October .. Last Orders

Of all the months in the British hunting year, October has to be my favourite by a country mile. With the turn of colour on the leaves Mother Nature sweeps her soft paintbrush across forest and wood to create one last glorious, rustic canvas before drawing in her lungs and exhaling .. to blow them all away with her gales, like a child blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. The last of the harvest is underway and the mechanical monsters that can suck up a barley or maize field overnight are fed and watered, retiring to the barns for the winter. Their little cousins are out there now and the furrow is turning. The air at morn or dusk is full of rook, jackdaw and gull .. the ploughs disciples .. either going to communion or returning from it. Around wood, meadow, bank and hedgerow Autumns other crops are ripening .. some gifted with nourishment, others with poison and peril. Of the former, even the lush blackberry that looks tempting to the tongue is now fermenting or harbouring maggots. Best left to the birds. The flush of berries .. holly, sloe, mistletoe, yew, rowan .. will once again bring conjecture among us amateur weather forecasters. Does bounty mean fearful weather or fair? In my experience, it depends who's eating it and how much they're 'caching' .. but for now, that will remain my secret, thank-you!

 

 

Poison and peril? Well, the Fall's other crop bursts forth now in all its various guises. This is fungi time .. when the spores become polypores. The brackets, the toadstools, the mushrooms, the puffballs .. in so many shapes and sizes. Living organisms of great beauty or ugly fascination, so often passed by. Next time you see a display of fungus .. in any form .. stop and study it for a moment. Consider the miracle of nature that allowed its design and its purpose. If I consider any of my outdoor time 'inept' it is in not being able to remember the names of all but the most common of these wonderful organisms. A cardinal sin and one I hope to repair before I get too much older. For among these fungi is a rich source of foragers food which I have never had the confidence to harvest. And true wild harvest it is.

       

The game shooter is abroad, grinning from ear to ear and trying to keep the over-eager cocker at heel. A lucky sort will have already enjoyed a month at the Frenchmen or our own Grey partridges .. yet would have been cleaning the barrels with vigour on the last day of September ready for the high birds and the drawn cover. Ready for the captains lecture, the peg-draw, the shooting lunch, the sloe gin, the brace for the larder .. and hopefully the beaters tip. The sharper shooters will have a design on that prized right and left (or a pin-tail for the cap) from that rocket of a bird .. the woodcock. I step near these avian ninjas so often on my permissions and admire any gun that could achieve a pair, such is their speed. Out near the water-margins those hardy fowl-gunners are now crouching in dawns first glimmer with ears cocked to the breeze listening for the whistling and piping and honking of incoming opportunity. Skeins of Pinkfoot and Greylag pepper the horizon of my beloved Broadland and fill the morning sky with pattern and sound. The harder the weather, the greater the prize. Fair meat, hard won. True, true hunting .. where terrain, time, tide and elements give the quarry more than fair law.

 

Around me in the forest, the stalkers are trying to tidy up on the roebucks before the winter purdah prevails and they turn their attention to the does. The creeping muntjac will, of course, remain fair game all year and keep the freezer topped up. So as the high pheasant flies overhead and I follow it in mockery of the shotgun shooter with my barrel, giving lead and whispering 'bang' .. don't think I'm unhappy. When the teal whistle down the twilight dyke and I pretend, with my airgun, that I am punt-gunning with a four-bore .. trust me, they fell stone dead. When I'm hunkered at the woods edge, after a magpie chasing crane flies on the pasture, and a roebuck steps into the clearing just twenty yards away? I may, just may .. place my crosshair on it's heart with my safety catch engaged and imagine 'boom!'. Yet, consider this. I could do all this. Nothing impedes me. I simply choose not to .. for now.

Not for me, though, any of the above. As dawns swirling mists dampen the floor I will be patrolling the wood and field margin with my humble little popgun and enjoying my sport largely unseen and unheard. No slapping of hands or crossing of palms. No 'seasons'. I will perhaps lay a net along the woods edge near the stubbles and float out a decoy or two .. for I love a wood-pigeon breast or two in my Sunday hotpot. I will be trimming out those little nest-pirates, the grey squirrels, with a vengeance this year for they have robbed me blind. Yes .. blind I may have well been for not ever seeing a red squirrel in the flesh. I have always had a solid purpose for culling greys, in pursuit of songbird protection. Now, however, having seen those little red pixies dancing on the boughs in Cumbria I am massively jealous and hold the loss of the red squirrel to Norfolk directly accountable to the grey. Who knows, I might even eat grey squirrel for the first time this Fall? If I like the taste, then it's definitely in trouble around here. The rats will be heading back from hedgerow to farm now and will need my attention. The airgun, with a red-filtered lamp on top, is the perfect antidote to a rodent attack on a grain store .. and good sport too. And the rabbits. Always the rabbits. Recovering now from last years dearth and little myxomatosis about. As the foliage retreats, dawn and dusk move closer together, so the opportunities to fill the freezer increase.

 

 

I love October. This is the month when Mother Nature shouts 'Last orders!' and we all rush to her well-stocked bar.   

copyright Ian Barnett Oct 2013

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Eden Concluded

Getting lost on Loughrigg Fell for the second time in my life has probably earned me the deserved reputation of the worlds worst map reader. Actually, that's probably not fair. I didn't have a map. I had one of those little pocket size cards ( you know.. "20 mother-in-law friendly walks in the Lakes" ) which proved to be a tad inaccurate. I was starting to get suspicious when we passed Lily Tarn for the third time. The first time, the in-laws commented that they felt they'd been here before but I brushed it off, saying that all these tarns look the same. The third time though, I was rumbled. After half an hour of trying to find the path down and failing, I passed the card to my wife. Ten minutes later we were sitting in Rothay Park eating ice creams. Back at the cottage my little red friend obliged again and I was amazed at its disregard for humans and dogs, bouncing around in the hazel tree and hopping across branches unperturbed even by the lads in the Mountain Rescue team who came to practise climbing on Jackdaw Scar. Charlie the Cocker didn't take kindly to Cumbrias finest coming too close to his newly claimed territory but I feared the womenfolk suddenly had a hankering to get seriously lost somewhere? I locked all the walking maps away in case they hatched a plot. That night, when the lads had left and the jakes returned to their roost, I sat calling owls again and drew in three male tawny's with my squeaker, imitating the females distinct "kee-wick".

A request for a rest day allowed a visit to Lowther Castle to see first-hand the restoration work going on there. Derrick escaped with a day to himself on the river and left me wishing I enjoyed angling! We walked the whole 130 acres, saw the red squirrel hides put up by the P&DRSG (see last blog) and glimpsed one red disappearing into the wood. 

Highlight for me (never a fan of old buildings) was turning off the escarpment trail and walking right under a buzzard in the wood, which floated over our heads and sat on a nearby branch watching us. This prompted a visit up the road to the Lakeland Bird Of Prey Centre where we enjoyed (I kid you not) a two and a half hour talk and flying display. It was superb. Informative, amusing and .. as always with raptors .. captivating. We watched a Peregrine Falcon, two Gyr Falcons and a Harris Hawk flown. Excellent.

I got my revenge for Loughrigg at Grizedale Forest by picking the White Trail and telling everyone there were no hills. We stopped at Hawkshead for the obligatory window shopping and I was pleased to see this quaint little village still retains some of its charm .. unlike Windemere, which holds no appeal to me.

Grizedale, not for the first time, disappointed in its lack of wildlife or birdsong. A lush forest but too silent .. much like Norfolks Brecks. It redeemed itself a tad with the autumn fungal displays and Grizedale Tarns mirror surface but the wildest creatures we saw were the chaffinches scavenging around the visitor centre. Returning to the cottage I was pleased to find a note tucked under the in-laws windscreen wipers from Sarah McNeil and Jerry Moss saying that they'd called by while on patrol in the area. Sorry we missed you, guys, but thanks for trying!

The final day was a relative washout so we went into Penrith, where John Norris finally broke the padlock on my wallet and I walked out with a Wychwood Packlite backpack .. designed for the angler but perfect for the wilderness photographer. The wife and I wrapped up the week with a long afternoon walk local to Well Tree Cottage, in the pouring rain, returning with two very soggy but very content dogs. When we left this morning the river was in full flow after yesterdays downpours, which left Derrick distraught. He knew that the best days fishing would be tomorrow, in the deep and clouded pools. 

A wonderful week in a stunning part of the country and a lesson learned in terms of photography. for I deliberately lightened the load by leaving my smaller Nikon 80-400 zoom behind. Big mistake. The red squirrel pics I took with a Sigma 50-500 zoom, handheld. I dumped dozens of unusable pics due to blur (it's a very heavy lens). As you read this, I'm back in Norwich with a second week off, on my own stamping ground. The gun ban has been lifted and I certainly won't need any maps. Unlike Loughrigg, I know this patch like the back my hand! Gotta go .. I have about 500 photos to sort through!

Copyright Ian Barnett Sept 2013

 

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The Garden Of Eden

When the family decided that a change of holiday venue was in order and we'd book a cottage in Cumbria instead of the South West, I must confess to touch of disappointment. My health hasn't been great over the past two years so there was little chance of me climbing from Wast Water to Scafell Pike via Mickeldore as we had ten years earlier. If it nearly killed me then, Lingmell Gill would be certain of a victim if I tried it now! The gentler Tors of Dartmoor and Devons rolling wooded hills are test enough for me now. But here we were, freshly arrived at a remote cottage in a small gulley below Kings Meaburn. We were in the Valley of Eden, close to Penrith. As soon as we disembarked to explore our new home for the week, I knew that I was going to enjoy this. Well Tree Cottage was possibly the best equipped cottage we have ever rented for a holiday. All mod-cons, a walled garden to dissuade renegade cockers and lurchers from escaping across the Cumbrian countryside and within an hour we had discovered Well Tree's most superb asset. It had no wi-fi and no phone signal! We were cut off! Initial panic about losing all my Facebook friends and Google plussers receded when I realised that it also meant no-one from work could contact me .. unless by carrier pigeon. Superb!

Well Tree lies next to a ford over the River Lyvennet so having unpacked, we all set off to explore the fly-fishing beats which came free with the temporary tenancy. Personally, I find fishing as about exciting as  watching the National Lottery draw. There seems a lot of investment for little return. So while the father-in-law pointed out eddies and pools and trout lay-ups, I was looking for otter sign, heronries etc. My role for the week would be chief photographer and scribe, which everyone knew should keep me out of trouble. She Who Must Be Obeyed had already implemented the obligatory 'arms embargo' so was now worrying how an air-gun ban and a Facebook drought might effect my mental health. Back at  the cottage, after our first evenings supper, I sat out on the cottages paved patio, turned off the lights, listened to a tawny owl and studied the most three dimensional sky I have been privileged to witness in many years. With absolutely no light pollution, I could see the edge of the universe from here (helped, undoubtedly by some generous portions of a particularly tasty complimentary Cabernet left by the cottages owners).That night I lay in bed with the windows open and drifted off to sleep in the blackest place on Earth, soothed by the lullaby of the river bubbling over the rocks below the ford. Heaven .. though it could be hell for an incontinent!

Now one thing I was hell bent on achieving while in Cumbria was to photograph wild red squirrels for the first time. By 'wild', I don't mean vicious red squirrels .. I mean reds that haven't been spoon fed peanuts by tourists. I guessed that it may be a challenge. No sooner had we cleared up after the bacon butties next morning when I noticed what looked like a tiny fox clambering among the leaves on the beech overlooking the patio. As I got busy with the Nikon, there was much debate about 'was it red or was it grey'? It was actually me who was playing the cynic here, having shot hundreds and hundreds of greys back in Norfolk. Grey squirrel youngsters are often streaked with rufus fur. This little beauty was as red as Reynard so while I was sure it was a red squirrel, the ears had totally thrown me? I had been expecting those 'elf-like' ears, longer and more pointed than a greys. Perhaps the ears develop with age? I needed to find out but, needless to say, I was thrilled to get some cracking pics on the first morning of a red feeding on ripening cob nuts. 

A little later we were driving to Penrith when Derrick (my Father-in law) and I spotted an interesting looking roadkill at the side of a lane. "Was that what I think it was?" I asked. "Mink, I think!" he answered. "Or was it a black squirrel?" We were still debating it two miles along and decided to double back and take a look. The women-folk sat in the car looking embarrassed as I took pics of the expired mammal on my iPhone while fellow tourists overtook us. I was relieved that it was a mink. I don't think I could have handled the excitement of my first red and my first black in one day! Having survived an expedition around John Norris without opening my wallet, I sat later baiting mice with peanuts on the patio and stealing their souls with my DSLR. Busy little chaps, mice! I'm like a child again when I get a new habitat to explore so spent my idle moments lifting stones and poking around in crevices in the gardens stone walls looking for bugs and beasties.

The cottage sits under a rocky bluff known as Jackdaw Scar, whose naming became apparent when the large colony of jakes nesting on its ledges busied back and forth. The random 'chakking' of the residents added some character to an otherwise noiseless valley. I was mildly amused one morning when I decided to explore the wood on the far bank before anyone else had risen. Next to the gate was the sign below, put up by the Penrith & District Red Squirrel Group. Jerry (and his partner Sarah) are Facebook Friends of mine. So even without wi-fi, there was a link! Over the rest of the week I saw a number of similar signs as well as many road signs asking drivers to take care and watch out for our native 'sciurus vulgaris'.

Despite the resident wildlife, I was struck by the dearth of rabbits around us and also the lack of buzzards. I used to thrill at watching buzzards soar in the valleys up here while in Norfolk they were few and far between. Now the tables seem to have turned. Is it because East Anglia harbours so many rabbits? Perhaps. By far the most conspicuous in its absence was the grey squirrel. I didn't see one during the whole week. A credit, surely, to the work of the Red Squirrel Rangers.

Of course, our trip isn't entirely about me watching wildlife. We're walking too and if this trip is proving to me that the fountain of youth is now reducing to a trickle, it has definitely proved hard for Dylan .. our ten year old lurcher. The old boy is creaking like an old door after jaunts up Cunswick Scar and Loughrigg Fell. The Lakeland paths are rarely dog-friendly and where years ago he leapt the walls or scrambled over the ladder stiles, we now find ourselves lifting him over. Yet, as is the way of hounds, he won't let himself be left behind.

So .. if you are reading this today it is because I've surfaced somewhere among the great unwashed to  release my blog into that vast ocean that is the Internet before sinking again back into the Garden of Eden for a few final days of peace and quiet. The 2lb trout which I have named the Brown Pimpernel hangs in the swim below the footbridge, refusing every fly in the box and driving Derrick insane. My camera shutter clicks relentlessly, recording titmouse and house-mouse and red and nuthatch. Charlie the Cocker lives in the eternal hope that we'll leave the gate open. Dylan just lies in the shade with one eye open, hoping never to see a hill again and dreaming of his Norfolk. Soon, Old Boy. Very soon.

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Copyright Ian Barnett September 2013