A glorious amble around the Old Hall estate
today, where I do my bit to thin out grey squirrels and corvids. The reward for
which is full access, all areas and this is a thousand acres of Norfolk
brimming with fauna and flora. As we set off, the lurchers nose went straight
down to start his eternal quest to find sciurus
carolinensis, while I had my eyes peeled for more attractive wildlife.
Before I stepped into the woods I cast about and drew in the sure signs of
springs approach. Out to the East the rookery was all squabble and noise as the
birds engage in nest building and repair. Wheeling above the Southern coverts,
a pair of courting buzzards called to each other plaintively and I wondered
where the nest would be this season. Along the woods margin, wild daffodils are
budding.
We
stepped into the carrs and I snapped my fingers gently to bring the dog to
heel, his demeanour warning me that game was near. Sure enough, a few steps
onward and a salvo of pheasants exploded from beneath the surrounding brash and
put my heartbeat into overdrive. Bloody birds! Those damned shot-gunners didn’t
do much of a job! Yet without them here, I doubted my invitation would last
long. We pressed on, even the lurcher aware that any squirrel within 400 yards
now knew we were abroad.
Through
the trees I noticed a scattering of white on the woodland floor. Now, I don’t
walk a wood. I explore it. It’s an obsession, a need to know everything that’s
happening (or already happened) on my manor, including 'field forensics'. Who committed murder? When I got closer I found hundreds
of feathers scattered around a low tree stump. Not just one plucked woodpigeon
.. but several. I had found a sparrowhawks dining table. The spar will often
carry a fresh kill back to a regular spot to feast, as will the fox. So how did
I know the diner wasn’t a fox? Take a look at the quills on these two feathers
(if you click on the thumbnails you can open the full photo). The tiny tram
lines on each quill are indentations made by the hawks bill as it has gripped
the feather and drawn it from the pigeon. Definitely a hawk kill. Foxes chomp
through feathers rather than delicately pluck them.
Further
down the track I saw Dylan bristle. He stood still and drew up a paw so I
thought I had a squirrel incoming. I knelt and set the rifle ready to shoot. It
was a hare, loping towards us, totally unaware. My lurcher is trained to leave
all potential quarry unless commanded to chase. His quick glances, almost
begging release, were ignored. Hare coursing is illegal now and anyway, the
Lady here likes to sees hares about. This beast was not ours for the taking
today. I stood and the hare froze. It scented the air then burst away through
the trees.
Downhill
now, past the badger setts and we put up a roe deer. She sprang away, hurdling
a barbed wire fence, then dashed out across the plough. I reached a hollow, an
ivy-bound carr housing one of the estates grey squirrel outposts. There are a
dozen dreys here so I set up in a corner and broke open my flask. After an hour
I was as bored as the lurcher. Not a hint of fur or flick of bushy tail so we
forged on. Half an hour later we were in the Garden Wood, famous locally for
its Snowdrop Walks. These two weekend charity events had kept me from the wood,
the Lady feeling that a chap in camo with a rifle toppling dead squirrels from
the trees wouldn’t impress the punters! The wood looked splendid, a sea of pure
white snowdrops and yellow winter aconites.
Dylan
saw them before I did. Bandits at twelve o’ clock. I watched the pair for a
while and waited for a clear opportunity. The spit of the air rifle was
indiscernible as one fell and the other fled. Dylan ran in to retrieve,
cautiously circling the rodent before picking it up. He needn’t have worried.
He returned the squirrel to me and I bagged it.
Among
the hidden treasures on this estate are the vast variety of fungi. In autumn
there are hundreds of species on show. Today, early March, some of the hardier
winter survivors still clung to decaying stumps, such as Artists Bracket and
Turkeytail. 
As we made our back to the X-Trail I was still in explorer mode.
The mud puddle next to a cattle trough merited a visit and gave up badger sign.
Fresh .. last nights prints. Crouched examining them a movement caught my eye.
A tiny muntjac fawn, half the size of my dog (who was studying it quizzically)
emerged from some gorse to sniff the air. It’s mothers anxious bark drew it
back into cover before I could focus the camera. A magical end to a rewarding
morning.
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