Blaser, Tikka, Roe, And Fallow

'We see the world, not as it is, but as we are'

Occasionally, just occasionally I visit the countryside in search of dinner and/or accuracy. Where for the most part I shoot unloved action figures and empty larger cans in an event we like to call Airgun Frenzy. Sometimes the best laid plans go awry in a good way. I'm not complaining. Here's how it happened.

As we've had a brief respite from the rain, Elfa had gone away for the weekend, and the freezer has been a rabbit-free zone for weeks, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to put the pellet-to-the-metal and have an afternoons air rifle shooting. With two permissions between us I was hopeful that we'd be able to bring home a few bunnies, and if we didn't, any day out of town is a good one.

Did I mention HunterX was involved? Multiply that by HunterY being there as well, and regular readers will know that we may as well have set Airgun Frenzy in the twilight zone, do do der der do do der der......

BY TEXT
HunterX: Air rifles, small game and target shooting Saturday.
SBW: You had me from Air rifles.

SBW: Is Airgun Frenzy still on?
HunterX: Mine 8am Sat.

HunterX: Scrub that. We have to collect HunterY, as near to 7 as you can
SBW: Bell you on route.

We make our arrangements - as ever TBC at the last moment, I prepare a picnic/tapas and hit the road in excellent time. Rather than go to his house where escape velocity may well be impeded by, pretty much anything, we agree to meet in the street at a halfway point. I almost have time for a second round of coffee and danish, after the wait for the cafe to open. HunterX rocks up and we make our way across town. HunterX has a plan. "Y will still be in bed, we'll call him, he'll say we're early and should come in for coffee, we'll refuse and wait for him in the truck, otherwise it'll be lunchtime and we'll still be there."

SBW: "No worries I've laid on a lunch"
HunterX "What does that even mean? 'I've laid on a lunch'?"
SBW: "It means a selection of cold meats, from Spain. a selection of cheeses, from Portugal, an excellent pate, French, some pickles to go with the pate, and plates instead of eating off the wrappers"

HunterY appears carrying a machete, which makes for an unexpected sight on a sleepy west london street on Saturday morning, friday night in south london normal, saturday morning in west london, unusual.

SBW: Where's your air rifle dude?
HunterY: "As St Paul said 'when I became a man I put away childish things'"
HunterX: _________ [Y's famous friend] said that about five years ago at a game fair, and Y has repeated it every time air rifles are mentioned since. Yawn

The cussing, bragging and bickering continue as we drive out of town.

We drive through the flooded fields of the English countryside, that as you may have seen are slowly draining, while its been a tough time for the deer all that sodden ground is about to burst into verdant life, the rains stop for the day and the sun lights up the fields. HunterX casually mentions a few little jobs, all of which could be done with tools and tubes of gloop which I have in abundance. Just not with me. HunterY announces he needs to buy a pair of boots. This is all par for the course. No trip to X's permission is complete without a visit to a hardware store [or two].

Our new friend Kentish Hunter joins us for the afternoon. A true travelling sportsman, he's hunted some very far-flung destinations, and preferring to shoot his own rifle has bought himself a box full of take-down goodness. A Blaser R8 in .243 and what a sweet thing it is too.

Maybe its because I'm an AOH, [adult onset hunter] that the Blaser design appeals to me. Mauser's design is true genius, using the options he had at the time. Blaser's doing away with the bolt and replacing it with a collet that locks the case into the barrel is the next step.

It took me ages to tire of reading the hilarious Blaser knockers online, like all people who know in their heart of hearts that they've lost the argument [they started], the grounds for their dissatisfaction change before the wind.  Very few of them are intellectually honest enough to sight either of the two good reasons for not buying a Blaser ; 'I'm not spending THAT on a rifle' and 'If I spent THAT on a rifle I'd want it to be historic or made by one 'smith '. If I lived a life even approaching the life of my dreams I'd have one, but sadly I can't even begin to justify a used R93 let alone the super trick R8.

Like every Kit-Tart I've always thought having tip-top gear that you totally believe in, gives you the confidence to take on the job. Be that Bahco's for wrestling with seized nuts on ancient plumbing or Kifaru/ThermArest for sleeping out in inclement weather. This doesn't seem to be working for the deflated Kentish Hunter who I'd have expected to be full of new-toy-joy but is a font of negativity, even going as far as uttering that most defeatist of phrases "Maybe my wife is right, maybe I'm just not cut out to be a hunter". Que gasps of horror from hunter's X, Y and yours truly.

It happens. I've seen it happen at work, I've seen it happen in love, I've seen it happen to salesmen and to sportsman. It's happened to me.

In Spain, a few months ago, in the campo. The Evil Elfa and I had a shooting competition with her open sighted Cometa .177.
The first to shoot is to put a hole in the pressed steel lid of an old food tin, after that it's how close to the hole for scoring. The sun is going down and the holes are illuminated from behind. Elfa's pellets make the 'phutunk' sound as they cluster around the hole in a tight group, mine are 'pa-ting' sounding different and no holes are appearing. Elfa is beside herself with glee 'don't be too hard on yourself I was trained for this with my dad when I was a kid' she crows, smirking in mock sympathy.
I review my memories of each shot; it all felt so right, the hold, the breath, the settle. I'm falling into my confusion; the gap between practice and feedback seem out of sync. Confusion becomes despondency. Whupped by mi chica.
In my minds eye I can imagine what she'll say as I leave the house for future hunting trips. I'm actually future-pacing my self-doubt. My despondency reaches a new low.

Where it would have remained if the coyote god hadn't made the the wind blow.
For the second time a gust brings the lid down from the fence, this time I go to re-hang it. As I bend to pick it up I see the Zen of this thing, beaten into the metal.
While Elfa's pellets have clustered around the hole, mine are all in a tighter group where they struck but didn't puncture, the tin's embossed rim. About 20mm to the right and 15mm low there are deep dimples, deep deep dimples, where pellets have landed in the craters of previous pellets. One on top of another.

Oh the power of negative thinking.

I can see how Kentish Hunter must feel. Twelve long months have passed between his last deer on the ground, and they were punctuated with a lost deer. The guilt and uncertainty have drained the poor chap of his confidence. I've stalked a lot more than I've shot deer, you've got to be a sport about it, 'it's called hunting not shopping' and all that. But I haven't bought myself a brand new Blaser R8. If I had I'm not sure I'd be so sanguine about it either, the rings on that thing cost more than a perfectly good preloved deer rifle.

There is something in the sportsman's code. Scrub that. There is something in the hobbyist's code, even if he'd said 'maybe I'm just not cut out to make my own mayonnaise" the very fact that he prefaced it with the words 'maybe my wife is right' means that, in the style of fellow freemasons seeing the summoning of aid symbol, Hunters X and Y were now honor-bound to re-inflate his sense of 'Hunter-ness'.

Baser R8 Pro with the standard stock: Petite, Point-able, Durable, with Innovative design features, and taking up Minimal luggage space. Not to everyone's taste. Hmm. A bit like the evil Elfa herself.

HunterY sets Kentish Hunter up on the range with targets at 100, and 200 meters. Y is an excellent range captain, there is something very avuncular about him as he calmly breaks the procedure down into steps. Kentish Hunter puts round after round within the deer killing zone. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch it. There is a discernible flicker, a long unused neural pathway illuminates as his synapses reconfigure towards 'can do'. Clouds both climatic and metaphorical are blown away from the range and we're in clear sunlight.
Kentish Hunter: "even if I don't get a deer I'm happy". "I think we can do a bit better than that" HunterY

Kentish Hunter offers us the chance to shoot his rifle, HunterY likes to pretend he disdains the Blaser brand [range captain and lead controversialist], HunterX knows I want to have a go and taps his watch like a station master concerned for the smooth running of a timetable in mussolini's Italy.

The 'Settle' or preparation to take a shot, it turns out is something fairly easily practiced, and as its gun-less can be practiced anywhere. That feeling of narrowing my focus of attention can be recreated, and by practicing with the hands of a clock the feedback on how fast you're moving between states, helps you to get faster at moving between generalised alertness and the narrowed focus required. The zen of shooting never stops fascinating me.

Four shots fired, two less than a square from where they were pointed, and two blown off course by the coyote god.

 Or so I had convinced myself until I downloaded the pictures from my phone.

With our thoughts we make the world.

As the sun was now falling towards the trees, HunterX sets out his plan for the remaining shooting light, Kentish Hunter in a highseat for Fallow, with me and him to take on the curse of the were-rabbits with our .177's. Before the air rifles can leave their slips HunterY suggests another likely highseat for me to sit in.

Climbing into it I wasn't to wait long before I was able to invite a Roe doe to dinner with HunterX's .243 'cull gun'. A Tikka with its bolt knob replaced with a plastic sphere. It doesn't look as trick as those 'tactical' milled aluminium knobs, but seems loads more ergonomic than the OME or the tactical knob [there's a joke in here somewhere] and was only $10.

As I'm making the rifle safe to climb out of the seat, there's the muffled ping of another .243. Did he? Has the jinx been broken?

HunterY and I are working our way through the gralloch when Kentish Hunter appears dragging a Fallow yearling. I say dragging, but his feet weren't really touching the ground, he's flying. Usually a firm handshake is the order of the day, but this time we all hug him. Kentish Hunter wears a grin that would shame a Cheshire Cat for the rest of the day. Later I casually ask him if he's still thinking of selling his R8. Apparently not. But he does have plans to buy a new scope, a .308 barrel and install a deer hoist in his garage.

More Soon
Your pal
SBW

I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to readers new and readers regular for having shop-bought mayonnaise in the fridge. There is no excuse. None.

Driven Pheasant And Partridge In The UK

As part of my on going education in to fieldsports the blogger Shooter thought I should have a look at a traditional english driven game day. You should have seen the delight on Mrs Shooter's face when he asked her if she'd mind if I took her place at his side being his 'loader'. Having brought her beloved back alive from the first trip she was mysteriously and unexpectedly 'unavailable' a couple of weekends later.

I met up with Shooter at his place in the far far 'burbs, by the time I arrived it was late so we both turned in. Shooter cant sleep the night before a shoot and I cant sleep at the temperature he sets his heating to, so each of us is up half the night trying not to wake the other. Several times I hear Shooter shuffling about, between my fitful sleeps and torrid dreams of being trapped, sweating, in a bed full of very fat women with webbed feet - seeing as we are going to Norfolk this perhaps shouldn't be surprising - between the over-upholstered, semi-aquatic dreams and being awoken by thirst I find the time to read most of the fascinating The British Boxlock Gun & Rifle by Diggory Hadoke. Great book, crap nights sleep.

Despite both being up over an hour before our agreed time somehow we still manage to leave late. We spend the journey discussing adventure writing, recipes, firearms and seeing as it's where we are going telling our Norfolk stories.
The most windswept of English counties, a place long known for its flat damp landscape, religious fanaticism, poor transport links, and inbred locals (I dont know if they really have webbed feet but its a commonly held belief) .  It's also the home of the worst pizza I have ever seen. Tuna mayo UNDER melted Cheddar cheese. Not an experience I could recommend. Shooter seems to have enjoyed himself on his trips though. To him this is the fabled land of Partridge and Pheasant. Of driven shooting. A land he first imagined from the pages of books in his Grandfather's study back home in India. A land of dreams come true.

Driven Shooting. Nothing gets the Anti-Hunting brigade frothing at the mouth like driven game, so naturally I was keen to see what all the fuss was about. I've been to shoots a few times but this promised to be something very different.
The lads I have beaten for all chip in a couple of 100's per season to cover the grain costs, turn up for some fairly leisurely work days, and the more enthusiastic members of the crew spend a few nights shooting Foxes.
The beaters are either the guns themselves taking turns, or their kids. The bag is never impressive but a lot of competitive barbecuing goes on, a good time is had by all. There is no dress code, no one has a gun that cost more than a weeks pay. Most people have guns that were less than a day's pay. Simples.

Traditional Driven Shooting is something very different. All the numbers are much bigger. This is the other sport of kings, aristocrats the world over have this as a passion, it takes a lot of manpower for a very small number of people to shoot a very large number of what are essentially managed wild birds/ free- ranging farmed birds. Which perhaps has something to do with the strong feelings it evokes in the anti's.

To cut a long story short its a more expensive [and less hair raising] version of the French Battue, that most egalitarian form of hunting. Except it's big on pageantry and ritual, and is only egalitarian in the sense that anyone happy to drop the best part of a grand and up [way up] for a days entertainment can do it.
A line of Beaters 'Beat' (Battue) the cover and animals and birds break cover and come flying and running towards a line of people with guns, in France its Boar, Deer and Hare, here its Pheasant and Partridge with strictly enforced rules against shooting game on the ground. The only exception being that no gamekeeper can endure a Fox to live, so they're shot on sight by the Keepers and any armed beaters.

The French do driven shooting communally, the hunting committee dishing out the bag to all participants. Here the bag is sometimes the property of the shoot, sometimes belonging to the person who bought the day, the guns just get a token brace of birds to take home, and the rest goes to the game dealer to offset the days costs.

Driven game days are something of an anachronism, they take vast amounts of organisation and resources to turn a lot of birds raised, into comparatively few birds brought-to-bag.  Over the season 40% of the birds 'put down' is good and 50% exceptional. The Pheasant and Partridge are raised in pens, defended from crows, stoats, weasels, and foxes. If and when they reach maturity there must be cover crops sown for them to mooch about in, they could be left to forage for their own food but need to be fed to stop them wandering off.  When the season comes around a small army of Beaters are needed to get them airborne and another team, this time of Pickers Up, to collect any birds the guns have been able to hit and the dogs able to find. The whole spectacle takes place over a fair bit of countryside 'drives' are usually quite a way from each other so there must be a Beater's Wagon to move the troops about and everyone needs to be fed. All so eight 'guns' can enjoy a days shooting.

Everyone's money is good these days so you, or someone like me (except with money), can dress up as an Edwardian gent and be part of the fun. The estates, much like fine gun makers, are in the business of selling a dream. Just like Rolex they are selling a super-fine version of something quite basic. You can have a watch or a shotgun that does the job just as well for less than a days pay or you can have a superfine one that announces "I've arrived", letting you join the club of people who feel they need to let others know they've 'arrived'. If that's your kind of thing. There is a whole industry devoted to marketing this pagent of the edwardian sporting lifestyle with specialist driven shooting magazines full of articles about classic cars, fine wines and high end real estate. Their journalists have names like Tarquin and Arabella, they read like the society pages with coverage split between who was at whose house for a weekends shooting and how the latest oligarch and his stunning girlfriend have been welcomed into the local scene. Welcomed in the hope that Ivan and Natacha will bring some much needed cash.

The englsh class system is always entertaining to watch but I've never really felt I understand it well enough to explain it, to an outsider possibly the most puzzling part of the day's proceedings is the dress code. Why you need a dress code to stand in a field has never been adequately explained to me. 'Tweed and a Tie' was the instruction which kind of covers it but not really.
For the first outing I wore the only Tweed jacket I own, its grey and quite moth-eaten so wasn't really in the spirit of the thing. For part two I wheeled out my skip dived waxed cotton jacket, Shooter thought I'd had it from the year dot and that 'skip-dived' was idiom or understatement for 'I've had it a long time' nah I really did fish it out of a posh blokes rubbish bin next door to a building site. Its  smell marks the wearer as a dog-bloke and it's proper dogeared, its the perfect way to blend in when visiting a world where history is everything - it really does look as though its already given several generations of service. No johnny-come-lately would ever stoop to such an attempt to ingratiate himself.

We manage to make up for lost time and rock up at a very handsome pile in the early Victorian style. The Guns assemble in their "shooting gent' outfits. Some people really going for it with the tailored tweed suits which vary from as older than me to brand spanking new razor sharp tailored tweeds. In patterns from subdued to clown-wear. I like the lairy ones myself.

The Guns are an interesting bunch, retired gents and farmers mainly, all greatly looking forward to their days sport. Tradition has it that a wallet of numbered sticks is passed round, the numbers drawn denoting the order in which the guns are lined up. Whatever peg the gun is one he'll be a peg further on on the next drive and so on.
On the other side of the class divide the Beating team wear the classic outdoor wear we'd all recognise, surplace Camo of more than one nation, mismatched with waterproofs held together with duct tape. While the Guns are having their fashion parade in green wellies, the beaters will be fighting their way through the cover in boots and gaiters. Everyone wearing a shirt and tie. Even me.

The Beaters wagon trundles off and we follow in another sport's 4x4's. There is a bit of tromping across fields to be done, Norfolk's thick clinging soil making us look like deep sea divers in leaden boots. Shooter and yours truly struggle to our 'peg' and the whistle goes to announce the start of the first drive. The rule is if the bird has sky behind it it's safe to take a shot. Shooter is very disciplined about this and exceptionally courteous in letting several which I would have shot, fly on to the shooting lane of the next 'peg'. At the next peg but one an older, and super petite lady in furs-and-wellies is a very tidy shot with a cloud of feathers in the airspace above her for most of the drive . Unlike myself Shooter is lethal with a shotgun.  Pheasants and Partridge crash down behind us, twice delicious Woodcock fly past lamentably well out of range.

Each drive probably lasts about 30 minutes before the whistle blows. Trudge across the fields again and it's off to the next one. Sometimes the luck of the draw has us in the thick of it, sometimes were right out at the end of the line which dosent always pay off. The wind is like paint stripper, the mud is thick, we share a flask of Whiskey, and in the face of the wind attempt a shouted conversation about the aqua-dynamics of mud.

Four of these drives later it's time for lunch. Shooter and the other guns retire to the dinning room for their repast. I join the beaters and pickers up in a barn for a really sturdy soup and some sausages. The Beaters range in age from Twelve to late Sixty's and are drawn from all walks of life. Several of the young lads are in agricultural collage learning estate management and gamekeeping, the girls are very 'horsey'.

All kinds of people go beating, the common denominator seeming to be that they lived reasonably nearby.  The day is it's own reward; a day afield, with the dogs, banter with the other beaters, and a couple of birds. Beaters dont get paid a lot for beating but its all part of the interconnectedness of rural life, deals are done, favours swapped and collected on. Once you've dressed for the weather beating is a lot of fun, and if you're a dog person it's a chance to see the dogs working which only the most cold hearted wouldn't enjoy. As one of the girls remarked it's "cheaper than the gym".

During lunch I met TBG (the boy genius) and TUK (Techno Under Keeper) both of whom were top company. TUK lives on the estate, gamekeeping at the weekends and running his IT business during the week. TBG is his mate's lad and the only person who has ever explained HTML to me in a way that even I could follow, and he's only twelve! Literally a boy genius.

TUK and myself wandered around the estate for a while, chewing the fat, and sharing our mutual fascination with shooting lore.

There are plenty of traditional anecdotes about the guns and keepers:

Famous Woman X (often Kate Moss or Madona) turned up at our shoot in Heels (I've heard this one so many times I doubt either of them actually ever spends a weekend doing anything else)

Eric Clapton is actually quite a serious shot although he is to be mocked for having guns engraved with his own likeness.

The keepers had to shoot the birds from behind the visiting americans/germans to flatter them that they were hitting any birds at all.

All scandawegens are lethal shots and have amazingly; well trained dogs and super hot wives.

Lord X [owner of the estate] is a hell of a shot, his father wasn't so keen, but you should have seen his grandfather, now that was as shot/sportsman!

Vinnie Jones is very polite and a very very good shot.

That woman from the posh shooting press is actually 'a rubbish shot despite what she says on her videos and £20,000 gun'. This view is to be seconded by one of girls adding 'The way she suddenly develops a slight lisp in whenever lord so-and-so is within earshot, tells you just what kind of woman she is'

At the shoot down the road the guns has a whip-round to buy Old Tom the beater a new jacket, never having taken the trouble to speak to him blissfully unaware that he sold one of his companies for 300 kergillian and is now holding out for a better price on the other one. Thinks the guns are getting the raw end of the deal, he just likes beating but wouldn't wear his good clothes to do it.

Then there's the ticklish subject of etiquette, you can actually pay to go on a course to learn this stuff. Mostly the advice is just "Try not to make too much of a ____ of yourself".

In London we just introduce ourselves by first name with the implication that anymore information would be a disclosure too far, but in the country that would be a serious breech of etiquette, some of the older guys [65+] still used the family name-first name form of introduction.

A shirt and tie must be worn at all times, no exceptions.

For readers overseas:
Toffs all know each other, or at least of each other; while gun nuts can give you chapter and verse on any obscure calibre you care to mention, football fans can give you a play by play reenactment of games that took place before they were born, toffs all know each others family, scholastic, and personal histories.

" 'Mayo' Pushbarrow-Handcart, Stowe, I rode Biggleswade minor to third in the nerd racing"
[Biggleswade minor denoting the younger of the Biggleswade brothers, Stowe is a private school, nerd racing is racing on nerd-back]
" Andy Maitland-Bell, Eton, weren't you the one in old Cruikshank's class who was caught with a jar of mayonnaise? Badger's brother?"
"Haw Haw Yes that's me"

Some of you will think I'm exaggerating, trust me, I'm not.

The second half of the day is another four drives, but we'll leave that and the rest of the tale for another post.

More soon

Your pal

SBW 

Hunting Rabbits In The UK Pt1

I've always hated that 'coming home from holiday' feeling, so when my plane landed at Gatwick, (or Gay Wick as the spell checker on my phone calls it) I thought I'd use the opportunity to soften my landing by going rabbit hunting on the way home.McShug lives fairly near the airport, he and I have been trying to catch up for what must be about a year now. We've beaten Pheasants and Stalked Fallow deer together, but this time we're going for the most 'english' of shooting on the most english of 'permissions'.

Majestic 'Thetford Red' Stags on Lord Pushbarrow-Handcart's estate?
Nah!
Woodland stalking Roe Bucks with a David Lloyd .240's?
Nope
Sniping Muntjac from a golf course with a moderated .223?
Close
Parkland Fallow with a .275 Rigby?
Sadly not!
This time it's Rabbits with a sub 12ftlbs air rifle on the village cricket pitch! How English is that? There are loads of ways to take bunnies, James and I used Ferrets, but this is the way generations of English boys have honed their riflery and filled the pot.

The weaponry of choice for the day: McShug's rig is the Air Arms TDR in .22 and very nice it is too. Where most manufacturers give you a naff 'james bond' style briefcase from Air Arms the whole Take Down Rifle rig fits in it's own neat backpack with space for your 'pod and tin of pellets. I was encouraged to note that the moderator/silencer is a vast improvement on the one that came with my older Air Arms S400. AA rifles are fantastically accurate, and even with a hefty Harris bipod and a scope fitted the TDR is still a very light rifle, super short and point-able. Ideal for protecting a cricket pitch from the curse of the were-bunnies. One advantage of the takedown format is that if and when you need to leave the land you have permission to shoot on and use a public footpath to skirt round to another position, the rifle is easy to deactivate and conceal. I've often thought about getting one myself, but until my daughter made such a convincing start to her shooting career I didn't really have a excuse to buy myself a specially light, short air rifle. But now...

The ground is small but perfectly formed, lovely mown grass to entice the bunnies and hedgerow on all four sides for them to burrow under, with big open fields on all sides. Perfect.

We drive on to the rough stuff outside the oval and start setting up and glassing the hunting ground. Straight away there are two rabbits in a stalk-able position about 150 yards away, a little more glassing the hedgerow and we sight another only 50 yards away and in an even better position! As we take the first tentative steps, there's a rustle in the hedgerow and a chump walking a dog blows it for us! That 17HMR is starting to look like a good idea, but this is Rabbit hunting rather than rabbit shooting - the stalk to within 35 yards is the name of the game, sadly some vegetarianism sometimes comes into it. 

We breach the fence and getting on to the foot path that runs down one side of the oval make the trip round the outside of the permission, but by the time we're starting to stalk back the light goes and we head for the pub. Somewhere in my gear pile I have a gun mountable flashlight so next time Mr Bunny, next time.

On the drive to the pub where we pass though the flint villages of East Sussex. Where the chocolate-box cottages are built from 'faced' flint and McShug drops a most excellent local history fact. We pass, the now sadly closed, Hungry Monk restaurant that was the birthplace of the Banoffi Pie. Not something you see every day.

No rabbits were harmed during the writing of this blog post. Bah!
More soon
SBW

True Banoffi Pie Recipe HERE
PS Air Arms make some very sweet rifles, and are the UK seller of the S200 which is made with CZ and available in the US as the CZ S200. Very sweet especially for the price.

Andy Richardson: Goose Hunting In Scotland

My pal Andy Richardson is something of a legend amongst sportsman traveling north of the border, with an impressive track record of guiding for lowland Roe deer and Pink-Leg Geese. What a lot of people dont know is that Andy is as handy with a camera as he is with Rod, Gun and Rifle.

Last year Andy and Myself took comedian Paul Merton for a few wee jaunts in the Kingdom of Fife with, err, amusing results. You can read all about it..

How To Get On TV

Fieldsports In Scotland Part One

Recently he's been rifling though his address book to put together a video archive of Scotland's leading sportsman showing their passions and techniques. This time of year the chaps are hard at it Goose shooting over the beet crops.

I'll be posting more of Andy's videos as the series develops.

To join Andy for a days sport, pop me an email [contacts at top of page] and I'll put you in touch with him. Some lucky sports might even have dinner cooked by me waiting for them at the end of the day! and if you're very good we'll take you 'Estuary Rabbit Hunting'.

More as soon as I find the time to write it up
SBW

DeerStalking: The Search For Muntjac

 Trigger jerk: and it's sighted 1 sq high at 100 yards!

Shooter: "I've got some stalking! and one of my radiators won't get hot. What    should I do?"
SBW: You had me from stalking, I'm on my way

Because this report comes to you from the real world, not from the fantasy land where rich plumbers exercise their R8's on their way to exercise their R8's mid-week, it was more like "I'll be there soon, to soon-ish, early next month, or how's the month after that for you?" Eventually the day dawned, the radiator got hot, Mr Mercedes joined us and we set off for an evening stalk.

As usual we were plagued by bad omens and incompetence:

Shooter (driving): coming up on the left there's a field with a herd of Fallow, every time I go past, if they are there, I dont get a deer.
SBW and Mr Mercedes: Groan
Shooter: Look! loads of them!
Mr Mercedes: Groan
SBW: Jinx

The ground is a 300 acre walled (but not gated) estate to the north east of London, in an area we'll call Campo de Muntjac. It's home to some Roe and lots of Muntjac. The chaps who run the outfit are very friendly and funny lets call them The Keeper and his pal The Rumbler.

On a short drive across the we startled a small deer, and as we set up the shooting bench we disturbed a Roe. Hmm maybe we've swerved the jinx?

On the estates you're required to prove your proficiently with a rifle before stalking, on your first visit if you weren't asked to I'd take it as a sign of a poorly run outfit. At Campo de Muntjac they have a 100 yard range. Its traditional to make disparaging remarks about ones accuracy and eyesight before shooting. There'll be a good natured understatement competition, and you take your place at the bench. In the US I've been handed a rifle with the words "its hot and ready to rock" in the UK I just cant imagine anyone doing that. The Rumbler set his Howa up on the bags bolt closed on an empty chamber and I took my place at the bench, Mr Mercedes had already shot his super tight group and Shooter was telling The Keeper that I'm a famous blogger, no pressure then.

My sighter was within the 'ring of death' so I ploughed on with the second a definite improvement, the third looked better at first sight but is actually a square low as The Rumbler has sighted his rifle one high at 100 yards

As usual in england while the whole thing is deadly serious, due to our laws against earnestness no one can acknowledge that. As my group had tightened with each shot the guys were well satisfied and proceeded to regale me with the traditional tales of the German/Scandawegen/American who was here last week/ month who was SO bad even thought his rifle/scope cost SO much. Formalities out of the way we split up to take our seats, Mr Mercedes saw another Roe as he was taking his place.


As The Rumbler and I were setting off, who should reappear but our pal Shooter or "bolt-less" as he's also known. Made it all the way to his seat, without the bolt for his Remy. How we laughed.

Our highseat was pretty luxurious, it even had a roof. The Rumbler and your pal settled down to watch the wildlife, after a while there came a strange rumbling sound, like a brewery really. I ignored the first few but after a while I started to snigger and looked round, The Rumbler, for it was he, looked almost apologetic for a moment, but the couldn't keep a straight face either. Much sniggering ensues.

SBW: Are you hungry?
The Rumbler: I ate before I came out
SBW: Have some Chorizo it might settle your stomach

Our picknick was interrupted by the sound of a Muntjac's bark, and coming towards us too! We both glassed and glassed, I offered up a few prayers but Mr Muntjac decided against visiting our clearing and buggered off.

Shooting light faded fast and it was time to make for home. The Rumbler worked the bolt, so we could exit the highseat with an empty chamber and fumbled the round which promptly slipped between the slats of the highseat's floor. I've done this before and I cant tell you how delighted I was to see someone else make the same mistake (mine bounced off the metal rung of the ladder and The Bambi Basher was without mercy in his mockery).

As The Keeper arrived he was greeted with the sight of our butts in the air as we searched the grass under the seat for the dropped round.

The Keeper: You two look as though you're having fun
The Rumbler [pointing at his stomach] Its been awful, terrible rumblings
SBW: I had to give him some of my sausage
The Keeper:  Whoah! too much information!

More soon
SBW

PS be sure to check out Shooter's blog HERE

Gear List: Woodland Deer Stalking

Last time I posted one of these Exploriment asked why I hadn't listed the gear I was to use, so here's the kit list for woodland stalking when you're the 'sport' or client. You're not likely to need a Survival Kit in the woodlands of southern England, but a first aid kit is never a bad idea, and if you do actually contact with deer, those latex disposable gloves are a must.

Annoyingly the weather has warmed up a bit in the last couple of days, but so its not really a cold-weather kit or a summer's-morn kit but somewhere in-between.

Boots: While Muckboots are ideal I've hurt my ankle so I've opted for Lundhags Ranger boots as I want a bit more support and, optimistically believe we'll be packing big beast out of the woods.

Gaiters: keep muck and water out of your boot tops. Essential.

Hat: this one has a light in it and came from a bargain supermarket. As well as its camouflaging effect a hat is essential for keeping your rounds together when emptying the rifle. You wouldn't want to drop one from the highseat.

WestWinds Arctic Smock: Windproof, amazingly breathable, waterproof enough, and as quiet as the grave.

Plus Fours: 'old's cool' I know but once you get over looking a complete dweeb [the deer dont care] these are fantastic. Get a pair you'll be surprised how utilitarian they are.

Glue: we'll come to that in a future post

Chorizio: Fatty and Spicy, just what you need to keep you going towards the end of the outing.

Double-Bastard sharp knife: I'm using my 'posh stalking knife' the Falknieven TK6

Head Torch: ZebraLight

Bushnell GPS: borrowed from HunterX

Ear Defenders: for sighting in unmoderated rifles

Binoculars: I'm loving my Eden's and warmly recommend a chest harness over a neck strap. Less than £15/$20 buys you a whole lot of comfort. Or you could make your own in an hour.

Buddhist superstitious string: cant hurt

Base layer: wicking plastic with sent suppression (actually seems to work-who knew?)

Merino wool layer X2

Neck Gaiters AKA Buffs X2: after Rifle, Glass and Knife these are pretty vital, a lot of warmth and comfort in a very small package for very little cost.

Stalking report to follow

Your pal
SBW

Deer Hunting In The UK Pt7

Pricket skulls found in the woods

A chap, we'll call him HunterX, wrote to me a few weeks ago, said he was a reader and invited me to go stalking with him.
We to'd and fro'd over the email and finally his commitments match up with my commitments and we ended up at this weekend, the tail-end of the Fallow buck season. So once again; I set off to meet a man, an armed man, I met on the internet, in the woods.

Escape Velocity

Over the phone - [shouting, not at each other but just to be heard over the din of older brother tormenting younger sister in background]

SBW: Can I take the kids out on Sunday instead? I'm going away on Saturday
Ex Mrs SBW: Excellent! Where are you taking them?
SBW: I can't take them! I'm going deer stalking!
[Sound of The Littlest Bushwacker wailing in the background]
Ex Mrs SBW: She's crying because you won't take her deer stalking
SBW: [laughing] That's why she can't come deer stalking, and her legs are too short

We agree to meet at 4am for the two hour drive to his stalking ground, and what a stalking ground. An estate that borders a national park, four species of deer, lots of small game, and a 200 yard rifle range.

My Host HunterX

On the way there the temperature drops and it stars to rain, perfect weather in other words. Our arrival turns out to be auspicious, I've always been taught that an unloaded rifle is just a stick, so load-up as soon as you get out of the truck because your first [or only] chance might be in the first few yards. Hmm yes. This time the first chance was a very chubby Grey Squirrel waiting for us on the estate side of the gate. Air rifle still in truck, 17HMR missing magazine, .308 not really what you'd call a Squirrel calibre, .22LR finally hauled out from under the other cases only for HunterX to miss at, well he called it ten yards but more about his range estimation later.

Woodland Stalking in southern England

Much sniggering ensues as we stalk up into the woods, long 'rides' separate blocks of woodland. Mist clings to the ground, it couldn't look more 'woodland stalking' if it tried. A shootable Roe Buck scoots across the ride we're walking on, head down, and intent on something other than evading us. 

The next opportunity is also a squirrel. We're neatly concealed by some coppiceed Beech trees and the Grey Menace is cavorting on a fallen tree, I crawl into what looks to be child's-play range and send a .22 sleeping pill straight over his head, he doesn't stick around for me to take another shot. Honor looking decidedly sketchy on both sides we retreat to the range.

Not too shabby - for 50 yards!

HunterX was curious about PCP air rifles and had asked me to bring the Parker Hale Phoenix .177 which acquitted itself admirably even out at 50 yards! - i.e + 60% of its effective range. In case you're wondering, yes at that distance the time between 'phut' and 'dink' is a long one!

We worked our way up through the calibres, the .22 first shooting a one inch group which then expanded to a four inch group. Phew! We we're now both able to blame the equipment.

That was a LOUD one! The 17HMR split a case

50 yards is a long way with an air rifle, and 

200 yards is a long way in anybody's book!

Parker Hale .308 - within 4.5in. at 200 yards and within 2in at 100 yards. 

My suburban air rifle practice is starting to make a difference!

Note: Plywood is not an effective backstop

Remarkably, despite the range being 'well used', deer and fox trails cross the range, and both have been taken there.

Perhaps this would be a good place to set a snare?

 Who's House? Mr Fox's House!

Mid Morning

We took a break for an amazing 'full english' breakfast and enough coffee to wake the dead, before dedicating the afternoon to bunnies. 

At the bottom one of the woods we had a great view of some dairy fields which the bunnies were busy mowing. I've never been very good at estimating range, in fact I'm so bad at it that you'd never get me to venture an opinion, having learned my lesson on one one of our trips to Jinx Wood, where The Bambi Basher had shown me the strange optical effect of 'dead ground' when a hidden dip in the terrain can double the perceived distance. HunterX is a very encouraging sort of chap, "I really think it would help if you were ten yards closer" he said. 

Gralloch

At the bottom of the wood we found this Gralloch, as any of the estate stalkers would either have buried it or used it for fox bait HunterX took this as evidence of poachers being there probably less than a week before us

Holding our noses we crawled into a gully which gave us a discrete position to snipe at the Rabbits from, a position which sadly was well outside the .177 Phoenix's range, when after several misses we paced it out, turned out to be some 45 yards beyond the air rifles effective range. HunterX "thanks you've cured me of the temptation to buy an expensive air rifle" 

Some more up-hill-and-down-dale stalking led us back across the estate, we did make sight of a fat Muntjac doe doing a very credible Usain Bolt impression, but no shot was taken. All the walking had

renewed our appetites and we enjoyed forced down the worst Kebab and Cheese burger yet seen before heading to the high seats to try to catch the fallow having their evening meal. On the way we went to see a field outside the permission where this group of 70-80 Fallow were herding, Does, this years fawns and last years yearlings all being bossed about by a one antlered buck. HunterX reckoned he's soon be chased off by a master buck come the rut.

A bossy buck shoo's does into one group and fawns and yearlings into the other

A field of Fallow bait - but no Fallow 

Highseat hunting is always colder than I remember it, as the light started to turn a cool breeze chilled me to the bone. The crop field looked promising but no deer came, at one point a Hare so big that on first sight I thought it was a Muntjac hopped past, but I didn't think the .308 would leave much worth eating so I turned down the shot, and as the light soon faded I walked back to the truck. HunterX smiled ruefully

HunterX: "I guess I put you in the wrong highseat, I saw two prickets you could have shot, sparing with each other"

SBW: That's why its called 'hunting' and not 'shopping'

All in all a fantastic day afield, massive thanks to my host HunterX, one of the good guys.

More soon

Your pal

SBW

Old School SBW In France Hunting Pr0n

Reserved for Hunting - How's that for POSTED!

While Shooter and I were traveling to the clay ground the other day the inevitable subject of Hook and Bullet magazines came up, and I remembered this post from a couple of years back. One of my favorites. Still as true now as it was then.

Keep well
Your pal
SBW


The chef, writer , and wag Anthony Bourdain once said that you could tell a lot about a country by the food it eats and the pr0n it makes. I'd like to add to that list. Hunting magazines are also a window into the national physic. If anyone ever asks me if i'd like anything brought home I tell them 'Hunting mags and dried pork products'.

I love hunting magazines for several reasons: the adventure stories, the kit reviews (because as regular readers will know I'm a sad kit-tart), and then there's the shameless dichotomy between the editorial standpoints of 'guardians of a noble tradition, champions of the simple life' and sell 'em a gadget to get the advertisers in'. Love it!

While manly hunters mock girly fashion magazines they miss the point that the two genre's have grown out of a common desire - to sell advertising space.

First hemlines will rise, then they will fall, _____ will be the new black, the first lady will first be elegant, then too thin, then too fat, before being found to have the dress sense of a cockney builder and the hair of a fishwife. Products and advice in next months issue will rectify these and other concerns.

Meanwhile: Camo will be photo realistic and change seasonally, last years 'fleece technology' wont cut it this year, chokes will tighten, then be unnecessary, shotguns will get lighter, then they'll get heavier to soak up 'felt recoil', fleece will be out - wool back in, you like your .270? Have you considered a .280 yet? Here's a _____ made better by the addition of some photos of leaves. Products and advice in next months issue will rectify these and other concerns.

In short if there's a chance of selling a double page spread to an advertiser, X will be the new Y and no one will ever know how we managed without it [for all these thousands of years].

Here's a round up of what I learned reading french hunting magazines by the pool

This year

• Could be THE year!!!!!!
• Ammo's a helluva price these days
• Barrels will be a little shorter
• Cartridges a little larger
• Blaze orange is the must have colour of the season.
• Scent suppressing clothing is to be mocked.
• Knives are getting longer again and some come with a take down spear handle.
• Custom rifles aren't selling, as off-the -shelf now offers what was until recently not-at-any-price accuracy for a lot less cash.
• Take down rifles are the next big thing - convenient for the hunter to transport - convenient for the manufacturer to sell you another barrel for next year's cartridge.
• American rifles offer fantastic value for money, but if you had the cash you'd go german wouldn't you?
• Czech is somewhere in between.
• Tikka are so good for the money what's the point of SAKO?

If your hunting magazine is offering you any more please let us know.

Your Pal

SBW

Weekend Reading: Welcome Shooter

Delighted to add a new voice to the blog roll, and following on from our meeting yesterday also award 'one of the good guys' status to 'Shooter' a most interesting new voice from the blogosphere.

Shooter hails from a long line of Indian shikar [hunters], with his grandfather being his main tutor and inspiration. He's only got a few posts up so far, but as you'll see he's getting into the swing of it and has an excellent turn of phrase down the pub, he's been collecting up his grandfathers hunting stories from the bygone days of Indian hunting so I'm expecting great things. We've made tentative plans to do some Rook shooting and tree rabbit hunting together in the next few weeks - more news as it comes in.

From the wit and wisdom of Shooter
"I dont play favorites: if it goes bang I love it"

"The .22 is a kitchen utensil, part of the process of getting food to your plate"

Posts I'm sure you'll like:
 Confessions of a Serial Killer is a distillation of several conversations where  he joins me in the ignominy of 'dinner party pariah' status. The Longest Noon where he hunts Chital deer in Australia and his epic adventure to hunt mountain lions in Utah - The Lion of Zion

Please leave comments on his blog, this guy has some great stories to tell, encourage him.

More soon
Your pal
SBW

Suburban Hunters Of The Old East End

East Enders Afield

Just a quick one to let you know I've not fallen off the edge of the world.

A while back I met up with Cleve author of Tales of a London Poacher a memoir which includes some excellent tales of his childhood shooting over the marshes and water treatment beds in London's east end. I'm hoping to meet up with some of the chaps in the photo in the next few weeks to learn a bit more about their adventures back in the day.

In the meantime you can see some video of Cleve, read my review of his book HERE

Your pal
SBW

Leuku: The Knives Of Finland

In the pristine frozen north of europe where oily softwoods like birch and pine grow the Sammi people developed a form of knife known as the Leuku: long enough for chopping and light enough for carving this is the belt knife of the Boreal forests.  

Perkele is a Finish blogger and outdoorsman who keeps us posted with his 'slowly updating notes about me, my life, outdoor activities, bushcraft, knives, survival skills etc..'

He's just posted an excellent review of the work of some Finnish blade smiths and a history of the Leuku form. Well worth a read.

The way i see leuku, is that its a bigger knife, that was born in hands of saame people, who were back then, living a travelling life, and their knife was a about the most important tool, as it was expensive to get, as well as difficult to make back then. They didnt have, in most cases, anvils, nor a way to transport one always, so the rare people who had skills to make knives, became important part of society as well as good tradesmen. Ive heard that with one grown male reindeer, you could get two leukus, or two leukus and one womens leuku, if uou could get a bargain. Steels, were hard to get ,too, and the price of it was naturally higher than its now. They did not order leukus, i bet, like we do, with a phonecall or through an email, nor did they buy it from webshops. You had to travels for huge distances, with trading goods, to meet blacksmith or someone else who sold or traded knives and blades. You could not replace it in the true wilderness either, because the postoffices werent invented, so you really really had to keep your possibly only knife in a good safe and try not to loose it as it might mean the end of your life.

Leuku has been used in wast range of tasks, even before it "came" familiar to southern Finlands people. Its been used to skin animals, prep hides, gut, slice, chop meat, sliver branches off from the firewood, to butcher reindeerd, to build traps for birds, fish and big game like bears. They used it to carve icy and wet snow from sleds, pulks and harness of reindeer. Its not a lie, to say that if anything, leuku was a multitool of northern people.

READ MORE

More soon
SBW

5 Gun Meme

I've been a little busy this year, and mysteriously unable to post comments on my own blog for the last three weeks but rest assured dear reader I'm still here and haven't given up blogging.

In the meantime a blog-meme has been doing the rounds with the usual gun nuts listing the guns they'd most like to acquire. With most of the gun bloggers posting handguns for home defence AKA 'goblin dispatch'.  This has never been a 'Gunny Blog' and I'm not really a hand gun kind of chap so I hadn't felt the need to join in, but when the mighty Steve B chipped in with his list of classic firearms for hunting I finally felt the need to publish my five gun battery of choice.

In the past I've listed a few guns in the "I want one" series of posts, some new and clever, some old and reassuringly handmade, this list is partially 'food getters' that are still available new and partially the antiques of tomorrow, nothing on the list couldn't be duplicated in functionality for a fraction of the price, but where's the fun in that?

Cooper Firearms of Montana: Jackson Squirrel Rifle in any rimfire cal. of your choice.
Arguably the best rimfire rifle made, anywhere, at any price. Sweet!
Picture credit

6.5X54 Mannlicher Schoenauer [preferably in rare Take Down spec.] AKA 'Bell's other rifle'
With its rotary magazine this was the Blaser of its day, an amazing example of the machinists craft. Bell   used his as his primary meat-getter and his stories are punctuated with praise for this wand-like rifle.
Picture credit and an excellent article about the MS 6.5x57 

David Lloyd in .240 (pictured in the barrel burning .244 cal)
Virtually an obsolete calibre, can only be used with vintage glass, but O' so sexy. David Lloyd designed his rifle from the glass down, he wanted a rifle that wouldn't lose its zero even when subjected to the rough and tumble of stalking in the Highlands. He designed his own scope mounts that shroud the scope, and then to really make sure they'd never moved silver soldered the scope to the mounts and the mounts to the rifle! Regular trips to eastern Turkey insured an amazing standard of Turkish Walnut for the stocks, and the barrels were the best money could buy.
Picture credit Emma's custom rifles

.275 Rigby with optional tang safety and the roll stamp on the barrel reading
'SIGHTED FOR RIGBY'S SPECIAL HIGH VELOCITY / JOHN RIGBY & CO. 43 SACKVILLE St. LONDON. W. / .275 BORE CARTRIDGE. POINTED BULLET 140 GRS.'

My last few stalking expeditions have been with a Rigby, and while I'm usually all about utility - plastic stocks and stainless steel, the Rigby was my introduction to classic firearms.  There is something immensely cool about Rigby's rifles, I've seen 'poor man's Rigby's' that would duplicate everything a Rigby could ever be, you could buy a more accurate rifle from pretty much any modern manufacturer, but none of them would ever have the vibe of the Rigby. If I needed to explain it to you, you'd never understand what all the fuss is about. Double want one.
Picture credit and available rifles from Holts

Berretta Super Leggera [Ultra Light] 12 gauge
Like a vist to an italian furniture shop this is both the best and worst of italian design. Not pretty; the engraving is so naff I'd probably have it coated in ceramic paint to hide the true hideousness of what I'll charitably call the 'engraving', but in the Highlands on those long walks after Ptarmigan, snowshoe hunting hares with Perkele or trudging across the prairie after Quail with Chad Love its light weight would be a blessing.
Picture credit

Meanwhile back in the real world I'll keep saving to buy another bag of airgun pellets!
More soon
SBW

Field Sports In Scotland Pt.3

After our detour to the home of golf arrived at Andy's place where LongSword who had been shooting pigeons over wheat and had a stack waiting to be cooked up. He's been plucking them outside and claimed that the blizzard of feathers had been caused when the dogs had got at them. This picture was taken AFTER he'd 'tidied up'.

We feasted on the day's bag. The recipe couldn't be simpler, Pigeon breasts wrapped in Parma Ham seared until the ham is crispy and then left to stand in the oven a 100c for about 20 mins, served with potato salad. And beers.

The next morning I was woken from a deep sleep on the couch to be told people from Andy's Facebook group were demanding I be roused by the cold water method. Fearing that Andy's Facebook pals would lead him into bad ways we packed some sarnies and headed out.

Note: Secondary use for Gear stick - Dog-Chew

Andy dropped Longsword and myself off and we set up on the edge of our second choice of field,
the first being occupied by an Italian shooter we named 'Perazzi'. He was either the most productive Pigeon shooter ever or was rivalling even me for fudged chances, we reckoned he had a semi-auto as we only heard him fire a single shot once in the whole afternoon, and sometimes letting loose strings of four and five shots.

 Longsword had bought a 'Pigeon Magnet' with him. 

Its a car windscreen whipper's motor attached to two arms which rotate.

 You put a pair of the Pigeons you shot the day before on them and from above they imitate the wheeling of two birds coming in to feed.

Longsword was kind enough to lend me this Belgian 20 gauge Side-by-side. 

We spent an excellent afternoon, shooting the breeze, telling tales, and shooting pigeons, well Longsword shot pigeons, I shot fresh air and distinguished myself with an all time low score of 24 for none, zero, zilch  nothing, Nada.

The Excusses: a litany

1. I've not fired a shotgun in about three years
2. The gun was a very poor fit
3. The Coyote god was playing tricks on me
4. It was Longswords birthday and I didn't want to show him up

That's my story and I'm sticking to it
More soon
Your pal
SBW