wolf

The Buzzard and The Betrayal

Posted on

 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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Fairy Tale Of Re-Wilding

Posted on Updated on

The Fairy Tale Of Rewilding

 

It was Christmas Eve, in the inn next the muir

Ex-keepers debating how life could endure.

Re-wilders, with funding, had bought up the land

No shooting, no snares, all vermin control banned.

They planted the hillsides; a young forest grows,

The grouse have all gone, replaced by the crows.

No gamebirds, no wardens, ‘tis the realm of the pest

The curlews gone too, with no safe place to nest.

The sea eagles soared as the beavers felled trees,

Their dams slowed the rivers before they reached seas.

The estuaries were drying, the waders in plight

But the Fools continued to pitch their ‘good’ fight.

The hen harriers died, with no game to dissect

While Reynard and Brock walked the fields unchecked.

As the trees drowned the moors; a landscape was lost,

Rural economy and jobs? No-one counted the cost.

But the higher the sapling, the bolder the roe

Even muntjac had come here, to follow the flow.

“We need lynx”, shouted Fools, “to trim out the deer.

Throw a wolf or two in, to keep the rides clear”

But what of the beavers? The start of the plan?

“Will the wolves eat the beavers?” asked the Chieftain.

“Of course not”, the Fools laughed. “The wolves will eat deer!”

So in came the wolves to the Fools loud cheer.

 

Now, out of control, the wild creatures rule.

The re-wilders doctrine, the creed of the Fool.

A man can’t kill fox … but the fox can kill bird?

A creed of hypocrisy, biased … absurd!

A hound can’t chase hare but a lynx can hunt deer,

Where is the reasoning and logic at play here?

And the Fools had lied, there was blood on the hills,

The slopes strewn with wool from the numerous kills.

“Don’t fret”, said the Fools. “lets bring in the bear”

Old Bruin will bring balance and make things more fair.

So the bears were brought in but made rivers their home,

Scooping the salmon that leapt through the foam

The farmers and shepherds tore their hair out in rage,

For the Fools, again, were on the wrong page.

As the lynx and the wolf avoided bears paths,

Still slaughtering sheep and sometimes the calves.

Back at the inn, with the log fire full flare,

The wise men of old talked of balance and care.

When the grouse were in lek and the curlews would cry,

When the hen harrier flew and the eagle passed by.

But in the ale-house, no shepherds stood there.

They were guarding their flocks from the lynx, wolf and bear.

Yet they needn’t have worried, for Natures is strong,

And will level the field, when the balance is wrong.

Came the day when the salmon couldn’t get through the dams,

So the bears slew the beavers and dined on their hams.

Then they turned on the wolves, who fled further downhill,

Where the shepherds rebelled and started to kill.

The sea eagles were famished, with no fish in the lochs,

So they swooped on the lynx as they preyed on the flocks.

The bears in their hunger, then came down to the farms,

To be met by the herdsmen, who raised up their arms.

I went to the Chieftain … to tell him the truth.

In Nature,  life’s  balance is often uncouth.

That’s why these creatures had long left our shores.

Starved, hunted; displaced and by natural laws.

Rewilding? What nonsense. What human conceit.

Mother Nature decides what will thrive, or forfeit.

If the creatures should be here, they’d never have gone,

Restoration was fruitless, intrinsically wrong.

And the Fools … they bleated like the cat-killed ewe

As the carnage continued and their dream went askew.

The dams were dissembled, the rivers could run,

The rewilding Fools were back where they’d begun.

The hills and the forests returned back to the Lords

While the disproven Fools all fell on their swords.

Mother Nature herself had re-balanced the glen.

 Beaver, wolf, lynx, and bear … inexistent again.

 

Copyright, Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, December 2017