So the seemingly relentless easterlies have finally turned and the warmer kiss of the westerly breeze this weekend chased Jack Frost from my Norfolk hinterland .. hopefully not to return now until theres a 'v' in the month. This mornings walk out with the air rifle and lurcher saw me with two layers less, no gloves and a coating of DEET .. the shooters 'eau de cologne'. The westerlies, when they arrived, brought moderate rain on their front. They usually do. The combination of warm air and precipitation tickled the time-clock of a million hidden larvae. It always does. And so, as the hound and I tracked out through the forest toward the Source of the Rile, it was a through swarms of gnats and midges. Not that I was complaining too much. That overnight rain had undone the harsh work of those persistent easterly winds, which had left the leaf mulch on the woodland floor so arid of late, stalking was akin to dancing in a vat of potato crisps. Today, I had the luxury of a damp, deep natural carpet. All I had to do was avoid the twigs. But why the need for such stealth? Because we're hunting, my 'dawg' and me. We're searching for the Source of the Rile. A vital mission, to be taken with all seriousness, lest we lose our precious hunting land. The phone call had come mid-week from the irate land-owner. "There are far too many grey squirrels about, Ian". I didn't argue .. there are feckin' thousands of them in Norfolk! "They are decimating my bird feeders. What are you going to do about it". It wasn't a question. It was an order. "Best I come over and shoot a few, sir?" I suggested. "Best you do, young man! I am extremely riled!" I was going to mention that I don't actually get paid to do this, by him, but thought better of it. His is a pleasant little estate and provides great sport for an air-gunner. I am aware, too, how many other air-gun shooters would love this permission.
So here we were. I knew, as we stole into the wood, the position of every drey in the copse at the end of this gentleman's garden. There were far fewer live ones than he imagined. I settled the dog into a 'lay' position next to me beneath. We watched the tree canopy, both of us. Not hard, as the leaves have yet to bud. Dylan would be my radar, my eyes and ears, for he can sense a grey squirrel at 100 yards at the mere twitch of its bottle-brush tail. He is infallible, a legend, written about in two books and a myriad magazine articles. Not! As we both stared tree-ward, a grey squirrel scampered from behind the tree ten feet to out right, froze in the open as it sensed us, considered it's future carefully and sprinted back. As I fumbled to raise the rifle, the lurcher dis-obeyed every rule in the "How To Keep My Master Happy" book and went after it. The critter went up the trunk, the lurcher went behind the trunk and I went ballistic. "Get your bl**dy *rse back here!" I screamed. Which obviously agitated the squirrel more than him and it set off across the boughs. 1-0 to the grey squirrel population and a legendary lurchers career lay in tatters. He trotted back and settled down again on the floor at least two 'kicks' away from my position. Wisdom comes with sore experience.
Still relying on him to indicate 'incoming' I kept half an eye on his demeanour. When he sat up, looking across the woodland floor with his head tilted and ears flapping, I came alert. He kept looking back at me, quizzically. I followed his gaze and I, too, was confused. Nothing! Then I noticed what he was seeing. Small flicks and jumps amongst the leaf mulch. First I saw a couple then, as my eyes focussed on that level, I became aware that were dozens of movements. Then, dozens and dozens! I looked around and we were in the midst of a sea of migrating common toads. They were moving from the gentlemans garden ponds down to the stream and large pond at the edge of the copse. Some were coupled, mating, others were solo. Amazing.We moved away, so as not to disturb them. Further up the wood, Dylan tuned into Channel Grey eventually and we took out a few of the squirrels exiting the bird feeders next to the manor house. Caught in the act, so to speak. As I sat under an ancient yew tree, trimming the tails from the greys, I sensed I was being watched. Glancing up, my stare was returned by the face of a little owl scowling down at me from not six feet above my head! I slowly reached for my ever present camera but when I looked up again, she was gone.
I took the tails and hung them in a plastic bag on the gentleman's garage door. He would use these when tying flies for his fishing hooks. Now he could, in all likelihood, complain that I'd only shot two? And I could retort that they were the two actually raiding his feeders today. If he phones though, I would be more likely to say that I only chose to leave him the two for his fly-tying. I needed the other ten for my own purposes. (Wink, wink!)
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