by Colin Elford
I think it’s all over, until the kid cries out. Then there is a snorting sound, and the mother is back. The wild savagery of the defence takes the smaller fox by surprise; the doe becomes a vision of unbridled fury, slashing, butting, trampling, driving the fox into the earth. No sanctuary can be found from the onslaught: the smaller fox releases the kid, and half running, half rolling, is pursued relentlessly back out of my sight and into the sea of bluebells. That is, until the doe finally remembers her kid. She suddenly appears, eyes wide, mouth open, and in mid-stride turns back to her shaken but unharmed baby. My mouth is dry and I let my binoculars fall into place on my chest. For me, it is as though time has stood still.
Today I am checking a restock site when I flush my first nightjar of the year. Nightjars visit most of my woods regularly, breeding and nesting within the heather and molinia grasses. They are magical birds, favouring the twilight hour. I love seeing and hearing them in the forest on a balmy summer’s night, with the smell of the day’s heat in your nostrils, the aroma of the pine mingling with the smell of the damp bog myrtle.
Migrating back from Africa, the males arrive first, and you can hear them churring from the special branches they select. The churring is so loud it can be heard from quite a distance. I find the best way to pinpoint their song posts is to cup your ears, so that they act as sound directors, increasing the volume.
The male is easy to sex from the white spots on its wing-tips. Female nightjars favour recently cleared areas, preferring to nest on the ground. The camouflage of both males and females is superb. When they remain motionless in a tree or on the ground their resemblance to dried bracken and leaves makes them practically invisible.
The kew-kew-key sound alerts me to another presence. I have to shield my eyes as I look into the sun and have just about enough time to see the small falcon with its sickle wings disappear across the open mire and into a clump of conifers.
I am lucky enough to have areas of hardwood to look after, as well as large chunks of heathland, interspersed with pine crop, and this is the ideal habitat for another summer migrant, the hobby. As the bird glides with its stiff scythe wings and its black mask and moustache, it resembles a small peregrine.
Hobbies are skilled hunters, taking dragonflies as they skim over the wet heath ponds and pools. My best view of hobbies hunting was when I was tucked up in a hedge once next to a heathland quarry. One minute I had hundreds of sand martins hawking flies low over the field in front of me, and the next, two hobbies dived in among the scattering martins. Both species of birds are extremely agile, but the hobbies managed to steal two martins, removing them from the sky on the wing.
It is only when I sit back in the truck today that I notice my trousers are soaked through to my boxers. It has rained since early morning and my so-called waterproof trousers can only take so much. Having to walk in knee-high, saturated, compacted rush means checking fences is not too clever a choice of job on a wet day, but it has to be done.
The sky looks exhausted, its colour and texture changing. Gone are the new dark, thin clouds, now replaced with grey ones, the same grey that rises like steam from the damp rushes and wet pools. I am wiping my own heated steam off the inside of the windscreen when my phone rings. It surprises me slightly that the message is from a dog walker who has found an injured deer. But I suppose no matter how wet or desolate a wood is, someone will have to walk a dog in it. I find it hard to believe that anyone would be out for pleasure in this type of weather.
Swapping locations takes some time; the dog walker can’t wait but will mark the spot where the deer is lying. I know the road they are describing descends into a poorly made-up cart track. I unload my equipment but leave the steaming dogs in the truck.
The weather improves on the journey, with slices of welcoming, warm shafts of sun appearing. It is late afternoon, with the promise of a quiet evening. I soon recover the marker the dog walker has recently planted on the hazel bush. After loading the rifle I push my way through, around a big hazel mock, and once inside I find myself in a small clearing. The roe buck has tucked himself well into a patch of blackthorn. How the dog walker had found him I can’t imagine, as it is well off any track, unless the dog was off the lead and hunting through this scrub.
I move closer, rifle at the ready, but the breathing of the buck tells me his life is ebbing away. His eyes meet mine, but there is no fear. He hardly even lifts his head – he is ready to give up the struggle for life. With pity, I find myself murmur something to him, reassuring him that it will all be over shortly.
Afterwards I drag him from under the thorn. I put gloves on and examine the carcass. The marks to his leg are fresh and I put them down to the dog that found him this morning in torrential rain, out of sight of its owner. But the bites did not mortally injure the buck. After partially skinning him I find two holes. Neither has been caused by a bullet, but by an antler. The fresh scarring is another indicator of the battle, and the bruising is horrific. It must have been one hell of a fight – who knows what the other buck looks like.
It’s quite rare to find an injured wild buck or stag after a fight. I’ve found only two in all the years I’ve worked in the woods. In a deer park where you get ‘emparked’ or ‘enclosed’ deer, it’s different. Fallow, especially, are relentless at seeking out and pursuing injured or sick deer and will literally beat them to death. This I have seen many times.
June
Some things in nature are easily explained away and some things are not. One incident in particular has puzzled me, along with several experts in the field. But, incredible as it may seem, I do have a witness who can verify the following event.
I have a morning appointment one day with a contractor to discuss his future working procedure within a particular block of woodland. Being a bit of a misty, drizzly day, it seems idiotic for us both to stand in the wet and talk, so I manoeuvre my truck next to his and wind the window down so we can talk in the comfort of our cabs.
We are well into our conversation when a female jogger in Lycra shorts emerges from the mist, heading up a slight incline towards the trucks. Her long ponytail flicks from side to side with every footfall, and as she reaches the crest of the ride it is describing circles high in the air. Just then a buzzard, with talons out, swoops down at her head. She ducks just in time and the bird misses, continuing its flight passage into the wood edge.
Both the contractor and I look at each other and mouth the words ‘Did you see that?’ Then, as we look back at the woman, the bird dives again, and this time she has to bend lower to avoid being struck. We are out of our trucks and running towards the woman, who grins widely and does not seem either surprised or worried. When we reach her she stops, laughs and, catching her breath, says, ‘Funny, that happened to me yesterday!’
After I’ve finished the business with the contractor I timidly look around the location where the buzzard attacked. Although I check for a nest site locally, I find nothing. A hungry buzzard may make a mistake once, but twice is surprising. I can only think that the adult bird had mistaken the jogger’s hair for some sort of prey. Another mystery in nature known only to wildlife itself, with man, as always, left in the dark.
June is the peak time for squirrel damage, when, for reasons known only to them, they cannot resist stripping the bark off the good-quality trees. The hoppers, full of poisoned wheat meant to entice the animals away from the trees, are completely ignored. In a situation like this, the best course of action is to wait for the culprits and shoot them in the act, although June is a difficult month for that as there is so much vegetation on the ground and cover in the treetops.
I park the truck a good distance from the beech that I am going to protect. The shaded, rich green canopy gives little relief from the heat of the sun’s rays, and the air is heavy and warm.
Movement towards the crop has to be slow, and all noise kept to a minimum. I avoid walking in the dappled sunlight that filters down through the treetops, for squirrels have gre
at eyesight and even better hearing. Like the squirrels, I too watch for movement on the dry, crisp forest floor and above within the canopy. In this environment all sound is enhanced: you can hear a leaf turned over by a mouse.
The forest floor has lost its damp earthy smell, which has been replaced by the scent of warm air rising. As I pass an insignificant ash that is covered in ivy from the trunk upwards, well into the high branches, a wren scuttles from within. It scolds my intrusion, and its young shriek their annoyance at the disturbance from inside the dense, waxy interior.
What seems like a million hoverflies hum above and all around. Occasionally a large fly zooms in at head level to inspect me, its wing-beats sounding like a fire engine getting louder and louder, then fading just as fast. Even when the fly has passed, its hum still bounces around in my head and resounds in my ears.
Finding a stump with good vision all around, I sit with the shotgun across my waist. Chaffinches and robins sing all about, and in the distance a cock pheasant calls out. Wood pigeons have wing-beating fights high in the roof of green, but, although I hear them, I can see little of the activity.
A nuthatch repeats its alarm call, and it’s then I notice a leafy branch twist. High in the canopy, small discarded pieces of bark fall from above, and I know the meaning of that familiar chip-chip sound. I wait for what seems ages. First I see its tail, then the reddish flanks are exposed. I shoot and send it tumbling to the ground with a dry, dusty thump. The foliage erupts as another squirrel hugs the contours of the beech branches, again racing away at speed; I shoot, but miss. I hastily leave my seat and follow the moving branches. It’s soon two trees away, and running has never been my strong point. Stopping abruptly, I aim at the point the squirrel is heading towards and, as it leaps, I shoot. This time I win the race.
Finding a convenient spot I resume my wait for another half-hour, passing the time by watching the sunlight through the stems of the plantation beech. Distant trunks appear dark, but closer up they have the grey colour of elephant hide. After three hours of waiting I have accounted for eight squirrels.
From my viewpoint I can see dark, slow-moving thunderclouds heading my way, and after the first streak of lightning rakes the sky in the distance, I decide it’s time to leave.
I pride myself on having no, or minimal, harm done to the trees I am protecting against squirrels. At the end of a season it’s frustrating when all your resources are in position but you are still getting small pockets of damage; when the hopper sits unused with no prebait or poison being taken. When you get a few squirrels chewing bark over a period of time they can cause a huge amount of injury to the trees.
By mid-afternoon I have almost finished my rounds of filling up the hoppers and prebaiting the tables with maize to attract the squirrels. I lock the barrier, return to my truck, and just as I open the door I spy a squirrel on the track – luckily it hasn’t seen either me or the truck.
I lean into the vehicle and retrieve my shotgun from the gun cabinet behind my seat, while still watching the grey bundle that is galloping towards me. Finding my cartridges is not so easy as I have a mixture of sizes in my box. I have to take my eyes off the squirrel while searching for the correct cartridge, and, when I look up again, the squirrel is gone.
The swoosh of the hazel branches just off the track gives away the creature’s position. I stalk quickly towards the bush. I am tempted to shoot the swaying branches, but with no clear target I resist the urge. I glimpse some grey high in the bush and raise the gun in preparation, but as I do the activity stops. Like a statue I stand on the track, knowing I am being peered at from within the dense screen of branches.
On the shaded ride where I wait, the midges start their irritating nipping around my eyes and ears. I am glad when a sudden afternoon breeze picks up. By now I have been standing for three quarters of an hour, though it feels a lot longer. The squirrel starts scolding me from deep inside the greenery. It is close, but in the thick rustling vegetation it might as well be a mile away.
The wind pushes the branches around and up and down, and occasionally I can glimpse inside the large hazel stand. I have almost given up when the scolding ends. I glance at my watch, allow for a couple more minutes of waiting, and then I see him creeping slowly through the branches in the direction of a large ivy-covered oak. He pauses, the wind dies and my view has gone again. I wait in anticipation – as soon as I see grey I can shoot, I tell myself.
A breeze once again parts the canopied limbs of the hazel bush, the squirrel comes into view and at once I raise the barrels and aim. The moment has arrived. But experience stops me from firing, for immediately behind the squirrel are two stocky, downy objects of grey. Four large black eyes stare at me from within the bush, then disappear again as the wind picks up, lifting the branch up and down like a yo-yo. The juvenile tawny owlets look glued to the branch, which disappears down into the greenery then bobs up again, reappearing, dancing to the rhythm of the wind.
I feel relief and vindication that I did not take a shot at the movement and sound of the scolding squirrel. If I had, there’s a strong possibility that I could have shot the two unseen chicks. I cuss the squirrel, put the gun away, pat myself on the back and drive on to finish the last of my trap lines.
When I see the long elegant glides of a white admiral sweeping over the ride, I know my conservation ride work is going right. The white admiral is a lover of both dappled shade and full sun. I have seen this swift but graceful butterfly sunning itself on the leaves of a bramble or circling high in the canopy with slow but strong wing-beats. The female finds her way into the shadier areas of the wood and searches out dangling lengths of honeysuckle on which to lay her eggs. I always believe if you have honeysuckle on any shrub in the wood it is a bonus; many insects and mammals make use of the leaf, the flower and the pollen.
The butterfly that finally emerges from the chrysalis is not only handsome in colour and markings but also dainty in flight. On the wind this large butterfly appears black and white, but if you get the chance to view it up close you can make out the white bands and darker spots that distinguish it as a remarkably noble species.
This evening the heat of the day still hangs in pockets in the air that you can feel on your skin and smell in your nostrils. On the breeze I stop to savour the damp, earthy sweet smell of the bog myrtle as a light mist rises from the ground. Around the next bend of the ride, the scent of warm pine bark and heather vapours are carried through the air. As the last rays of the dying, almost full, blood-red sun touch the earth they cast fingers of light that speed across the spiked molinia plumes, then fade into the oncoming dark.
I find a dry sandy bank between heather of two different ages and push my back into a sturdy Scots pine. With the sun gone from the heavens, only diagonal shreds of red remain stretched out in an ever-darkening sky. Stark larch and Corsican pine tops, long established, extend their top limbs into the crimson. The vision looks wild and yet surprisingly natural. Already the shadows and shapes jostle for position for the evening. Shapes become more exaggerated at night, more interesting.
Looking under the branches of the Scots pine where I sit, I see a pine cone, like a beehive with bristles, or a fairy-tale candleholder, its cup held by the tree, steady and firm, a significant part of nature silhouetted against a restless sky.
Overhead I can hear the moaning murmur of a roding woodcock as it crests the pine tops, calling out with a whistle and a croak. Its wings beat the silent air noisily. With its slow-motion flight it looks as though it is on a string, being pulled through the sky. It disappears into the inky blackness. Its call is still ringing in my ears as it reappears again, following the same pattern across the dusk sky.
On the wet heath mire, near where old trees starved of nutrients and left misshapen stand, the sustained churring song of the nightjar begins. Above me, one bird is already out hunting, hawking over the isolated mire. I watch and listen until almost the last of the dim light disappears from the sky, and make my way b
ack to the truck.
July
Today the hemp agrimony, brambles and thistles at the edges of the rides are alive with silverwashed fritillary, ringlets, gatekeepers and the occasional white admiral. I can’t resist stopping and staring at all the activity. Life is exploding everywhere. The constant buzzing and hum of hoverflies, chirping of grasshoppers, courtship, mating and aerial combats of butterflies all taking place on even the smallest of bramble bushes in every corner of the wood.
I am experimenting with a new type of fence made of plastic, similar to the type used to cordon off roadworks and building sites. This new fence has been ripped by badgers gaining access across their invisible ancient routes. I place some small sticks over the gaps in the fence made by the badgers. I can then check them in a few days; if they’ve been disturbed this will be an indicator of whether the gaps are used regularly. If so, I can put in a swinging badger gate that old brock will have the strength to open but which excludes any unwanted visitors to the newly planted site.
Too hot to spend indoors. Set the tent up in the garden. Up at 4.00 a.m. stalking – shot roe buck.
Sleep out again, up at 4.00 a.m., still warm enough to go stalking in short sleeves. This morning I can feel the warm packets of air that have been trapped overnight throughout the wood. I can even smell the heat spots.
As I creep, keeping to the shadowy ride edges, I notice a young buck about two years old lying at the bottom of a hemlock tree. It has seen me but stays in its position. I stalk past as though I have not seen it, taking care not to get level with it. Deer get uneasy when you are opposite or level – it seems to alert them to the fact they have been seen or targeted. After stalking past, I prepare myself, turn, stand and shoot. The buck never gets to his feet.