The Buzzard and The Betrayal

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 The decision this morning wasn’t whether to brave the winter weather. It was what guns to take? Looking out of the windows at home I could see the light boughs of young yew and cedar bending under a Northerly blow. In the habit lately of taking both air rifle and rimfire, I glanced at the digital weather station in my kitchen. The technological claim of 30C would be challenged later. What was certain was that was going to be a ‘warm hat and shooting glove’ morning so I opted for the air rifle. I had already decided on a location where I could balance leeward shelter with hunting opportunity. The expectation of some sunshine later added to that choice.

Arriving on the estate I ploughed the recently valeted CR-V through deep puddles and thick mud with a grimace. Oh well … no gain without pain, they say! I had hell n’ all trouble getting a set of serious all-terrain boots for this motor due to the wheel sizes but I have to say it was worthwhile. It hasn’t let me down yet … touches his wooden head! I parked up at the top of the escarpment, near the woodsheds, pointing my bonnet in the direction I would be stalking. An agreed code which allows the Lady and her staff to know where my rifle and potential risk is if they take some exercise, with their dogs, in the woods. I slid out of the warm motor and stepped onto the muddy track. A bitter wind, keen enough to make the eyes bleed, slapped at my face. Under the tailgate I donned a trapper hat, a snood and a pair of shooting mitts. It would be more sheltered in the old arboretum at the base of the escarpment … but I needed to get there first, with at least my trigger finger thawed! I loaded a couple of magazines with .22 Webley Accupells, loaded the gun, checked the safety was on and locked the car. Above me, rooks and crows rolled in the Artic born draught. Black surfers on an invisible tide.

The walk down the escarpment was slippery and testing, so I kept the ‘safety’ on despite the plethora of woodpigeon in the sitty trees on the slopes. They departed tree by tree, as I progressed; squadrons to be challenged another day. At the base of the hill I was met with the sort of target that every airgun hunter hates. A grey squirrel leapt from a flint wall onto the track just eight yards from me. It stared at me as I fumbled to bring rifle from slung to ready but was gone before I could level the gun, let alone focus so closely. Fair law and fair escape.

I paused at the gate in the lane between wood and field; just to watch and hear the birds on the recently flood-drenched water meadows. The waters have receded now but the splashes still hold a diaspora of fowl. Teal, wigeon, mallard, greylags, Canadas, mute swans and a little egret all visible from the gate. Turning into the murk of the wood and it’s umbrella of ancient yew, I immediately heard the chatter and hiss of Sciurus carolensis. The grey invader. A species that was innocently introduced to Britain when these yew trees were mere saplings. Non-native, like the yew, they too have thrived. I stalked the garden wood and toppled three, which is two more than I expected in this chill. Squirrels don’t hibernate but they will sit tight in the dreys in cold or excessively wet weather.

The climb back up the slope later warmed my limbs and at the top, as my heaving lungs expired the mist of spent breath, I looked into the blue sky; drawn by the shout of the rooks and the furious mewling of a raptor. The old buzzard wheeled and jinked majestically, pursued by a throng of nagging corvids. They might feint and fuss, but the old bird had the confidence to ignore their meaningless threat. She has ruled these woods too long to take umbrage to inferiors and this year, as in the past seven, she will breed here again.

It was with a heavy heart, when I got home later, that I read of the capitulation of another old buzzard, from a tribe in which I had placed the confidence of my vote for many terms of election during my lifetime. Resilience is the backbone of a stable and sustainable genus. Caving in to perceived ‘popular opinion’ is like letting the crows (or should that read Corbyns) batter you from your righteous perch. To then insult your voters by saying you will build a ‘new forest’ just confirms that you were never concerned about the ‘old forest’ anyway. This, for me, was the ultimate insult and most landowners don’t seem to have spotted this dressed reference. An attack on private landowners by Tories? Ye Gods!

“This new Northern Forest is an exciting project that will create a vast ribbon of woodland cover in northern England, providing a rich habitat for wildlife to thrive, and a natural environment for millions of people to enjoy.”

Lest they forget, we already have a multitude of habitats for ‘millions of people to enjoy’. They’re called National Parks or ‘Nature Reserves’.

Consider this too?  “Paul de Zylva from Friends of Earth told BBC News: “It is a supreme irony that tree planters will have to get funding from HS2, which threatens 35 ancient woodlands north of Birmingham”

Great! Rip up ancient established woods to build a train line? Can you see the perverse ironies here, folks? Money matters, wilderness doesn’t?

And the people that know, the Woodland Trust, say “the Forest will be less of a green ribbon and more of a sparsely-threaded doily”. £5.7M doesn’t buy many trees, let alone the design and labour to implement this nonsense.

I enjoyed my little sortie into a patch of ancient mixed woodland today, with my gun and not just a little taste of freedom. I’m old enough not to fret too much about all this getting closed down eventually (not the land but the hunting, the shooting, the freedom to walk it as a hunter). It’s the young guns I fear for. And those whose income depends on the shooting and hunting tradition. A whole generation of urban, flat-living, cat-keeping keyboard warriors and plastic politicians who rarely leave suburbia (they might get muddy!) are about to destroy the countryside. We have fought to preserve the wild places against eco-hooliganism based on a real knowledge of how nature works … red in tooth and claw.

Those that seek to ‘save’ the fox seem totally oblivious to the fact that fox populations are in decline since the Hunting Act. Let’s put our heads under the pillow, shall we? Perhaps let the cat sit on it? Killer of (in RSPB terms) some 55 million songbirds every year?

But I digress. I had a good day out today in an ancient wood today. I saw muntjac, roe, hare, squirrel (not for long), long-tailed tits … the list is endless. Strangely though, I didn’t see a fox. Having got home and opened up the Mac, I wished I had stayed there.

Disappointed? Most definitely. Because a PM turned on promise. I’m just one in millions today to feel betrayed.

Copyright, Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, January 2018








“What can you scent on the wind, old hound?”

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(An early extract from my forthcoming poetry collection.)

“What Can You Scent On The Wind, Old Hound?”

What can you scent on the wind, old hound,

As you stand with your nose to the gale?

What pheromones float on the breeze, all around?

And if you could talk, of what tale?

The coney’s are out in the kale, good sir.

The pheasants have gone to the trees.

Old Charlie comes East with the wind, good sir,

Putting ewes and their lambs at unease.

The rats in the farmyard are woken, good sir,

Their piss-pools offending my nose.

The scent of the puss in her form, good sir,

What a chase there could be, in these blows!

I smell mice in the woodshed, tonight, good sir.

And Old Brock is bruising the wood.

I smell fish scales down by the river, good sir.

The otters are up to no good.

And what do you hear on the wind, old hound,

As you lift your long ears to the muse?

What noises inspire from forest or ground?

And if you could speak, of what news?

The tawny owls call in the high wood, good sir.

The bittern now booms on the fen.

I hear pipistrelles, barbastelles squeaking, good sir.

And the scream of the vixen near den.

The squeal of the rabbit speaks stoat-kill, good sir.

I hear lekking, too, out on the hill.

The bark of the roebuck means poachers, good sir.

And the grunt of the hogs at their swill.

I hear sea-trout rising to bait, good sir.

And the spin of the night anglers reel.

The snap of the woodcocks fast flight, good sir.

And the whistle of incoming teal.

And what of your eyes, pray me ask, old hound?

As you stand here beside me, what sight?

Can you see the round moon and the whirl of the stars?

See the difference twixt’ day and night?

I see rabbit scuts, brushes and squirrels, good sir.

I see pheasant and partridge in flight.

I see hares make the turn and I’m close in, good sir.

I see fox and I’m up for the fight!

I see smoke from your gun and see birds fall, good sir.

I see the long beam in the night.

Though I can’t see your face and can’t keep up the pace,

I have memories to make up for sight.

Now pray walk me, good sir. Though just steady and slow.

Around field margin, heathland and wood.

Let me scent at the warren and linger, good sir.

For my service to you has been good.

© Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, October 2017

Wildscribblers ‘State Of Nature’ Report 2016

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Now the pheasants are out in the coverts ducking the guns, I thought it would be worthwhile to follow the excellent example of the RSPB and its cohorts … sorry, allies … let everyone know the ‘State Of Nature’ in this little corner of Norfolk. Particularly because it seems to paint a different picture to theirs? I can only guess, ‘cos I don’t read propaganda. Old Seth, my mentor and poacher par-excellence, tells me he read a bit before wiping his arse with it. I keep telling him that its bad for his piles but he just won’t listen.

We’ve had some mixed results on the estate this year in re-introducing species and restoring the balance of our fragile eco-system. Having had a bit too much success on the conies, we were getting a bit short of legal things to shoot so Seth and his boy, Luke, went over to Hickling Broad one night and came back with a couple of mink. Good plan, I thought, but we still haven’t seen the little buggers. Lot’s of discarded fish heads, but no mink! Seth’s been telling the Guvnor’ that otters are taking his trout from the lake. “Shoot ‘em!” he ordered. Seth told him that would be ‘illegal’. First time I’ve ever heard him use the ‘I’ word.

The buzzards have been a problem with the poults as always. Love to see ‘em soaring above the woods but one day Seth said they’d look better if they had a bit of competition on their tail. I haven’t got a clue where he got the golden eagle but he told me he put the tracker in his niece Jodie’s suitcase before she left for Ibiza. The eagle seemed like a good idea but the buzzards recognised its accent and weren’t fooled by the outward display of aggression. It took a bit of a barracking, followed by a swift flight back north. Norwich City fans are used to dealing with this too.

We thought about bringing in wolves and lynx to control the deer but Dave the Deerstalker got a bit pissed off. On balance, he’s the cheaper option and wolves or lynx are unlikely to throw us a spare haunch now and again, are they? Seth thought that crocodiles might be a legal way to tackle the otter problem but I reminded him that (a) crocodiles in the river would grab a cow or two and (b) crocs aren’t a displaced UK species.

The biggest problem we have here is the decline in hen harriers on the estate. Because there have never been any here. We’re feeling quite left out and thinking of designing a grouse moor so that we can be accused of flooding Great Yarmouth (and who wouldn’t want to flood Great Yarmouth?). Seth’s already planting heather and building grouse butts on the escarpment. I’m not sure that cut off IBC tanks buried in the loam count as butts? Fair play to Seth, though. When I asked where we were getting the grouse from, he just tapped his nose as always and told me that after Avery and co’s attack on DGS, there were hundreds of battery farms trying to shift grouse poults, cheap as chips. What do I know?

Skylarks? Dozens of breeding pairs here thanks to Olly and Lawrence (the farmers) maintaining hay meadows until after fledging. Me and Seth keep an eye on the ground predation. I do the small vermin and he does the foxes. Have I mentioned badgers? Oh, sorry. We have some of the biggest badger setts in Norfolk here. Seth wants to set up a night-time ‘Badger Safari’ but I’ve advised against it for Health & Safety reasons. Firstly, there would be more badgers than humans (and badgers eat anything!). Secondly, the weight of a Safari vehicle packed with punters might finally collapse the whole estate into badger Valhalla. I also advised that on a night-time safari, the punters would expect to see hedgehogs? Norfolk n’ chance here! Our lovely furze-pig is a badgers Friday night doner-kebab.

We have the usual abundance of creatures here that the bunny-huggers would have us wrap in cotton wool and call harmless. Magpies, crows, jays, woodies, rats. Rats! Packham says they should be loved! Might change his mind when either Itchy or Scratch get leptospirosis? Did I say abundance of creatures? Apologies for the exaggeration, because at any given chance me and Old Seth shoot the feckers. It’s what we do in the interest of real, controlled conservation management. Observe always, intervene only when needed. Or, as in Seth’s case, when definitely vermin … ‘shoot the feckers!’

Anyway, time to move on. Seth and Luke have a badger on the spit. Nice open BBQ tonight. Nothing like a bit of wild boar on a Friday night. If we’re unlucky we’ll hear the howl of the wild. Will it be the lynx attacking a sheep … or the wolf attacking a human? No, not yet. It will be the screech owl and I hope I never see the day when the barn owl can’t be heard. Why can’t the ‘bunny-huggers’ and ‘feather-strokers’ concentrate on an iconic species like this instead of attacking the shooting community. Old Seth, of course, has a simple theory about this. He always does. “If you han’t seen nuthin’, yer can’t know it!”

The badger tasted a bit strong. The ‘afters’ were sweeter. The ‘skylark sorbet’ was lush. Oh hell, did I say “lush”. Now there’s a whole other open wound.

I’ve digressed. State of nature here? Absolutely fine. Where the vulnerable need help, we deal with it. Where there is over-population, we deal with it. Where re-introduction is needed, we deal with it. And you don’t need to a put a penny in a charity box.

Me, Old Seth, young Luke? Our farmers and landowners? The GWCT, BASC, NGO, CA? We do more for the countryside every day than any wildlife ‘charity’ or self opinionated media numpty will ever achieve. And we do it with a passion and a sense of humour.

Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, Sept 2016.

The Twilight Writer

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My favourite time of day has changed with my advancing age. As a younger man I used to favour dawn. The breaking of the day, the slow creeping rise of the sun and all that happens before the golden orb seizes the day. The time of the slinking fox, returning from nocturnal mischief. The time when deer browse boldly far from the forest edge, cloaked in the morning mist. The time when the rabbits, having finished their nightly plunder of the barley shoots, sit plump and inviting outside the warren. Dawn is the time of the crows first foray. When the magpies and the croakers trawl the leafy lanes searching for last nights road-kills. Useful work, unpaid for by the County Council … but the only beneficial thing they’ll do all day

Now, as I hit three score, my crib holds such comfort that often the dawn chorus sounds better when heard through an open bedroom window. The art of writing has destroyed the daily ritual of my middle age; early to rise and early to bed. My writing peaks, in terms of mental agility, in the evening and so twilight has become my favourite time of day. That cusp between sundown and true night. The time when the final echoes of avian evensong fade from east to west, following the descent of the sun. That daily wonder for those with an ear for birdsong; a sonic wave ebbing towards the sunset.

Twilight also brings the pipistrelle bats. They pass close to my awning, hawking the gnats and mosquitos that dance above my bench-top lantern as I write. They swoop past the coach-light on the nearby wall with deft airborne dexterity. Beyond the garden, way out in the wood, the tawny owls often bless the rural soundscape. Sometimes it’s the females “keewick”, sometimes the males “whoo, whoo”; often both. A haunting, spectral sound … yet so enchanting.

An evening under the canopy, writing al fresco, will draw thousands of words from my chaotic mind and tap my memory. Citronella has become the scent of creativity as I scribble, surrounded by candles. Occasionally the rainfall will bless me with its hypnotic patter on the waterproof canopy. As raindrops glitter in the candle light and text flows onto the page, I am at my most relaxed. If I get ‘writers block’ I simply stop and oil the cogs with a glass of cabernet. If there’s a chill in the air, a fleece and the patio heater may come into play until the writing is done. I generally write freehand, with pencil and paper. The old fashioned way. It’s so much more artisan than using a laptop or tablet and, working outdoors, none of that ‘electricity’ stuff is needed. My scrawled transcripts are transferred by me later onto the iPad or PC.

Yep! Twilight is the time for me, for sure.

©Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, May 2016

Pine Scent and Parasols

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My suspicions were aroused by the huge log-piles stacked up near the farm as I parked the motor. I had only been away for a fortnight and while driving on to the estate I had sensed something big had been happening. The stacked timber (destined for the sawmill) and the overwhelming scent of pine sap made my heart sink. Somewhere among this thousand acres of shooting permission I was going to find a huge hole ripped out of the woodlands heart.

It was a fine, autumnal morning and the old lurcher leapt out of the tailgate like a pup, rejuvenated (as I was) by the exercise amongst the hills of Snowdonia. The escarpments here on the Norfolk estate would seem like molehills in comparison. As I loaded a magazine to slip into the rifle, the dog cast the air with his nose and looked at me. He, too, sensed that something cataclysmic had happened on ‘our’ shooting ground. We both set off to re-join the ceaseless battle against squirrels and corvids as the morning sun rose to bathe the wood in a yellow glow. Soon shafts of sunlight lit the forest floor, floodlights to the matinee performance of Natures insect ballet.

The dogs nose was down and working, telling me where the creatures of the night had passed. Badgers are prolific here and left untouched, their nocturnal ramblings obvious through the drag of a stomach through wet grass. Not to mention the scats and rooting along the way. The lurcher ignores these, as he does the fox scent. We stop at the border between a briar patch and a ride and even I can smell the rank musk of a recently passing fox. The dog has just one quarry in mind and soon his ears, erect and waggling, tell me he has heard the enemy. Standing alongside him I cast around the woodland floor and sense some movement. A hen pheasant scrambles away into cover and I look to the dog with a shrug. Silly old fool, I mentally accuse. Yet he is insistent, looking at me then into the wood. I cast around again and see it. A small grey shape dragging a bottle-brush tail around the beech and hazel trunks, looking for a suitable spot to cache the unripe, green cob-nut in its mouth. The rifle rises to my shoulder and within seconds the squirrels procrastination is history. The dog jumps the briars and makes the retrieve.

Autumn in the woods is my favourite time of year, not least because of the proliferation of fruits and colour but also because this is the season of the fungi. As if to mark the opening of the season, today I stumble across possibly the biggest pair of parasol fungi I have ever seen. So big, I lay my rifle down to gauge their size in a photograph. Superb specimens! The dog, of course, looks at me as though I am mad and in due time, me move on to cross from the coverts to the big sixteen acre wood. As I approach it I see the signs warning not to go beyond this point, forestry in progress. As it is Sunday morning, I ignore them and follow the caterpillar ruts into the wood. The sight before me is one of wanton vandalism and one which would stir the wrath and vengeance of Tolkiens ‘Ents’. Three acres of torn and rent timber dotted with log-piles yet to be retrieved to the farm. The undergrowth between the stumps had been crushed beneath the caterpillar tracks and the long established rides trashed by this industry. The dog starts to follow a trail we have used for years and stops, confused, a barrier of fallen timber in his way. We pick our way across the battle scene like a pair of crows at Agincourt and stop in the middle to look about me. Though I’m angry, I have no right to be. This is not my land and though I loved this wood, it is (after all) some-ones crop.

The mess I’m looking at will be tidied up when the felling project is finished, I know. Yet I wonder if ‘Sixteen Acre Wood’ might be re-named ‘Thirteen Acre Wood’? The spaces between the trees would be reclaimed by new saplings soon and the new plantation would need my (and the deer-stalkers) attention and protection. Most of the timber removed was pine, along with some beech and hazel. Looking at the stacks I see quality wood, straight and strong, and have to remind myself why I have permission to shoot here. Bark stripping by grey squirrels, rabbits and deer destroys the integrity of growing timber. Affected trees twist and bend, rendering them useless as saleable timber even if they survive the storms and gales. Rabbits and deer can ravage young saplings if not controlled. Grey squirrels attack the bark on semi-mature trees, seeking the nutrients in the pith beneath the bark. As they tend to strip higher on the trunk, the exposed area becomes a ‘scar’, a weak spot which (as the tree grows) draws no sap and therefore hardens and dies. If squirrels strip the bark in a complete ring around the trunk, the tree will die. This is a major reason for landowners asking folk like me to shoot squirrels on sight. Consider the ecological value of a tree like the beech … oxygen production, timber, nesting cover, beech mast. Then the ecological value of the invasive grey squirrel? I’m sorry. I’ll always save the tree and shoot the squirrel. So that’s what we do, the lurcher and I. We leave the tragedy of the timber harvest and go about our business, harvesting grey squirrels. And very successfully too.

Out around the maize I find the greys have been very busy, stealing the unripe cobs and dragging them into the woods edge to strip off the sheaths and get to the succulent sweetcorn inside. At least while they’re doing this they’re leaving the tree bark and birds eggs alone. Dylan leads me via his nose to the base of an oak tree and looks up. As he does so, a pair of unripe acorns hit the ground near my feet. I look up and, silhouetted against the bright sky a squirrel is tugging at the raw fruit. The shot is clean and the dog catches the grey before it hits the floor. It is a curiosity that the grey squirrel can endure the toxins within a green, unripe acorn but the native red squirrel (extinct in Norfolk) cannot? It wasn’t just disease and aggression that drove the reds from this county. It was also competition for food. The greys could harvest and cache winter food before the reds.

Before I leave I’m privileged to watch an aerial conflict I’ve never seen here before. The buzzards on the estate often follow me around as I leave them dead squirrel carcasses to deter pheasant poult predation. I‘m not surprised to hear the buzzard above me but when I look up, he’s not ‘mewling’ to me. He’s chasing off a hobby, a raptor which is thankfully becoming more prevalent along the Wensum Valley. The clumsy jinking of the old buzzard doesn’t deter the fast-flying hobby as it turns Old Buteo and makes him dizzy. The contest is made more ridiculous by the fact that both birds feed on a different level so offer each other no competition. Nevertheless, a pleasure to watch. All in all, an educational morning and one that gives me food for thought.

©Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, Sept 2015




Taverham Mill Nature Reserve- A Hidden Norfolk Gem

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You know, sometimes we go off thrill seeking or looking for that ‘different’ view that takes our breath away. I’ve never been one for pyramids, temples, skyscrapers or other artificial vistas. Half the reason I moved to Norfolk fifteen years ago was due to it raw beauty, coastline, inland waters and big skies. Meeting my gorgeous wife was the reason for staying here. Having returned from Snowdonia (and the inevitable hike up the mountain) a few days ago we were looking for something different, locally, to visit and I remembered that a nearby fishery (Taverham Mill) had been mentioned in one of those local advertorial magazines that get pushed through the letterbox. It had mentioned that it had been developed into a nature reserve and was open for public walks. I had visited the tackle shop on site twelve years ago when I dabbled with coarse fishing. As a shooting man, the dabble didn’t last long as I haven’t got the patience for angling. The impression from that first visit was of a very private and protected fishery … but I had got no further than the shop.

Having phoned the visitor centre a few days ago to check restrictions, we were delighted to hear that we could take our old lurcher, Dylan, around the reserve. So often in East Anglia, we find that reserves ban dogs (one reason I will never subscribe to the Norfolk Wildlife Trust, despite the wonderful work they do). As a shooting man, I fully understand the need for control of dogs and use of the lead around wildlife and livestock. In North Wales last week we had found a completely dog-friendly environment. Not only on the beaches (where dogs had their own go-zones) but also in nature reserves, shops, pubs and hotels. Signs like “Muddy boots and dogs welcome” were everywhere. But I digress!

We turned up at Taverham Mill this morning with a touch of cynicism at the claim of a two-mile ‘red-route’ through the Reserve. We live about two miles away as the crow flies yet we struggled to imagine how Anglian Water and the workers / volunteers here could have put together a two mile path? We were greeted by Richard and Harry in the visitor centre and they explained that we would have to walk the ‘red-route’ (the longer route) outside the otter fencing, as we had the dog with us. Richard took our £6 (£3 per adult, no charge for the dog) and teased us with the offer of a £40 annual season ticket, with that £6 deducted. Yeah, nice try, Richard! He showed us the map of the reserve and we set off.

Within twenty yards we stopped by the weir to watch the waters tumbling into the pool from the Wensum and I snapped a grey wagtail on the steps above the torrent. I stopped and held my breath, looking around, trying to imagine a mill here long ago. The ancient willows dipped their foliage into the turbulent water and I was looking at a Constable scene. Swallows dipped across the pool hawking flies as we studied the foliage and listened to the birdsong. We set off to follow the ‘red route’, marked by posts with a crimson ring, and (to the right) it took us up the edge of a very secluded part of the River Wensum. The wardens have carved viewing and angling points through the shrubbery on several parts of the grassy path. This is otter and kingfisher country. On the left was an expanse of grazing marsh … kept under control by a small herd of Highland cattle. This was barn owl, kestrel and heron terrain. As if to prove this today we watched a kestrel rise from the sedges and settle in a dead tree among the woodpigeons, who didn’t flinch at the little raptors presence.

Half way along the river stretch, as we unlatched a gate, a pair of little egrets and a harnser rose awkwardly from a pool. I was too slow with the camera for the egrets but caught the heron as it circled. We crossed from the river to the woodland path, still outside the otter fencing, and met mine enemy, the grey squirrel. Several of them. The control of these pests is what gains me permission to many of the local farms and estates to shoot quietly and respectfully with an air rifle. I’m guessing they could do with some control on this reserve if songbird and wildfowl eggs are to survive.

As for the distance, I’m happy to report that we were proved very wrong. This was a delightful walk and the amount of owl, songbird and bat boxes put up shows a serious intent here to encourage wildlife. The otter fence is sensible and the photo’s in the Visitor Centre show how important it is to maintain the fish stock. This site is an perfect example of how country-sports and wildlife management can exist side-by-side for the benefit of all.

When we returned to the Visitor Centre I asked for more detail about access, as the Centre’s opening hours are nine to five. Owls and otters keep to a different timetable. Season ticket holders have open access, all hours … subject to scrutiny by volunteer wardens. I was sold. I bought an annual family membership on the spot. What a diamond this little reserve is … and right on my doorstep. Well done, to all that made this happen.

Copyright Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, Sept 2015




Witch-Hunts & Wildlife Wars

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If you are in the public eye (and in a very minor way, I am, as a country-sports writer) you need to watch what you say. If you’re happy to say it, then you need the balls to defend it too. I joined a petition tonight aimed at the BBC asking them to moderate the biased behaviour of someone who I had latterly regarded as a soul-brother. Chris Packham. We have the same dirty, hands on approach to studying wildlife. Turning over animal scat and pulling it apart to see what the prey was, picking up bird pellets to dissect them and understand what they’re eating . I pride myself on my fieldcraft skills and an ability to interpret the evidence on ‘scenes of crime’ left by predators. I use that phrase with caution, for the natural death of any creature these days seems to invite accusation that it was a ‘crime’. I study bird-song, particularly as a ‘language’, trying to understand the difference between a mating call, an alarm call or a mere celebration of voice. Yet I do that not just because I am a wildlife lover but also because I’m a hunter. Birds relay signals to the hunter about the state of the landscape far more than beasts. Not that I’m going to give away any secrets here … read my books!

Animals, birds and insects kill each other. Mother Nature actually encourages this awful slaughter. If She didn’t everything would starve to death. Birds eat bugs and worms! Foxes and badgers eat rabbits, ye Gods! Even household cats, fed twice a day by their owners, slaughter songbirds! I’m not sure where you took your Biology ‘O’ level (I breezed mine despite playing truant bird-nesting , pond dipping and scrumping apples) but the first lesson we were taught to ready our young minds before the first rat-dissection class was that the big fish eat the little fish. Incidentally, that class? Guess who the teacher asked to provide the rats? I was way ahead of the game. Death is a ‘given’ in Mother Natures master-plan. How and when is just as random as Her huge, unpredictable pogroms. Tsunamis, earthquakes, volcano eruptions, plagues, famines. Packham and his cohorts (Avery, Oddie, May etc) decry the right of man (the superior mammal) to kill other animals. How shallow, how obscene, how dysfunctional is that … as a human being? These people are living in a fantasy world where the lower order of Mammalia and the lowest bird are more important than the higher order. Mother Nature takes care of these things. Trust her.

Incidentally, I was part of a Social Media exchange tonight which questioned my perception of ‘man’ being part of the higher order. Someone joined the exchange who told us that domestic cats killed songbirds because ‘they needed to hunt to survive’. My ribs are still aching.

Copyright Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, Sept 2015


The Ravens Of Carn Fadryn

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FotoSketcher - DSC_1455a

The opportunity to spend a few days in North Wales was too much to resist, even for this hermit. We booked a cracking cottage (Ty Bwclyn) near Dinas on the Llyn Peninsula, set below a 370m hill called Carn Fadryn. Compared to nearby Snowdonia, the granite-tipped crag was insignificant yet was set to capture my interest far more than the highest mountain in Wales (which we conquered later in the week). Rising from a sea of lush, rolling sheep pasture Carn Fadryn looms like a vast green and grey pyramid. Half of the base is draped in a skirt of conifers, the rest is pink heather, bracken and granite. On the opposite side to my view were the remnants of an Iron-Age fort. From the first evening, sitting in the warm autumn garden watching the carn, I was intrigued at the hierarchy of avian activity from base to summit. There was a granite scar at the bottom of the carn, a few hundred yards from the cottage garden, which was home to a raucous colony of jackdaws and a pair of kestrels. Watching the antics of the jakes and the hunting ‘windhovers’ was entertainment enough on the first evening but then at about seven o’clock I kept hearing strange sounds above the cottage and watched a procession of large crows beating their way towards Carn Fadryn’s summit. Ravens … an alien species to this Norfolk dweller. The percussive sound of pinion feathers powerfully sweeping the air reminded me of the mute swans passing overhead on the Norfolk Broads. The triple ‘cronk’ confirming the identity.

I don’t see ravens in Norfolk, so know little of their habits. Though I have seen and photographed them in Cumbria, The Pennines and Coastal Cornwall, I had always regarded them as relatively anti-social birds like carrion crows. Perhaps just pairing for the breeding season? What I saw up on top of Carn Fadryn over last week completely altered that misconception. Every evening, the ravens soared in from all points of the compass to congregate around the summit. Through my binoculars I watched not just a gathering roost but a celebration of acrobatics. Wheeling and diving, chasing in pairs, soaring on the thermals. All the while, at the base of the mount, the jackdaws hassled and harried … often taking off from the scar like a flock of noisy racing pigeons to wheel and soar before returning to the sharp, narrow ledges. From time to time, a pair of buzzards would leave the pine forest to ride the hill’s thermal helter-skelter only to be challenged from above by the ravens and from below by the jackdaws. A skirmish the raptors were destined to lose every time I watched it. Thus was the hierarchy. The jackdaws held the sheep meadows and the scar. The kestrels held the wires and the sedges from whence they drew their voles. The buzzards held the conifer wood and the ravens defended the high peak as they probably had in Vortigen and King Arthurs day.

Snowdon? What a miserable affair that was. Glorious weather (18oC) and views until half way up then the clouds swept in. My stumpy Norfolk legs were ill-prepared for the ascent and hugging the trig point at the top in pouring rain, a 30mph wind and a temperature of 5oC was more in relief than celebration. Like all high hills it was devoid of wildlife above 600m in such conditions, so (for me) just a boring lump of rock. But, hey … I did it. For me, probably my last ‘mountain’. I prefer the lower hills and rolling coastal footpaths, which offer both scenery and wildlife.

My biggest disappointment with Llyn was a failure to see either peregrine falcons or red kites on the coastal cliffs. I saw choughs, though from too far to photograph. The kites have probably drawn away to some commercial feeding centre where carrion is thrown to them so that tourists can watch them, robbing the raptors of their natural hunter / scavenger skills. A ridiculously cruel ‘un-wilding’.

This was my first trip to North Wales and I loved it. Betys-y-Coed, Beddgelert, Porthmadog, Abersoch, Porthor and Aberdaron are all recommended. As is the Ffestiniog Steam Railway.

Copyright Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, Sept 2015.

Summer Breeze

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The scent of jasmine carried by the breeze on a hot June night overwhelms the fading aroma of garlic bread and barbecued meat. The midges dance in anger outside an invisible curtain of citronella smoke released from a circle of burning tea-lights. Pipistrelle bats prey on insects hovering around the solar lamps in the hanging baskets. An illuminated display of orange, yellow and crimson dangling like chariots of fire in my own personal Jerusalem. An old lurcher lies on his bed on the decking, watching the bats through a half-raised eyelid. His old master is watching too, while scribbling notes for yet another project. A wonderful evening and the world here is good.

Can’t say the same across the world can we? Many dead after a radical attack in Tunisia. Other so called ‘terrorist’ attacks in other countries. You’re not safe abroad or at home it seems. As always, in the name of religion or creed. Madness. Why do folk dedicate their life or their death to a series of myths and fables (written  or fabricated) in ancient scribblings? And why do they insist on impressing their ‘belief’ on others? What a waste of intelligence and life.

More importantly, why are we tolerating this insult to humanity? This ‘I don’t like your beliefs so I want to kill you’ mentality? The second world war was fought and won by liberal thinking nations to oppose such outrage. Yet those same nations are now inviting within their borders thousands of immigrants who bring with them a hatred of our values, our creeds, our liberalism and our tolerance. Why are we allowing this? Why is our governance constantly apologising for and legislating against our rights as natural, indigenous citizens to voice our objections to the arrogant, subversive demands of people who asked to be homed here and were allowed here? They should be reminded that they here at our behest and on our terms … not theirs!

Everyone expected World War Three to be a nuclear conflagration. It hasn’t worked out that way, has it? It is happening, now. Right in front of us. The human race eating itself alive on a menu of hatred, religious intolerance, greed, politics and charity.

Me? I’m sitting here smelling the jasmine, watching the bats and thinking that I’m glad I’m approaching the twilight years. I feel sorry for my son and the generations beyond them.

A few millennia from now, an intelligent life form will land on Earth and say that an intelligent life form once lived on this planet … but it destroyed itself while arguing about the reason it came to exist. How sad is that?

Copyright, Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, June 2015.

A Sigh To The Wild

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Buckenham sunset (3)

This weekends creaking, bending trees and the exhalation of Mother Natures vast lungs have sealed the turn of the new year for me. Coming off the back of ten days of walking the woods and fields of the Norfolk hinterlands, returning to work in an office is going to be hell on Monday. Yet perhaps it’s that purgatory that makes being in the wild so special? Since New Years Day I have been wandering with camera, hound and (yes, I’m a hunter and proud) my gun. I’ve walked the hoar-hardened plough and trodden the glistening leaf litter of forest and copse. I have stood and watched the early rise of the yellow orb burn away the chilling morning mist and bathe the meadows in sunshine. In another place, at an opposite time, I’ve stood to watch her descend in orange glory beneath the water-splashed fen. I’ve watched the descent of rook, crow and jackdaw into the fields before dusk and waited, breath held, for them to rise en-masse and whirl in a crackling maelstrom before spiralling in their tens of thousand into the overnight roost. I’ve had my heart pulsed at the sudden rise of the hen pheasant from her cower and I’ve been startled by the snap of the woodcocks escape as lifts beside my boot at the foot of the frosted escarpment. I’ve stood in the dense wood amid the cascade of low winter sunbeams to watch midges dance in the shafts of light and waken the interest of the robin and the wren. I’ve hunkered down to study the play of two hares on the unploughed stubbles. A union in the making these next few months, I’m sure. I was privileged to watch four red deer hinds sprint up the escarpment, through the conifer plantation and into the dead maize cover. Uneventful for some, special for me. We see too few reds around here. The old buzzard always looks me out when he sees me, knowing that my activity will usually gift him with some grey squirrel meat and rescue him from road-kill carrion for a time. I’ve watched the snowdrops push their fragile buds up through the mulch these last ten days. It could be pure, white carpet this year. Throughout all my walks I have been chastised for my audacity by blue, great and long-tailed tits. The wrens have tutted, the blackbirds have pipped but none compete with the sparrowhawks angry chime. He knows we compete, that spar and I. He would have my roost-shoot pigeon and I would have his squirrel. Two hunters in the same territory … yet there is ample for both. The turn from frost to rain to gale impacts on the wood in Mother Natures inimitable style. Ancient trees tumble and break my heart with their demise. Yet they will provide shelter for bird and beast, even in their decline. As I write this tonight, I have one day left of freedom. Tomorrow will be enjoyed, again, in the wild. Come Monday, should I choose to return to purgatory (and, after all, the choice is mine) it will be with my body between the walls and my mind out there in the wild, where I truly belong.

© Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, 2015