The crunch of all-terrain tyres on the hoar hardened gravel sent a white scut diving into the scrub lining the gateway; the rabbit lost amongst the wilting and frosted nettle die-back. At the tailgate I paused to take stock. The morning after the Woodcock moon. All around me the heightening sun glittered on the blanket woven by the night-knitters. The tendrils of a chill breeze made the sylvan cobwebs tremble and, aware that it would gather pace, I dressed to challenge the cold. Even when loading the clip for the rifle, the nip at my hands asserted the need for shooting mitts. There is an inherent risk of failure in a frozen forefinger; particularly on a single-stage trigger. We shooters, despite our bad press, are sensitive creatures. Biomechanical efficiency is absolutely essential for accuracy. Accuracy is fundamental to clean, clinical despatch. With this in mind, I substituted my trademark baseball cap for a fleece bob hat. Simple ‘tea-pot warming’ theory … as I have a head like a tea-pot. As shiny as ceramic. Something always brewing inside but it needs to be poured while warm.
Dressed almost well enough for a polar expedition, I ignored the furious shout of an overhead crow and headed for the high path that would take me along the top of the escarpment. The coldest part of todays planned sortie but with the barbed teeth of that breeze at my back. I’m a great believer in taking the pain before the pleasure and I was interested to see how the upper wood wildlife was coping with this first whisper of brumal conditions. I walked slowly through the first deciduous plantation; the combination of de-frost and breeze producing a cascade of golden snow. Beech leaves, yellowed and spent; their season served. Returning to the ground to mulch, to reprocess, to rejuvenate. A damp ochre carpet stretched out for a prince of the wood to walk at leisure. The silent, spongey path lying ahead of me would ensure stealthy progress; but to what purpose? There was no particular urgency in todays walkabout. No specific mission. If I was carrying a shotgun, some would call it ‘rough-shooting’. I prefer to call it ‘stalking’, which most associate with that grand creature, the deer. I don’t shoot deer, despite my love of venison. My purpose amongst these acres, generously opened out to me by the owner, is in support of the family game syndicate. The deer-stalker and I keep to different agendas but with co-ordinated safety in mind. It works well. It must do. We haven’t shot each other yet. My commission is the small vermin and, with recent additions to the armoury, this includes fox.
Through the upper wood I met with little but rook shout and pigeon clatter. The low, bright sun throws a long shadow; a hunters bane. Woodpigeon disruption can be like toppling dominoes. One after another, the trees along the escarpment emptied of birds that hadn’t even seen me. A tree-swell of feathered panic, dipping and soaring across the river. Imagine a line of pigeon pegs placed along the plough in the valley below. What sport could be had! Alas, the birds were off and free, yet I wasn’t weeping. The rifle I carried wasn’t conducive to harvesting Columba palumbus at roost. Even as the thought of ‘driven pigeons’ crossed my mind, the silhouette of one of todays objectives appeared. Alerted by the spooked birds, it sprinted across the ride fifty paces away, dragging its bushy tail behind it. Out of sight before I could draw the sling from the shoulder. A creature which I wish had enjoyed the serious attention of the likes of James Wentworth Day and his cohorts back in their day. At the turn of the Twentieth Century, the grey squirrel was perhaps a novelty and ‘frivolity’. A trivial introduction from North America. Would that this generation of ‘hunting naturalists’ (who left a legacy of wonderful writing but a horrific record of unmitigated slaughter) had turned their attention to the new parkland pest? If they had, our native red squirrel may still be here in numbers. But that was then and this is now. In reality, if JWD and his ilk had turned their attention to squirrels, I doubt that they would have discriminated twixt grey or red.
Reflection and rue are the luxury of the idle, so I pressed on. Knowing this patch like the back of the proverbial, I walked to the end of the escarpment with purpose. A competent hunter knows their land intimately. Having taken the pain (the cold and an empty bag), I had earned the gain. There is a seldom used path that creeps down the escarpment. A deer and badger track which, without discreet use of my secateurs, would be impassable to a human and invisible to most. A path to a magical, hidden kingdom that only the stalker could find. Often bereft of life in high summer, it is a haven for all during these bitter winter blows. The steep escarpment is dressed with deciduous saplings, briars and bracken. More importantly, it faces west, avoiding the most hostile winter winds.
Half way down the path the first reward for my fortitude sounded like a slap to the face. I had almost stepped on the woodcock and my heart leapt, more from shock than wonder. My admiration for any gun who takes down this little athlete (without warning from a dog) is immense. As I was still inwardly applauding its flight, another burst from beneath the mulching bracken and jinked off along the ride. By now, I had the CZ 455 across my chest, armed but on ‘safety’. This half-mile bank, a leeside haven, is a natural feature to both explore and exploit. At the bottom, level with the field, runs a winding path … just inside the treeline. I stood here now in contemplation. From the cover of this track, over ten years, I have observed and photographed a varied range wildlife and their activities. The amorous buck covering a doe in a beet crop. The skulk of Old Charlie through the lush kale crop and the surrender of a Frenchman to his stalk; the rest of the covey saved by the sacrifice. Year on year, the boxing hares out on the spring barley. The cock-fights during the pheasant ‘rut’, where I sat and wagered against myself on the outcomes. Like my occasional trips to the ‘turf accountant’ I usually lost. It was here, too, that I first noted that the huge fallow herd. One year, the field yielding high maize, the bounce of a tiny devil-deer from the crop across the brambles right in front of me nearly knocked me over. Now there’s a thing? Why is my .17HMR considered acceptable for fox but not for muntjac? Same size and supremely edible. It’s such a shame to have to pass on this rich source of protein and such culinary opportunity.
The chatter and hiss of Carolinas finest interrupted my ‘reflection and rue’ and the robotic programming in my predators brain flicked off the safety catch as the rimfire came to the shoulder. Bandit at eleven o’clock, watching me audaciously from an oak bough. It’s tail arched over its head, fluffing. Only young squirrels or immigrants from non-shooting land display such cockiness in the presence of a human. Once the Hornady V-Max was on it’s way, its age (or origin) didn’t matter. The certainty was that it wasn’t going to get any older. The report caused some consternation along the escarpment so I took a time-out to field dress the grey. A two minute operation, leaving me with the edible. The inedible? Left out of sight for Brock to hoover up later … and Lord knows he has family aplenty here to help do the housekeeping. I swear I will motor up the drive one day and just see the grand Edwardian bell-tower sticking out of the ground? The Hall having sunk into the subterranean diggings of a beast long overdue a place on the General Licenses.
Further along the foot of the escarpment, a wood witch lay dozing on the track. Somnambulant and vulnerable, her long ears flat along her back, her whiskers waving limply, betrayed by my close proximity. I don’t shoot hares; I’m far too besotted with their mysticism. This puss was, like me, enjoying sanctuary from the barbs of the winter wind. I stood and studied, admiring her beauty until (as if sensing my voyeurism) her eyes opened. A flare of the nostrils, a twitch of the whiskers and away. The slow lope turning to a canter, then a sprint as she hit the plough with a kick of soil and flint.
Two more grey squirrels later, both delving along the trail ahead of me, it was time to climb back up to the motor. At the tailgate I neutered the rifle and removed the bolt. With the CZ safe in her slip, I shut the door and stepped towards the drivers door. Up ahead, eighty paces along the exit road, sat a fox. A very fortunate fox. My three squirrels were enough to scratch my hunting itch on this bitter morning. As I fired up the ignition, Reynard slipped into the wood. One for another day.
© Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, November 2017
This is my first time walking in Scotland. As someone who rarely leaves Norfolk I always thought that the drive to Highlands was akin to a trip to the moon. I’m just fresh back from another hike along another lush glen in the Argyll Forest. A thigh-burning climb up a deep verdant gorge, overhung with trees draped in dripping moss. The moss is everywhere, clinging to both granite and wood. To our left, as we ascended, a bubbling burn travelled down steeply in a series of gullies and waterfalls; seeking the huge sea loch below. The lower reaches of the glen were lined with deciduous trees. Oak, sycamore, beech, hazel and chestnut. With the leaves now turning, the rustic tint of autumn adds to the melancholy of the brooks constant song. As the path wound upward, the strange time-twisted forms of the trees my mind was drawn to JRR Tolkien’s Ents. Higher up, the gorge was walled with granite and huge, towering pines. All the way up, I was scanning the surroundings for sign of movement. This is pixie territory and in three days (if you discount the one roadkill we passed) I’d seen just one red squirrel … and that was close to our holiday cottage. There is time yet, but I was hoping to see more. The chances of pine marten, golden eagle, osprey or wildcat are mere pipe-dreams. Further up the glen we broke out above the tree line and stood admiring the view across the strath. I felt I was looking at a million pine trees and again, my mind was drawn to the cover picture on my old childhood copy of The Hobbit. The bare hilltops and moors hold no appeal for me on this trip, I must confess. Heather and bog hold their own place in my heart but I will rarely linger long above the tree line now. My soul is in the wood and forest … as it is in Norfolk. Like Cumbria, the rain is part of the package here. You just have to learn to live with it, as we outdoor types know. Walking beneath the tree line at least affords some shelter from both deluge and wind. Perhaps the most enthusing moments for me so far have been seeing my first hooded crows and a goshawk. Those of you who read my shooting articles or books will appreciate that I am fascinated by corvid cunning and intelligence. Studying the ‘hoodies’ up here has captivated me. I had always thought of them as ‘loners’, like their carrion crow cousins but up here I’ve seen them in small (perhaps family?) groups. In the car park at Lochgoilhead, they were quite approachable. Tamed by the lure of food from tourists, I suspect. Away from the tourist spots they were as cautious as a carrion crow. The variations in amount of smoke-grey plumage was interesting too … from half to full mantle. The goshawk sighting was quite by chance, in the persistent rain unfortunately meaning my DSLR was covered up. We saw it just below Creag Bhaogh. What I first thought was a small buzzard took off from a crag and soared past us, then floated down towards Glenbranter. We all commented on the grey plumage and it took a reference to one of my books later to confirm. Incidentally, today, we took the opportunity to walk around the Allt Robuic waterfalls. In full spate after three days of torrential rain, the force of the cataracts were awesome. I couldn’t help thinking that if this were in Cumbria someone would have wrapped the gorge in fencing and charged you to see it. Well done Scotland! As for red squirrels, at least I’d seen one. The rest of the family were disappointed they hadn’t seen any. Near Penrith a few years back we’d seen (and photographed) several. I had to remind everyone, though, that with a national population reputed to be only 110,000 the chance of a sighting was always going to be slim. Perhaps the most disappointing ‘failure’ was the lack of red deer. Even while touring in the car among the high peaks, we didn’t see one. A dearth confirmed when we sat to dinner at the Creggan Inn, Strachur last night. I had picked it for its venison. I searched the menu handed to me and questioned the waitress? “Sorry, sir. We have none”.
©Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, Sept 2017
I shouldn’t really have been surprised to see them this morning; yet I was. It was my wife, Cheryl, who first saw them and pointed skyward with a query. “They look like Kestrels, but they’re not?” I watched the three birds for a while as they coursed the azure sky on the first morning of July. A date of significance to both of us as it would have been my father-in-law’s 69th birthday. I say ‘would have been’ because sadly he passed away (unexpectedly yet peacefully) a week ago. The sighting of these birds was synchronicity at its best. The first time I had ever seen a Hobby was standing alongside him at the RSPB Strumpshaw Fen reserve about 15 years ago. Both countrymen, both shooting men, we would occasionally turn up at the reserve for a walk around with the ladies. We would duly pay our entrance fee and refuse to join the RSPB due to its inherent hypocrisy, its increasing animal rights agenda and its disdain of shooters as conservationists. On that particular morning we stood watching what looked like a couple of huge Swifts swooping low across the water-meadows alongside the River Yare. Then occasionally they would fly high and start dropping and tumbling like Peregrines, clearly plucking something (invisible to us) from the air. I wasn’t sure what I was watching but Derrick told me they were Hobbies. Falco Subbuteo. I bowed to Derricks experience, though there was to be an amusing incident that winter, to which I will return.
Henceforth, I knew a Hobby in flight straight away and it was obvious this morning, watching them closely from beneath, why my wife had first thought them to be Kestrels. The Hobby has a dun and black-striped under carriage but though it will soar, it doesn’t hover. When soaring, it spreads its primary feathers and looks like a Kestrel. However, when hunting, the wings tuck tight in a scythe-like form as it streaks through the air like a Swift. The giveaway markings are on the head. The deep black moustache and pale cheeks. I mentioned that I shouldn’t have been surprised. That day with Derrick was close to his birthday and Strumpshaw Fen was alive with dragonflies. So was Taverham Mill reserve this morning. Hobbies love hawking dragonflies and are one of the few birds who can catch, strip and eat their prey while in flight. Hence the tumbling motion. The three birds we saw today were invariably parents and a fledgling.
That amusing incident? Derrick and I were watching a flock of birds on the winter splashes. I used to watch these birds in their hundreds in my youth, in Hertfordshire. I commented to Derrick that it was great to see numbers of Lapwings again. He looked at me strangely and said “They’re not Lapwings. They’re Peewits!” I was tempted to explain that they were one and the same but refrained. Derrick was brought up as the son of a gamekeeper in the depths of North Norfolk. If that’s what they were to be called, who was I to argue?
This morning, watching the Hobbies, I had time to reflect on how much my father-in-law lived for the countryside, his sport, his guns and his rods. As a BASC and CPSA coach, he taught many people how to shoot. More importantly … how to shoot safely. That was Derrick, through and through. Dedicated. A true sporting gentleman. May he rest in peace.
Copyright Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, July 2017
Image Posted on Updated on
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
I was stunned today when one of the magazines I write for forwarded this reader letter for me to respond to.
“Reading your December issue I was upset and angry that your expert, Ian Barnett, shot a beautiful stoat – the birds of prey take more game birds than one poor stoat. I hope he felt guilty shooting it. After all the years I have been shooting, no farmers have ever asked my mate or me to shoot stoats or weasels – only woodies, crows, magpies, rabbits, etc. So come on, Ian, have a change of heart and please turn the other cheek when you come across a stoat again, please. They are part of the countryside, after all.”
My response was pretty curt, I can assure you. The hypocrisy was astounding (They are part of the countryside, after all!) So are “woodies, crows, magpies, rabbits, etc” How does an individual develop a mind-set (particularly a fellow shooter) that discriminates between the beauty of any creature and its place on the ‘most wanted’ list? Rabbits and grey squirrels are ‘beautiful’ creatures too. I admire the intelligence of the crow and its stark handsomeness, yet I still shoot it for the benefit of songbird and gamebird. I love to watch the jink and soar of the woodpigeon, an aerial master, yet I still shoot it because of its inclination to crop raiding. I respect the rabbit for its place in our ecology. A staple food for so many creatures. Look into a rabbits eyes through a scope and your heart could break at tickling the trigger in the sight of such stark vulnerability. Yet rabbits cost the farmer millions of pounds in lost revenue each year. As a regular observer of magpie predation along the spring hedgerow. I will always shoot magpies on sight, no quarter given. Yet I totally respect the bird for its capacity to observe, hunt and kill.
My upset reader stated that “the birds of prey take more game birds than one poor stoat”. He or she obviously hasn’t watched a stoat raiding a pheasants nest or rolling a partridge poult with its teeth buried in its neck. The stoat won’t appear so ‘beautiful’ then!
If we decide to discriminate about what we shoot and why due to its ‘appearance’, then we might as well let the Disney Corporation decide what is fair game, decide the open and closed seasons and organize our General Licenses.
I still can’t believe this letter came from a shooter. Ye Gods! … what the hell is happening in the countryside if people like this are walking it with a gun and calling themselves vermin controllers!
Copyright Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, December 2016
My latest book, A Year In Eden, is a diversion from my usual shooting titles and sees the completion of a project I long ago promised myself I would complete. I love wildlife watching and get to visit some of Norfolk’s ‘forgotten corners’ while shooting. I always carry a quality camera with me; either a DSLR or a pro-compact. Due to this, I have amassed a huge library of wildlife photographs. Many of these can be viewed here.
My great writing hero has always been the late Denys Watkins-Pitchford, whose pen name was ‘BB’. His books included a rich infusion of natural history and illustrations. While I could have printed every picture in this book as a full colour Jpeg, I felt it would detract from the secrecy and mystery of Eden. Instead I chose to re-edit each picture into a sketch using photo-enhancement software.
I was introduced to ‘Eden’ about six years ago. An ‘old money’ Norfolk estate with tenant farmers, forestry and a grand hall. The permission came about in a strange way when I agreed to share one of my shooting permissions on another farm with a deer-stalker. In return of the favour, David introduced me to the Lady, who was looking for someone to control the plague of grey squirrels in the woods. David walked me around the perimeters of the estate on that first day and I just knew I was going to love the place, simply because of its richly diverse topography.
Thus this book was born, which is rarely about shooting; deliberately. It is much more a celebration of the birds, beasts, insects, trees and flowers that share Eden with me. About their struggles, their survival, their wild antics and their beauty.
The paperback book is available on Amazon here.
The e-book is available here.
For my other books, please click here.
©Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, November 2016
Have you ever visited somewhere to come away feeling that you hadn’t explored the place enough? I felt that leaving Pen Llyn (the Lleyn Peninsula) last year. For two reasons. The holiday cottage, Ty Bwlcyn, that nestled under a ‘Marilyn’ called Carn Fadryn, screamed for a return visit this year … because I hadn’t climbed the craggy peak. Not that I had been lazy last year. A hasty decision to climb Snowdon on what turned out to be a dreadful day on the peak (I was only wearing shorts, T-shirt and a lightweight waterproof) resulted in a strained thigh muscle. Though I made it up and down, it put paid to any further testing walks that week. In comparison to Snowdon, the climb up Carn Fadryn seemed a minor ghost to lay to rest.
This time I sat at the cottage garden bench, below Carn Fadryn, determined to see the view from the top at some point. A view reputed to be one of the best on the peninsula on a clear day. For two days, with the peak shrouded in cloud, I sought alternatives. For two evenings I watched the ravens that roost there labour up into the mist on wide wings, their guttural croaks inviting me up after them. Norfolk has no ravens, so these birds fascinate me (as do all crows) but I reckoned that an invitation from a raven is akin to a ticket to your own funeral. There is something about the raven that conjures images of carrion, blood, carnage and the plucking of eyes from the dead. I mentioned earlier that I had two reasons to return to Pen Llyn? The second was to add another crow to my wildlife photography collection. A crow fairly common to these Western cliffs and coastal hills but rarely seen across other parts of the UK.
The coastal path walk from Anelog to Aberdaron, pre-ordained and planned prior to arrival, could have fallen foul if not for the generosity of a local farmer come baker come campsite owner. We arrived at Anelog expecting a car park; we found a farmyard with a camp site and bunkroom. We couldn’t find anyone in charge until a bakers van turned up. The driver asked if we were ok? “I’m looking for somewhere to park while we walk the coastal path?” I offered. The guy swept his arms around him. “Plenty of room here!” he laughed. “Park up at the bunkhouse … when you get to Aberdaron, look for my bakery. The only thatched roof in the village. You’ll be wanting a drink and a scone!” His wink told me a deal was struck for the parking fee. He owned the lot, a master of diversity. “To find the path, turn left at that tree.” He pointed at a lonesome pine. “Ignore the ‘Private’ sign, go left over the mountain and you’ll drop onto the Coastal Path. Enjoy your walk”. We were grateful (as in the group). I was disturbed. Mountain? What mountain. This was a coastal walk. A bit of ‘switchback’ maybe? A random descent into a remote cove and a climb up the other side? Mountain! An exaggeration, for sure. As we trudged up through a grey mist I looked at the path ahead and groaned inwardly. If a mountain is defined by its steepness, not its height, this was a mountain. A few deep breaths and up I went. At the top of Mynydd Anelog, I already had that Snowdon feeling. Pain. Why do we do this to ourselves? My legs and stamina are defined by the county and countryside I walk. Norfolk’s highest hill is about 103 metres. Beacon Hill, near West Runton. I’ve never bothered. Yet the views were stunning as the sea-mist started to recede. The first two miles of the walk were (to me) a relentless attack on my damaged thigh. Not on the ascents but on the descents. Later I was to rejoice that we did the walk this way around (Anelog to Aberdaron). The climbs over Mynydd Mawr, Llanllawen and Mynydd Anelog at the back end of the eight mile walk would have slaughtered this flatland hobbit. Probably mere bumps to Monroe-baggers, but Alpine to me. The descent from Mynydd Mawr took us down to majestic views across the strait between the peninsula and Bardesy Island and that’s where I found what I was looking for. Around the cliff tops, crows wheeled and jinked. Their aerobatics immediately made me think ‘jackdaw’, yet the size of the birds was significantly larger. The call, too, was distinct enough to separate this species from any other. “Kee-aww” … a semi-shrill cry. Choughs, one of the rarest British corvids. For the next hour I enjoyed watching and photographing a bird I had never seen before in my six decades as a wildlife watcher. The design of the chough (pronounced ‘chuff’) seems, at first, clownish. The red, curved bills and red legs must have a purpose in the grand scheme of evolution but what that purpose is escapes me? In the short time I watched them the choughs were feeding like rooks, harvesting hidden grubs from the lush, moist cliff-top turf. A benign feast. Almost a disappointment, as with the ravens (whom I expected to see lurching from crag to cairn with half a sheep in their mighty bill). What I did note, re the choughs, was that superb wingspan and the thick fingered wing-tips that produce such agility in flight. Some birds seem to have to fly to survive and feed. Other birds seem to fly for the pure exhilaration and privilege of flight. Watch the chough and you will see such a creature. A bird totally in tune and comfortable with its environment. A bird to whom flight is more than an expression, more a definition, of freedom. The walk around the tip of the peninsula, to the East was less testing on the legs but still very pleasurable on the eye. Up on Pen y Cil, the southernmost promontory, you can see Bardsey Island on your right and turn your head left to see your destination, Aberdaron. When your legs are tired, it seems distant and unattainable. Take a deep breath, focus on Aberdaron (with its cream teas, scones and cold lager). The path is gentle from here apart from a short steep descent and ascent at Porth Meudwy. This was the secretive bay from which the saints sailed to Bardsey Island to avoid persecution. I wondered, as we passed through, if the scent was of seaweed or of sanctimony? A thousand saints that the Vatican may not know about reputedly left this quay. The view from the path takes in the tiny islands of Ynys Gwylan-fawr and Ynys Gwylan-bach, jointly known as Ynysoedd Gwylanod (the seagull islands). If you’re lucky, the tide will be out when you reach Porth Simdde so you can descend the steep steps and walk along the beach to Aberdaron. If the tide is in, you face one last lung-busting clamber up the steps to regain the Coastal Path and home. The saints were with us today and we sauntered across the grey sand to pay our dues at the bakery (the scones were delicious)and enjoy a long, golden, ice-cold draught outside The Ship Hotel.
Two days later, a blustery day cleared the cloud from the Carn Fadryn so there were no excuses to deter the climb from Ty Bwlcyn. Left out of the cottage gate and up a narrow lane until it runs out and becomes a grassy track. Soon the path starts to wind up steeply and becomes more narrow. Looking back, you can see the Ty Bwlcyn trout lake with its small island. Onwards and upwards brings you, after half a mile, alongside a remote cottage and out onto the heather at the foot of the Carn. Turn right here and follow the path to a track, then out onto a lane. Another half mile sees you in Garnfadryn, the small hamlet named after the hill. Look for the disused chapel here. Many who climb the Carn park in the lay-by here and so start half way up the hill. Just to the right of the chapel is a footpath that heads up the hill and bears right, through the bracken to follow the contour of the mount. Eventually, the penance must be paid to gain the view and the path zig-zags upward. Sturdy boots with a good grip pay dividends here when you start to follow a stream, stepping up wet rock and scree. Emerging on a wide, heather-strewn plateau you could be forgiven for thinking you’ve reached the top but there is a small climb to make yet. Head for the cairn on your left and then up into the rocks beyond it. You will soon find the trig point.The 360o view on the day we went up was astounding. The peaks of Snowdonia to the north east were prominent and we could see right around the Lleyn Peninsula. In the green and gold of early September, the fields lay like a patchwork quilt beneath us, dotted with cattle and sheep. Pwllheli glittered out on the eastern coast and the Seagull islands to the south stood sentinel over the bay at Abersoch. Best of all, we were above the cart-wheeling ravens and soaring buzzards that own this crag. Apart from Snowdon itself, I have never stood on a windier peak. A wild and lonely hill with a breathtaking view.
©Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, Sept 2016