Hare today

It rained today which is probably good news from the hunting point of view – there’s unlikely to be any.

There was in the week though. The guy who managed a quick hunt before donning his tuxedo to attend a wedding was back again. And he did actually phone the night before, for which I was effusively grateful.

He told me that he’d be coming onto our land between 9.00 and 9.30 am. I planned to let the dogs out at 8.15 so I’d have plenty of time to get them in again.

I hadn’t let them out, therefore, by 7.15 am, which was when he turned up. He’s another one like the surveyors who can’t tell the time.

He also told us he’d be hunting wild boar, which would have meant he was quickly through and off our land.

Instead, he stuck around for 2 hours, sending his dogs through the woods and stomping all over the field.

I guess he was after hares, and I would also guess that he killed one because I heard 2 shots, one of which was followed by a scream. Hares scream when they’re caught.

Hound of the Baskervilles - a hunting dog in the orchard

I managed to get a photo of one of his dogs as it made a last pass through the orchard. Having rounded them up, he drove away.

No man is an island

Our place is definitely not an island, let alone the castle that Englishmen try to turn their home into. It sometimes feels as if our privacy and tranquillity are under siege.

Today I’d just brought Kepler in from doing his early morning ablutions when all the dogs started baying and jumping up at the bedroom windowsill, nearly tearing the curtains.

Outside was a hunter making his leisurely way up the hillside in the company of 3 dogs. He wasn’t wearing an orange reflective jacket so I knew he wasn’t part of the official ‘squadra’ which, in any case, would have alerted us (I hope).

I shot out in my dressing gown and called to him from the drive.

The upshot of our shouted conversation was that he claimed to live locally and be after wild boar. He said he knew the huntsman who normally phones us, and that he would get our phone number off him and phone us in future.

His parting shot (no pun intended) was that since our land is not a ‘Reserve’ - by which is meant somewhere that hares, for example, are reared for sport - he has every right to hunt across it.

I phoned the normal hunt spokesman who just kept repeating that they always phone us. He wasn’t sure if he knew this guy. The one he thought it might be was going to a wedding today …

I phoned our neighbour who knew that pet dogs could be killed by hunts crossing the land, and also knew that nothing could be done about it.

I can understand that a boar hunt would be a complete farce if it had to circumvent this and that protected piece of land, but I should like us to be accorded the courtesy of a warning so that we have the opportunity to protect ourselves.

The trail bikers who came up the drive this afternoon warrant less consideration, as far as I’m concerned.

I would have expected the overgrown continuation of the track to be a deterrent in itself, but Clive says that in his heyday he would have taken a bike right up the hill, over the tussocky grass.

Hillside where trail bikers might have made sport

It follows, therefore, that  these bikers could in theory have spent all afternoon criss-crossing the field, mangling juniper bushes and orchid bulbs, endangering the dogs and driving us mad with the noise.

Which is why the West tribe as a unit, Kepler included, sent them packing.

Where have the buzzards gone?

I’m not a birdwatcher. Most of them look and sound much the same to me I have to confess but I was taken this summer by the display of a pair of buzzards which suddenly appeared in the church woods adjacent to our land and which seemed to view our 20 acres as their territory.

The sheer speed with which they hurtled to earth would be enough to terrify even the most hardened pleasure rider and it was a good spectator sport sitting in a chair watching them swoop and climb over the ‘Magic Valley’ as Damaris calls it.

We found them one day sitting in the walnut tree which is not 10 metres from the house – they rarely come that close to humans.

I haven’t seen them now in a couple of weeks which was about when the hunting season began. I daresay some geriatric Rambo clad in his camouflage and armed with a double-barrelled rifle thought that they would look good in his pot. It is easy to imagine them in the ‘Rootin’, tootin’, shootin” shop (Hunting and Fishing) showing off their prizes to other likeminded individuals. Of course, the bounty bag closes abruptly as soon as any ordinary member of the public passes – it wouldn’t do for them to know.

I have to be the last person anyone would call a ‘greenie’ but these people just haven’t caught on. To them, if there are no more buzzards, they will just shoot something else and go on and on until there is nothing but they cannot conceive of that day so they just carry on.

Maybe I’m wrong and the buzzards have just taken a holiday somewhere but I have a horrible feeling that they both ended up with a nasty case of lead-poisoning.