pushing such unhappy thoughts to the back of my mind, I enjoyed the crossing, the wind, the waves, the sunshine, the rainstorm and the hail -yes hail - all in the one hour. Christ it is good to be back in the Highlands.
Met at the jetty on the Isle by our hosts, our (considerable) luggage and provisions were loaded onto a quad and trailer and disappeared over the horizon. We were pointed in the direction of our accommodation and told to 'crack on'. I asked about the local bus time-table. This did not go down well.
Had I known how brutal this 'road' to the accommodation was, I would have ensured that I was wearing my stalking boots. I didn't and so I wasn't. Mistake. Big fing mistake. The topography was brutal, and the 'road' was the hardest to walk on I think I have ever experienced. I said a silent prayer to a God I do not believe in, that I had left my two dogs at home. Both are aged and one of whom is frail now - they simply could not have managed it. Frankly, it was touch and go whether I could manage it...
After what seemed an age, our accommodation finally hove into view - the relief I felt was physical. I saw our luggage piled up on the decking (our host was still astride the Quad) and looked forward to the next couple of hours, just unpacking, getting sorted and getting stuck into a bottle of Gin. I had been on the go for two days, and just wanted to settle in.
Out host looked at the skies, then at me, then at my kit.
"Get changed. The weather is good. We will check your rife and go out this evening. I will be back in an hour - make sure you are ready".
"Get fcuked!" said my inner voice.
"Great. Look forward to it", said my coward's voice.
It mattered not - he was already disappearing over the horizon - the bastard.
Just over an hour later and I have sent two rounds into the target to the satisfaction of my host. I am using my home-loads which I produced when I had a day with Richard from YewTree, (@Yew Tree Fieldsports) on load development. I am using my .308 and the YewTree bullet is their 126.5gr bullet.
Confident that they are both accurate and precise, (when I behave) I have not yet used them on live quarry. This will be a first.
Before I know it, I am back at the Jetty and loaded into my Host's boat and launched into the sea. It is just stunning.
I have already seen Sea Eagles, Golden Eagles, Seals and porpoises. I am at peace. I have not heard the news for two days and I am at peace.
We head towards a small island and as we do so, I scan with the binocular and can make out a group of six Red Stags.
"You see yon bottom Stag? He is a poor one and needs gone. On you go!"
With that, my host nudged his boat up against the rocks and with my rife in one hand and my heart in the other, I leapt onto the rocks.
My host, put his boat into reverse and withdrew to watch me make a fool of myself.
I had the wind in my favour - and for a bloke carrying too much weight and too many years - and an enthusiasm that should have waned long ago.
With six pairs of eyes watching, I had to be slow, steady and methodical.
There was a mantra playing on loop in my head.
"Don't shoot the wrong one. Don't shoot the wrong one."
Leopard crawling and dragging myself across the ground, I managed to close the gap (later ranged at 87m) onto my target Stag.
He was looking in my direction. I managed to get the bipods out and starting looking in his. I checked and double checked his antlers.
He was the one. Poor antlers (six points).
I could only see his head and neck. I do not as a rule (less than 3% of my deer) take head and neck shots. However. This was the stag the Stalker wanted taking. I was rock steady (literally rock steady) and the stag was stationary. I was confident to take the shot.
The stag fell where he stood.
Before the noise of shot had faded away, I heard, booming across the water, "Get up there and cut its throat".
My host had witnessed everything and he is very particular about bleeding his deer as soon as possible.
I made the rifle safe and got on with the job in hand.
I was shortly joined by my host, and together we dragged the deer down to the water's edge.
If you have not done it before, recovery of a deer by dinghy is an added dimension to a day's stalking - it is harder than one might imagine.
I am fairly sure, I am not the first to have stumbled into the sea, when trying to load a stag aboard...fairly sure.
Left leg. Up to the thigh. Thanks for asking.
There is however, something magical about it, and it very much added to the enjoyment of the day.
As we headed back to base, me with my chest all puffed out, like the Great Hunter like what I am...
"Do you think we will go back to that island again this week?"
"Why?"
"Because that is where I have left my range-finder Swarovski binoculars..."
The Skipper, turned the boat around to head back from whence we came. It was going to be a long week...
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