Vermin Control

The .17HMR Rifle … First Reflections

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Back in April this year I posed the question ‘Are FAC rifles a waste of money?’  after selling my two high power .22 airguns. I hinted that I might invest in a rimfire rifle. After some consideration (and wanting to retain my FAC ticket) I took a long hard look at the vermin control I undertake and what rimfire option would be best for a ‘walkabout’ hunter. Some of my shooting permissions are so small they merit nothing more than the humble .22 legal limit air rifle; a gun I’ve had years of success and experience with. A gun with which I’ve built a reputation as a skilled hunter and an author on airgun hunting. Other permissions are substantially larger and (this being Norfolk) have ‘big-sky’ landscapes and huge tracts of intensive arable farming. Married to these are game coverts, sheep farms and piggeries. The air rifle does valuable work around the hedgerows and copses but it can’t account for the 80 yard carrion crow or rook on the seedlings; nor the prowling fox. I don’t stalk deer. In fact, I share much of my permission with deer stalkers which requires a good level of communication for both safety reasons and also quarry ‘intelligence’. I get texts telling we where the squirrels and rabbits are in excess; the stalkers get texts telling them where I’ve seen roe, fallow and muntjac. It works well and as we keep different ‘shifts’ there is rarely interference between either party. None of the stalkers I know shoot foxes. Stealth and silence excludes such opportunistic vermin control when their ‘golden fleece’ is venison. If I had a tenner for every fox that has crossed my path (at close range) when I have been squirrel hunting or roost shooting with my air rifles, I would have cleared my mortgage by now.

My ‘bread and butter’ targets, in terms of granted permission, are grey squirrels and rabbits. Lord knows, there are precious few of the latter in these parts at the moment due to VHD. So I decided that I needed a rimfire that could be used on a range of quarry. From squirrel, crow and rabbit up to fox. A calibre that could fill the gap between 25 and 150 yards. The decision was helped by the fact that Edgar Brothers had a ‘package deal’ on a CZ-455 .17HMR. This included a Hawke Vantage dedicated .17HMR scope, SM11 moderator and Deben Bipod. A quick call to my local RFD (Anglia Gun & Tackle) and Bob’s you’re uncle. Nearly. The rifle arrived on the afternoon before I was due to go on a walking trip to Scotland. Collected and unpacked, I mounted the scope and set up the eye-relief. I practised sliding in and engaging the bolt. I examined the magazine, clipping it in and out of the stock. I examined the moderator and hated how it extended the length on the 20″ barrel. I was meant to be packing for the trip and duly received orders from the beautiful one to lock my new toy away until after the holiday.

Fresh back from the Argyll Forest, I threw myself into exploring this new shooting discipline. I’ve shot a variety of guns on ranges and in the  company of friends. Shotguns in 410, 20 & 12 gauge and .22LR rimfire. I had never handled a .17HMR and will confess, after decades of air rifle shooting, that I found the initial days nerve-wracking. I was using Hornady 17g V-Max bullets. We’re talking a round that travels at 2550 fps and (without a hit or backstop) can travel for more than half a mile.  Initially zeroing at the recommended 100 yards / 12x Mag on the Hawke scope, this changed after a few days. I had realised that until I got the muscle memory and eye-to-target range finding right on this rifle (and in my head), 100 yards plus was way beyond my ‘airgunning’ capability.  Three weeks on and I’m coming to terms with the rifle. So (comparing it to an air rifle), what do I like and dislike?

The major dislike is the sound. I’ve swapped the SM11 moderator for a Wildcat Whisper and though I still dislike the whip-crack discharge of this calibre, it’s at least contained ‘locally’ by the sound-can. I love the simplicity of the CZ-455TH, it’s aesthetic laminated stock and the fact that I don’t have to keep checking for ‘air pressure’. It weighs less than my beloved HW100KT air rifle. The Hawke 17HMR scope (though I’ve tinkered with the zeroing to suit me) is clear and precise. All of my rifles carry Hawke scopes. They have never let me down.

The quarry count is climbing fast and one thing is for sure. Nothing gets up from a .17HMR ‘engine room’ shot. I’m sure the first close-range fox will come soon but I’m not actively hunting any. At least now I have a tool to deal with those I chance across.

 

© Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, October 2017

Taking The FAC / SGC  ‘Ticket’ –  A Salutary Tale

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ND (04)4

Micky Moore took a deep swig of the nearly cold Americano he’d fetched up from Costa an hour ago. He sat back in his office chair and sighed. One of his colleagues, Charlotte from the admin team, commented “That was a big sigh, Micky? Problem?” Micky swung around in his seat. “Going out to Twigglesham shortly, Lotty. Mr Hare and Mrs Trimm. One of these is going to be a nightmare!” He swept up the two Gun Certificate application files and tucked them into his messenger bag. “Wish me luck!” Lotty laughed. “They’ll be fine. All in the life of a Firearms Enquiry Officer, Micky!” Down in the car, Micky plugged a postcode into his Tom-Tom. Twigglesham. A quaint little hamlet in the back-end of no-where. “Oh well”, he thought, “at least I’ll see some countryside”.

Out at Saddlesore Hall, in Twigglesham, Nigella Trimm was issuing orders for the day to her ‘lady that does‘ Maggie May (Maggie often did, actually, but that’s another story!). “We have that pen-pusher chap from the Firearms people coming out at eleven, Maggie. Do keep an eye out for him, please? I’ll probably be in the stables supervising Megan, so you’ll have to give me a shout. I do hope he’s not here too long. I have things to do!” Megan was the stable girl. Maggie frowned but affirmed, “Will do, ma’am”. Then she asked, before Nigella disappeared, “Have you got everything ready, ma’am? The paperwork and stuff?” Nigella Trimm stopped in her tracks, her fat backside trembling in her jodhpurs like two small boys fighting under a blanket. “Nothing to sort. Mere formality. If they can grant you and your father a license, I’m bound to be alright, don’t you think?” Maggie winced, angrily. Her father was a game-keeper and had taught her to shoot. She set off to clear up the dog mess in the hallway. Her employer didn’t walk her Chihuahuas or ‘do’ poo-bags. That was way beneath her! As she stepped outside, Maggie noticed the way the Range Rover Discovery had been parked last night. Oh dear!

Micky Moore arrived at Saddlesore Hall and drove straight through the electronic security gates, which were wide open. Pulling up on the gravel forecourt, Micky couldn’t help but notice the burgundy ‘Disco’ with it’s nose buried halfway into a privet hedge. The number plate was a private affair. AN01 GIN. “Interesting!”, the FEO thought. He grabbed his messenger bag, locked the motor and stepped straight into some dog shit. Scraping his shoe on the gravel, he walked up to the portico and the huge oak door, which was partially open. Nevertheless, Micky tugged at the ancient brass bell-pull and tucked his messenger bag across his groin. This was usually where the Rottweiler, German Shepherd or Doberman launched themselves at his gonads. The bell echoed around the internal hallway and he braced himself … only to be greeted by a pretty little blonde holding a poo-bag who pulled the door open and said “Hi, I’m Maggie. Come in, please!”. Micky explained the state of his Joseph Siebel footwear and Maggie apologised. “I hadn’t finished cleaning up out there yet” she sighed. She took the offending shoe to clean it and led him, hobbling, to a parlour room. She invited him to sit while she found her employer. Micky sat waiting and looked around the reception room. It was almost as big as his flat. Big paintings of horses and hounds. It was classic, country decor.

After ten minutes, Maggie returned Micky’s shoe and apologised. “I’m sorry, Mr Moore. My boss has taken one of the hunters for some exercise. She’s asked if you could wait for half an hour?” The girl looked embarrassed and saw the red mist ascend in Micky’s eyes. “Is she on a mobile? ” he asked. Maggie pulled her mobile from a pocket in her tabard. “Please tell Mrs Trimm that I am postponing the interview until 2pm. I have another appointment in the village, after which I will need a lunch break”. Maggie replied that she thought her boss had another ‘engagement’ at 2pm. Micky smiled. “I’m sure she has. That’s fine, Maggie. Tell Mrs Trimm that if I don’t see her at 2pm, she will need to call the office to re-appoint, which will probably be about three months away. Ask her to call me to confirm.” He headed for the door. “Oh … and I mean your employer to call, not you Maggie”, he winked. Micky headed for his car and called the Hare household.

At the other end of the village, Rupert ‘Poacher’ Hare was a bag of nerves. Why was the FEO coming early? His rosy wife, Molly, poured him another cup of tea. “Don’t worry, my lovely! It’ll go fine, I’m sure!” she re-assured. Poacher went over his copy of the forms again. Molly dropped a biscuit and the lurcher tried to beat the two Jack Russell’s to the prize. As the dogs squabbled, Molly shrieked at them and Poacher held his head in his hands. “Keep them curs away when he comes, Molly! They drive me blinkin’ mad!” Poacher hadn’t had a ‘police’ visit to his cottage since he’d inherited it from his deceased father thirty years ago. The firearms application was important to him. He’d built up a reputation as a pest controller locally. God knows, there was little other work out here Poacher needed the work to sustain his family. Molly went cleaning for some local gentry and worked part-time in the local Post Office. Poacher took anything he could get. His HGV license was good for when the beet harvest was brought in, but that was only three months driving. He and Molly, with a ten year old and two teens, had never made a benefit claim. Ever. They wouldn’t have known how to. Poachers father, Billy Hare, had always preached self-sufficiency and it had stuck. Poacher could trap, snare and take a rabbit, squirrel or pigeon with his airguns. They never went short of fresh meat … but a fillet steak was rare. Now, though, there was a call from his customers to “up the game” a touch. Fox and deer were becoming a huge nuisance. He was contemplating this when the dogs started to bark. The FEO had arrived. “Molly, shut them blinkin’ dogs up!” he shouted.

Micky Moore pulled up near the cottage and was pleasantly surprised. The white-washed fascia was dripping with ivy and clematis. As he approached the picket fence, three dogs rushed out, barking. A tall lurcher met him face to face, paws up on the fence, while a pair of terriers yapped at its feet. The lady of the house came running out, apologising as she rounded up the dogs. “I’ll take them away for a while, sir” she said. Micky stopped her and asked her name? “Molly, sir!” Micky smiled. “I’m not a sir! I’m Micky. Nice to meet you, Molly!”. She smiled and said “Poacher’s inside. He’s nervous as hell, sir … sorry … Micky!” Stepping inside the tiny cottage, Micky met Poacher who came to greet him with a firm handshake. “I doubt anyone gets past those dogs without warning you!” Mickey stated. Poacher nodded and led him to the solid oak kitchen table. “I hope this is ok, Guv?” Micky smiled. “Perfect, thanks!” He sat down and pulled the paperwork from his bag. Poacher sat down opposite him, flicking his eyes over the FEO’s shoulder. Micky sensed movement behind. “Cup of tea, gents?” It was Molly, well briefed. “White with two, please!” Micky replied. “I don’t read and write that well, Guv!” Poacher was wringing his hands, nervously. “I hope we did the forms ok. Molly helped me?” Micky smiled at him. “Call me Micky, please!” Poacher relaxed a little and Micky continued. “I’m here to run through the paperwork, check the security of your home re suitability for firearms and assess your suitability to own them. So I have a few questions. Are you ok with that, Poacher?” Poacher nodded solemnly. Molly arrived with the hot tea and put down a plate of home-made cookies. “Talk is talk but don’t go hungry, my lovelies!” she declared.

Micky dunked a cookie in his tea and asked his first question. “Why do they call you ‘Poacher’?” The applicant nearly choked on his biscuit but laughed. “Schoolboy thing, Guv! I hated my Christian name ‘Rupert’ as in Rupert Bear. Poach a hare, Poacher Hare. It’s just stuck.” Micky scribbled a note. “I looked at the land permissions you submitted with your application. They’re quite impressive! That must be about 2000 acres?” Poacher smiled. “No idea, Guv! I do a lot of snaring and trapping for local farmers as well as air rifle shooting. The coneys, pigeons and squirrels help fill the pot here”. As if by magic, Molly appeared with some small plates, a portion of pie and a jar of Branstons. “My man can’t talk proper lest he’s fed, Micky. Our game pie! Please have some.” Micky smiled. “I hope you’re not trying to bribe me, Molly?” She flushed and went to withdraw the plate. Micky stopped her. “I was joking, Molly. Can I beg a top-up of tea please?” He turned his attention back to Poacher. “You’ve gone for a co-terminus application. Twelve bore and .243? That’s a big move up from your air rifles, Poacher?” Poacher took a deep breath. “My landowners want me to ‘step up’ the action Guv. That’s why a couple of them are offering references. We’ve got lots of problems with pigeons and crows on the crops. No-one stalks the land here, so I’m on my own, Guv. I trip over roe and muntjac every day and can’t do nowt! Same with foxes”.  Micky was scribbling. “Have you ever fired shotguns or FAC rifles, Poacher?” He was looking straight into the mans eyes. Poacher didn’t flinch. “I’ve fired borrowed shotties on owners land and at local clay shoots loads of time, Guv. I’ve shot rimfire rifles at a local range but not at live quarry”. Poachers head dropped and Micky saw it. “What’s the matter, Poacher. How much live quarry have you shot with your air rifles?” Poacher looked up. “Jeez! Thousands! Rabbits, squirrels, crows, pigeons!” Micky smiled at him. “You enjoy the shooting?” Poachers smile disappeared. “Sometimes. Guv. Enjoy the hunt and the challenge but not always the killing. I love all wild things”. Micky made another note. Then came the bit Poacher was dreading. “Now … we need to go through your criminal record, Poacher”.

“Oh dear!” Micky exaggerated. “Offences against property? And against person? Driving offences? What were they all about”? Poacher was embarrassed. “The criminal damage and fighting stuff was 30 years ago, Guv! I was a teenage ‘rebel’. The old man slapped that out of me! Behaved myself since.” Micky nodded. “The SP30’s?” Poacher shrugged. “Guilty as charged. Both in the City, Guv. 35 in a 30 limit? Couple of years apart.” Micky changed tack. “Show me where you want to store the guns when you get them, Poacher”. Poacher Hare walked Micky down through a corridor behind the cottage and up to an iron door with two padlocks, top and bottom. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and opened both locks. Pushing the door open he led Micky into what must have once been an old ‘larder’. Flint walls and just a couple of slits in the walls letting in light. In one corner was a gun safe. It was ancient. Poacher took a key and opened the door. It had room for about eight guns but all that was there now were Poachers three air rifles. Tins of pellets were stacked on the floor of the safe. “You wouldn’t believe what my old man used to keep in here, Guv!” Poacher mumbled. Micky didn’t want to know. “Where do you hide the keys, Poacher?” Micky asked. Poacher turned to look at Micky. “Sorry, can’t tell you Guv!” he winked. Back at the kitchen table, Micky checked Poachers referees with him. “Do they both know you’ve nominated them?” Poacher confirmed yes. “Anything else you want to add, Poacher?” The man thought for a few seconds then replied. “I need the guns to increase my services, Guv. If you aren’t happy with what you’ve seen, please let me know why and I’ll try to fix it”.

Micky Moore opened the tailgate of the car and swapped file folders. His mobile had been on ‘mute’ out of respect to his customer. With the mute button off, the phone pinged a couple of times. Messages. Both from Nigella Trimm. The first said “Mr Moore, I am disappointed that you couldn’t wait! This is quite important, you know!” The second said, more humbly “I will be available at 2pm”. When Micky arrived at Saddlesore Hall, the electronic gate was still wide open, though the Discovery had been parked properly.  He rang the bell at exactly 2pm. Unsurprisingly, it was Maggie who opened the door. “I’ll take you through to Mrs Trimm” she smiled. Micky was led into a drawing room, where Nigella Trimm sat primly on a chaise-long, still in a gilet and jodhpurs. “Ah, you must be the firearms chappie” she acknowledged. She didn’t stand up but waved a hand at an arm-chair. “Please sit, there’s a good chap”. Micky looked around. There was no sign of any paperwork or anywhere to work. “We will need a table, Mrs Trimm. I have forms to fill”. She huffed in frustration. “Oh, I thought there had been enough form-filling! We’ll have to go to the study then. Follow me, and please, call me Nigella”. As they walked down a corridor they passed Maggie, who was dusting a painting. Micky stopped to look at it. Nigella stopped and looked back. “Ah, that’s Edward, my late husband … on his hunter. I swear he loved that horse more than me.” She led on to the study.

Micky emptied his messenger bag contents carefully onto a mahogany table that was probably worth more than his car. Nigella sat the opposite side of the table and folded her arms. “Would you like a drink, chap?” she enquired. Micky shook his head. “No thanks, Nigella. I just had a lovely cup of tea at my last call, but thanks anyway.” She guffawed. “Oh, I was thinking of something a little stronger. Sun’s over the yard-arm now, as Edward used to say!” She rang a hand bell and walked over to a bureau, opening it to reveal a well stocked bar. As she poured a strong helping of gin into a tumbler, Maggie came scuttling in. “Can you fetch some from the freezer, Mags? The gin’s a tad warm!” Maggie scuttled out again. “Now, what can I tempt you with, Mister Firearms Chappie?” Micky looked up and Nigella was waving a bottle of Talisker single malt while undoing the top buttons of her Barbour shirt. He looked down again at his paperwork. “Please God, no?” he thought. “Not one of them!” He ‘manned up’ and stood. “Nigella, sorry but I don’t drink on duty and I’m now running very late due to your earlier cancellation. Can we get on this please?” Nigella poured her tonic and sat down, with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. Maggie came in, sensed the atmosphere, dropped two cubes in her employers glass, laid the ice-bucket on the bureau and scampered off.

Micky led off with “Your passport photos, Nigella? When were they taken?” He passed them across the table. She looked at them. “Oh, that would have been when we stayed at Sir Richards place. Virgin Islands. About twenty years ago? He and Edward were good friends”. Micky smiled. “We need a set of current likenesses please. You’ll have to re-submit them.” Nigella nearly choked on her G&T. “Oh bollocks! I’ll have to go that supermarket place again amongst the great unwashed!” Micky pressed on. “Your referees, Nigella? Until we wrote back to you, you had nominated the Vicar of Dibley and Dr Who. Hopefully the replacements are more appropriate, as I will be calling them for a reference.” Nigella flopped back in her chair and sighed. “I thought you guys would have a better sense of humour?” she offered. “Yes, these ones are upstanding pillars of the community. Colonel Bog-Smyth is Master of the local hunt. Lady Antebellum is the owner of the run-down ‘manor’ next door. Funny how her fortunes fell when Edward died, isn’t it? But I’m not bitter and she owes me a reference!” The interview continued. “You’ve put in a co-terminus application that includes rifles as well as shotguns Nigella? Have you ever fired a rifle?” Nigella looked insulted. “Yes, of course I have!” Micky asked her to expand. “I’ve potted bunnies out my bedroom window. Shot a fox once, too. Not a clean shot but I wiped its arse, for sure!” She got up and went back to the gin bottle. Micky was concerned. “Have you fired shotguns before, Nigella?” She rattled the ice in her glass and turned, glaring at Micky. “I’m a country girl, Mister Firearms Chappie! I’ve been shooting all my life!” She was clearly angry. Micky pushed again. “So when and where did you last fire a shotgun and what gauge was it, Nigella?” Nigellas face flushed and she looked like she was going to explode. “Where? When? Gauge? What is this, young man! The fucking Spanish Inquisition?” Micky sat quietly while she re-topped her glass. Then, with her back to Micky, she slumped her shoulders. “Edward would never allow me to accompany him shooting. I’ve only ever shot with my father and that was many years ago. I just want to be able to shoot with the rest of the girls. It’s a social thing. They’re all into clay shooting now”. Micky felt slightly sympathetic, but had to ask another question. “Your declaration on criminal offences, Nigella? You weren’t entirely honest, were you?” Nigella turned around and faced him. “What are you inferring, young man? That I’ve lied? How dare you!” Micky slipped a conviction report across the table. “I suggest you sit down and look at this?” Nigella slid into a chair and picked up the report. She scanned the document, still sipping at her G&T. “You never mentioned the drink / driving ban in your declaration, Nigella?” She baulked. “Ancient history. Just after Edward died. I was a bit messed up.” Micky explained that it should have been declared, just like the recent speeding convictions. Four incidents inside a year. The first subject to a Driving Awareness course, no points. With the other three, she was now on nine points. ” Bloody speed ‘Gestapo’ are everywhere!” Nigella complained. “I’ve never hurt anyone! And what’s this got to do with guns, anyway?” she dismissed. Micky scribbled another note on his forms. “Can you show me where you’ll store the guns, if your application is successful Nigella?” It took a few seconds to sink in but then Nigella Trimm asked “What do you mean ‘if it’s successful’? How dare you? This should be a formality for someone of my status, surely?” Micky stood up. “Show me where the guns will be please?”. Nigella rang her bell again and Maggie hurried in. “Show this chap where the guns will kept please Maggie.” Micky interjected. “No, you show me please Nigella. You will be responsible for their security, not Maggie!” Nigella huffed again and Micky followed her to a drawing room and a brilliantly disguised (and huge) antique mahogany gun safe. The keys were in the lock. “It was Edwards gun safe. Good enough for your predecessor, so I’m sure you’ll be happy with it?” Nigella said cynically. Micky opened the safe. It was a simple cabinet with no internal ammunition locker. “You would need a separate safe for rifle ammo, Nigella. It can’t be stored with the rifle.” She reacted as Micky expected. “More bloody bureaucracy! Who makes up these rules?” They went back to the study. Maggie was there and Nigella went to dismiss her. “Can you stay please, Maggie?” Micky asked. “Let’s all sit down.” Nigella, who had already gone back to the gin bottle for a top-up, sat down and slurred “This has nothing to do with her”. She waved her glass in Maggies direction.

“Nigella, I’m going to recommend refusal of your application I’m afraid,” Micky stated. “I expect anyone who wants to be in possession of firearms to respect rules and authority. Your driving record doesn’t reflect that. You have demonstrated in front of me, over the past hour, that you clearly have an alcohol problem. Your reasons for possession of a shotgun are acceptable, on social and sporting grounds but I don’t think you appreciate the responsibility granted under such an issue. Your reasons for possession of a rifle are dubious. I’m sorry”. As Nigella started blubbing, Micky simply said to Maggie. “Thanks for the hospitality, young lady. Please hide her car keys until she sobers up”.

In his car, Micky Moore called the office. Lotty answered. “Two visits completed, one rejected but you can expect an appeal Lotty” Micky informed her. “I’ll wrap up the paperwork and e-mail it tonight. Oh, by the way. Can you call our colleagues in Traffic and put an alert on registration plate ‘AN01 GIN’. I’ll see you next time I’m in the office”.

© Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, September 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The RSPB’s Feeble Commitment

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There have been several comments over the latest release of the RSPB conservation cull statistics for 2015/16. In their continuous efforts to ‘build bridges’ with a bird charity guilty of massive misappropriation of members funds, I was disappointed to see shooting and conservation organisations applauding these figures. A table of record which confirms the RSPB’s feeble commitment to the control of predatory species.

The table serves two conflicting purposes, yet the RSPB seem to show no embarrassment over this. On one hand, it confirms the Society’s admission that some creatures need controlling. Not just predators but also ruminants such as deer. On the other hand, the table demonstrates the Society’s pathetic application of that principle.

None is more glaring than the statistic for grey squirrels. Just 13 culled across 2 reserves all year? How does that stack with this statement made in May 2015 regarding the protection of red squirrels? You can read the complete statement here

Stuart Housden, Director of RSPB Scotland, said: “We are in the privileged position of owning and managing more than 80 nature reserves across Scotland, and we already posses a huge responsibility for delivering on the conservation of our native red squirrels. We have been very impressed with the work of the Saving Scotland’s Red Squirrels project, as it represents what we believe is the very best chance of preventing the extinction of this species on the British mainland. We are really pleased not only to be joining forces with the member organisations to help contribute to this important work, but also to commit hard-won charitable funds to this excellent project. We are looking forward to a very productive and constructive partnership.”

How, too, can the RSPB get behind a respectable attempt to stem the grey tide in Scotland yet ignore the damage Sciurus carolinensis wreaks on its other (non-Scottish) reserves. Bark stripping, egg and chick predation; including ground nesting birds (their excuse for culling foxes and gulls). It stuns me, to be honest, that a bird protection charity is happy to pay lip service (13 dead grey squirrels over 80 Scottish reserves is clearly lip service) yet fail to protect birds across the other massive national estate they manage other than by erecting fences. Which won’t keep out squirrels. Grey squirrels are at plague proportions in Britain. Even the Government recognize this. I only shoot over 3000 acres, which probably only includes 400 acres of woodland and I can shoot 13 greys in a weekend without making a dent.

Now, forgive my cynicism but those deer numbers? Could they be more relative to the price of venison than the need to ‘restore woodland’? Just saying. I saw a couple of Twitter comments today, too, about the fact that while the RSPB openly declares its culling of foxes it meets with no sanction from its members. How many RSPB reserves will have hooded AR types terrorizing their entrance gates following this press release? None, of course. The ‘anti’s’ will find a self-serving way of justifying the RSPB paying for mercenary foxing rifles (that’s you and me, guys and girls) to protect species which badgers also shred to pieces every night under full protection of the Wildlife acts. Funny old world, isn’t it?

Look again, though, at the numbers. Less than one fox per day (night?) culled across the RSPB’s entire national estate? Don’t bother guys … you’re just pissing in the wind.

Oh well, I expect the venison (or shooting rights) sales will pay for a few more bird boxes and ‘give nature a home’? I would suggest, though, that they make them squirrel proof.

© Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, September 2017

Poor Little Hedgehog?

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Forgive the question in the title, but I saw this rather twee and pathetic plea on my Twitter feed this evening. It just about sums up the witlessness and hypocrisy prevalent amongst armchair ‘wildlife worshippers’. The ignorance and arrogance of the modern human being makes me almost ashamed to belong to the species. Reading this plea, one could imagine dozens of hedgehogs rolling around on their backs gasping for water and shrivelling up into small spiny ectomorphs because (shock, horror!) we’ve had a bit of sunshine. For Christs sake! Those who really understand nature know that creatures adapt to the conditions … whether extreme heat or bitter cold. That’s how they’ve survived the millennia. Some species have survived even better than we have. The poor soul that re-posted this ridiculous statement from the RSPCA might want to remind this abomination of a ‘charity’ that hedgehogs are nocturnal. They draw moisture from the slugs, earthworms and other juicy morsels they consume on their wanderings. They can lick the dew from the night-time grass. In fact, current conditions (which spawn innumerable insects) are ideal for hedgehogs and other creatures that exist primarily on invertebrates.

There is a far bigger threat to the hedgehog which the RSPCA is conveniently ignoring. Persistently. Put your bowl of water out tonight, by all means. If you’ve got a big heart and a deep pocket leave out a bowl of milk. Few RSPCA members have that deep pocket, but still waste their hard-earned money on an organisation hell-bent on persecution of humans rather than protection of animals. Now watch Mrs Tiggywinkle as she sups on your provenance. Perhaps watch the huge boar badger that lumbers up behind her, flips her over onto her back and … before she can curl into a ball … uses his powerful claws to rip her open through her soft underbelly and eat her alive. Because that’s what badgers do. Very effectively. Shocked? Good. You should be. Don’t get me wrong … I love badgers too. They are an iconic British species but their over-protection has now impacted on a creature in serious decline.

And trust me … a genuine nature-lover and countryman. The survival of our handsome little “furze-pigs” doesn’t depend on your bowl of water tonight. It depends on conservation management in ‘badger-free’ zones. What is being allowed to happen to the hedgehog is exactly the same as we’ve seen happen to the red squirrel. A misguided reluctance to control one population to save another due to an ill-conceived notion that any reduction cull is ‘cruel’. Killing isn’t cruel. Standing by and watching a species suffer what we (as humans) would call genocide is unforgivably cruel when we have the power and intelligence to reverse the process.

We’ve done it for humans. We’re trying to do it for red squirrels, in parts of the country. Why can’t we do it for hedgehogs?

Copyright: Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, July 2017

Wearing Two Hats – Shooting and Conservation

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I’ve had a strange weekend. For a shooting writer and journalist I seem to have, quite accidentally, attracted a large number of ‘birder’ Twitter friends due the above photo. It is a turtle dove; the photo taken at Pensthorpe Wildlife Park, near where I live. I was quite explicit in stating this. The bird is only semi-wild, enjoying the protection of the Park. The reason that Turtle Doves are now so rare in this country is largely due to both corvid and raptor predation internally and mass migratory execution externally (for more info just Google ‘Packham’, a person I find totally abhorrent). Pensthorpe, as with their red squirrel project, are laudably sheltering the turtle dove. Yet, like those beautiful little red pixies, they would have no chance of survival in the reality of a British wood, unless it was protected by the shooting fraternity. It should be simple to understand, shouldn’t it? The dictionary definition of conservation  and protection is shown here. Yet so many people I encounter (increasingly, on-line and on social media) just can’t reconcile the fact that defending the vulnerabilities of lesser species such as rare doves, red squirrels and small songbirds often means resorting to an offensive. They are in total denial. When it comes to (for instance) the predatory instincts of corvids, there are none so blind as those who will not see. Too many armchair ‘birders’ and campaigning ‘reserve conservationists’ never witness the destruction that a pair of crows or magpies can wreak on a farmland hedgerow or copse during the breeding season. I rarely witness it either now … because I act to prevent it. Tactical reconnaissance and early intervention with the gun meets the two principles of conservation mentioned above. Preservation and protection. I shoot over some 3000 acres of prime Norfolk agricultural land. Deciduous woodland, conifer plantations, water meadows, alder carrs, a myriad of crops and wild flower meadows. The diversity of wildlife I enjoy seeing is often far superior to the many public reserves I visit as a wildlife spectator. Some are so sadly lacking in birdsong and activity that I can’t but question the validity of calling them ‘nature reserves’. I have had a deep love for ornithology since I was ten years old. That was fifty years ago when ‘bird-nesting’ was considered a trivial, boyhood occupation. Not a wildlife crime. During those formative years, I learned more about the identification, habits and nest sites of British birds than many modern ‘birders’ because as an egg-collector, I learned from the egg upwards. Don’t get me wrong … I’m not condoning that behaviour now. We were all naive to the impact of our childhood actions back then. My saving grace on that front is that my collection went, eventually, to a museum in Hertfordshire (where I grew up) to educate those who may never see a birds nest. My point, though, is that this intensity of involvement with birds is what created a lifelong passion for both bird and wildlife observation despite my shooting exploits. If anyone doubts my deep admiration and passion for wildlife, I suggest they visit my free-to-view photo website www.wildscribbler.co.uk.

Yes … I shoot wildlife. Vermin species that predate songbirds or game birds. Crop raiders such as rabbits and woodpigeons (which happen to be very tasty … far more so than the water injected battery-farmed chicken that many choose for their dinner). In fact, learning how to convert a shot rabbit into a tasty meal is becoming a lost art and one which would well serve the champions of ‘artificial’ wildlife conservation as a life-lesson. We are, as the sage once said, what we eat. If you only eat carrots, lentils and lettuce because eating meat is abhorrent, you are denying your hominid ancestry. Five hundred thousand years of evolution from hominid to Cro-Magnon man saw us stop living in trees, eating only fruit and picking the fleas off each other backs in Central Africa. We stepped onto the savannah, united in small societies, stood erect to watch out for predators and learned, as the forests declined, to hunt. Hunt meat. We developed tools. Stones to strike with (and throw). Sharpened wooden sticks to ward off predators … then adapted them to kill for food. Early society depended, absolutely, on the hunter as a provider. Without that, homo sapiens would not exist now. But I digress.

The decline of the turtle dove goes hand-in-hand with the rapacious ascent of it’s invasive cousin, the woodpigeon. A bird I absolutely adore. Not just for its spectacular flight and fecundity but also for its taste. A worthy shooting adversary, abundant enough (through its pest proportions) to offer legitimate sport and culinary diversity.

So, a question to all my new birding friends. If that beautiful bird pictured above was released into one of my woods, would you support me shooting anything that threatened its survival? It’s a very simple question.

Copyright Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, June 2017 

 

 

The Righting Of A Serious Wrong

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There will be few occasions in anyone’s lifetime where they will be privileged to witness the righting of a serious wrong. My generation has, perhaps, been luckier than most. We benefitted from some major historic amendments to injustice (the abolition of slavery being a prime example). The last century has produced a raft of improvements to freedom of individuals, not just here in the UK but worldwide. Much of the Equality & Diversity legislation we enjoy now can be attributed to radical actions of the brave souls who stood up and rallied against prejudice, bullying and oppression. The women’s rights movement, the demolition of apartheid, the civil rights marches of the Sixties, the workers strikes of the Seventies, gay rights parades … all contributed by raising social issues which needed addressing. This led to the social tolerance and balance we insist on now. Freedom of movement (within reason), minimum wage levels to stop exploitation, recognition that discrimination (on many grounds) is intolerable. Age, sexual orientation, race, religion, gender, mentality, disability. Anyone experiencing discrimination for these reasons has protection (if not in practice, certainly in law and legal recourse). So what point am I trying to make? Simply this.

That we should all have the right to live our lives without interference by way of prejudice.

For the rural (farming, hunting, shooting and fishing) fraternity the law has ‘pushed and pulled’ for the past seventy years. Few would argue that enactments such as the Wildlife & Countryside Act 1981 were necessary. Modern man, with his (and her) sporting armoury, had abused their position only a century beforehand. You only have to read the works of 19th century celebrity sportsmen (such as J. Wentworth-Day) to realise that although these folk were well respected naturalists they were prone to … well let’s just call it ‘over-excitement’, shall we? They put little thought to species balance and consequence. Common sense and legislation eventually put a curb on this while still recognising that there were three major aspects to retain.

Firstly (and these are in no particular order) – the fact that there is sporting and recreational value in culling some indigenous, reared or migratory wildlife. Secondly – that there is a whole industry reliant on such activity. Direct employees, suppliers, manufacturers, tourism, veterinary services, hospitality, stock and dog breeding. To name but a few. Thirdly – that there is a need to control some species for health, agricultural, conservation and forestry purposes.

Lets put aside the pheasant, partridge, grouse, rabbit, hare, woodpigeon and rat for a while. Let’s concentrate on the fox. An iconic British mammal and since the last wolf was killed our only natural ‘canine’. Or so it is mistakenly perceived. That is actually wrong. All true canines have the same genetic make-up as the wolf. Including all of our domestic dogs (yes … that monstrosity that won Crufts this year is a direct descendent of the wolf, like it or not!).  Foxes have a different genetic model, but that’s ‘by-the-by’. The size of the red fox and its efficiency as a stealthy killer has long labelled it as a serious predator to be marked by the farmer, gamekeeper, shepherd and smallholder. Any true conservationist will recognise the vulpine threat to any ground nesting species (bird or mammal). This formidable reputation gave rise to the hunting of the fox. As with many rural challenges in bygone years (harvest time being a perfect example) landowners and their workers unified to marry the work that needed doing to a celebration. The fox hunt is as traditional to the British way of life as the Harvest Festival or the Maypole dancing on Mayday. It is as customary as Guy Fawkes Day (a very dubious celebration, given it’s sinister political motive).

Thus the traditional fox hunt evolved and hound packs were formed. Many activities like this need funding. Packs have to be fed, horses groomed, staff paid. Obviously then, the tradition has been upheld by folk and families who have worked hard to accumulate enough wealth to support this. Long may that continue. But in 2004, after a few years of Labour Party renaissance and under the guise of an animal welfare agenda, the Hunting Act 2004 was implemented. While clearly a ‘class’ issue (ridiculous as most hunt supporters, followers and workers are working or middle class) the attack on hunting was dressed up as an objection to hunting with hounds … specifically using hounds to kill foxes. Interestingly (just as an aside) many of the folk who objected to this in 2004 now support re-wilding lynx and wolves, who will rip apart foxes, deer and sheep.

Ever since homo sapiens first domesticated the wolf, man has used dogs to hunt. There is no more symbiotic partnership in history. Dogs are highly efficient killers, as is the fox, so they are worthy natural adversaries. The insanity of societal objection to fox hunting with packs is the acceptance that the fox is entitled to slaughter lambs, poultry and game. How hypocritical is that? Furthermore, why aren’t the objectors to fox hunting making the same noise about ratting with terriers or lamping rabbits with lurchers? We know the answer to that though, don’t we. It’s not fox protection that is in the objectors hearts. It’s the perception that fox hunting is funded exclusively by wealthy Tories.

We will almost certainly see the repeal of the Hunting Act soon and not before time. Another righting of a serious wrong.

I mentioned sexism, racism and ageism earlier. Isn’t it time the Equality & Diversity Acts protected another ‘ism’?

Traditionalism?

Copyright, Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, May 2017

The View Through A Leaf-Net

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They say the devil makes work for idle hands; so on a Bank Holiday weekend where all my domestic duties were fully discharged, I happily accepted my pass-out. When will ‘her loveliness’ ever learn that instructing a ‘clear-out’ will result in me unearthing all manner of toys and contraptions that have lain in dark corners, gathering cobwebs. All are, of course, essential to my future survival and my credibility as a country sportsman. The most stinging remark from Mrs B was “But you rarely go hide-shooting any more … your fidgety arse gets bored too quickly!” Now hang on! “I’ve been out with a pop-up hide and a net twice this Spring!” Chest pouting, eyes challenging that pretty visage. “Yes, and both times you were back at home after three hours! I used to have to ring to remind you that you had a home and wife! So how about losing a few of the hide pole sets and all those nets? Just keep what you’ll really need”. Arguing would be futile but I struck a cunning plan. “These are all in good condition. I’m not throwing them out. I’ll sell them”.

So this this morning, I loaded a rucksack seat with pigeon shell decoys, threw in a crow decoy and picked up an old favourite from the ‘hide and net’ stash. Just to make the point, I made some sandwiches and brewed up a flask of tomato soup. I hoisted the three litre air bottle into the motor under my wife gaze and commented “I might need this, it’s going to be a long day”. I ignored her sarcastic comment; “Are you taking a bivouac and sleeping bag?” Totally below the belt, I thought. As I slid into the driving seat I blew her a kiss and said “Don’t bother ringing. The mobile will be off”. Half a mile down the road, the mobile rang. I answered the call, hands-free, looking forward to the apology. “You’ve forgotten your rifle”.

By the time I parked up, my sense of purpose had returned. I’d driven slowly into the estate, all the time watching for pigeon movement. So intently, it was only the forward parking sensors on the motor that prevented an altercation with a telegraph pole. A “who put that there?” sort of moment. I decided, having judged wind direction and seen the birds flightlines, to park up and carry my ‘minimal’ kit in. I don’t like having a motor anywhere near a net set-up, for obvious reasons. Knowing these woods and fields intimately, I knew exactly where I would gain the most ‘net profit’ (sorry … had to be said). I placed my UV-sock covered decoys out onto the maize drillings, added a flocked crow for comfort and set off back into the wood to find a suitable back-drop for my leaf net. Net is probably the wrong description, as it’s a bit special. I bought this clever design some years ago. An imported American pigeon blind from Hunters Specialities. The net is fixed to the spiked telescopic poles. Today, I set it up inside two minutes. With the rucksack seat set up, it was now just a waiting game as I scanned the trees above the decoy pattern for incoming pigeons. But that’s not the point of this piece at all.

I don’t spend anywhere near as much time camped out in the wood or hedgerow as I did eight, ten years ago. Today reminded me how much I used to enjoy just sitting in the ambience of a British wood, listening and learning. I was younger and more patient then. Today, I turned back the clock. The presence of the gun was incidental to the sound and vision I was privileged to enjoy from behind the net today. Three hares scampering on the drillings in some sort of ‘menage a trois’, my decoys attracting their curiosity. The sound of rival chiffchaffs chafing on my ears. The passage of a muntjac buck, oblivious to  my presence until I sneezed. Not a comfortable experience with a head-net on, trust me.

The alarm calls of a cock blackbird chasing away a ground-based threat to its hen and nest. I caught just the merest glimpse of the hunting stoat. The jackdaw clan that saw my decoys first and raised Cain in the trees overlooking the pattern; they left one short in number. The assassination of a corvid never passes unannounced; before long my pigeon set-up had become a black-feathered flash mob. There was a flocked crow and a dead Jake to stoke up the fury but I wanted peace and tranquility. I left the net and the rioters departed as I gathered up the jackdaw. I withdrew the crow decoy too.

I wanted a pigeon or two for the pot. Not a big ask, even though it was a morning session.  A time when I target what I refer to as the ‘elevenses’. Woodpigeons feed heavily and their crops need time to metabolise the gleanings. Many birds roost twice daily. During late morning they will take a siesta, amongst the trees, to absorb the contents of the morning feeding. Before long, I had a couple of woodies in the bag, not to mention a bonus rabbit that crept within range.

The morning had proved fruitful, thanks to the leaf net. With a baseball cap, half head-net and the silent .22 BSA Ultramax, it was mission achieved. And I had some good wildlife photos too. I checked my watch. It was close to two pm. I thought about popping into the pub on the way home (to add some hours) but Mrs B isn’t daft enough not to smell ale on my breath.

“How did you get on?” The usual enquiry. “Oh, a couple of woodies and a rabbit. Lots of photos too!” I replied. “Sounds like a good result. So you don’t need that other gear then?” I was ready for this. “Well, actually … the net was a bit short. I’d have got more woodies with the higher net”.

Copyright Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, April 2017