Mark Hill Knives: Raven Review

Been a while since I've had any custom cutlery pass though my hands but sometimes curiosity gets the better of me.  As I've proved with my own cackhanded efforts, any chump can make a passable cutting tool, designing a nice shape is a bit harder, and actually making them to a finish where you'd think twice about abusing them is a quantum leap on from there. Mark Hill has been making a name for himself showing his work on BCUK and BB, and very nice it looks too. When the chance to pick up a 'Raven' in a trade came up, I used it to kid myself I am actually getting rid of some of my hoard.

The Raven - its chunky

Mark Hill makes most of the classic blade shapes which chronicle the history of the survival knife.
I particularly like his 1800's Kephart,  from the last century he does a 'Woodlore' as popularised by Ray Mears, with this century represented by his homage to the Raven designed by Rob Bailey and popularised by well-known outdoor storyteller Bear Grylls.

For me the thumb ramp gives a slight ergonomic advantage to the shape, but must have been really tricky to do by hand. 

Finish and fit are pretty good, you've got to get very very close to see the slight by-hand imperfections that give the knife its sense of handmade by one maker.

A very ambitious join between the guard, blade and slabs. 

 Its a knife! How does it cut? 

Like a cutty thing on a cutty day.

I'm off to sift through my gear pile, trying to work out what I can bear to part with, this is supposed to be about minimalism NOT holding!

More soon

your pal

SBW

Gamekeeping 101 Pt1

If you were going to choose a day for a work party you wouldn't choose the hottest day of the year would you? But that's not the way we roll.
The late start sounded like a good idea, relaxing even, but 'roasting evenly' would be a better description. By eleven the sun was high in the sky and the mercury was high in the vial, hitting 30C. The Bambi Basher and yours truly rocked up and drove across the estate to an overgrown Pheasant pen. The pen's position is a game of two halves, good its very sheltered from the winds that howl off the south downs, bad its effectively a drainage for the field, right next to a stream, and heavily overgrown with Willow. It was cool and damp on the hottest day so far, so in the winter it must be pretty parky and very wet.

The estate is massive and owned by a retired Colonel who with our new friend Keeper Du Bois runs a small informal shoot for family and a few friends. I first met The Col. and KDB helping out on a fox drive a few months ago. TBB is a member of the shoot and as KDB seemed to have his hands full I'd offered to help out as one of his under keepers. Time and tide had kept us from catching up but as the poults will be arriving soon we have a few jobs to do around the estate.

TBB and I set-to with the enthusiasm of un-caged dogs and had cleared a way around the pen when a cheery shout announced KDB's arrival. In one of those 'Youtube gold' moments his greeting and the position of the truck led him to slightly miss the landbridge crossing the stream and he disappeared into a gully; quad bike, trailer and all.

Much hilarity later, with the other fellas from the work party having arrived, we divided up the tools and began clearing some pathways for the beating team to push birds onto the drives. KDB issued me with a Jungle-Buster (basically a more robust weed-whacker or Strimmer). A tool that had led a hard hard life. I was wearing it hanging from a harness with the motor behind me, and swinging the pole from side to side letting the tool do the work. I was suddenly aware of something else behind me and looked over my shoulder. The fuel tank had leaked, the housing had shaken itself loose, and touching the exhaust had ignited. I was on effing FIRE!

I made a few nerve-wracking attempts to un-hook the now blazing machine from the harness, but soon saw sense and wriggled out of the harness and dumped the whole kit into the stream. Which having had a bit of fuel spilled into it from the trailer's earlier baptism promptly burst into flames.

The rest of the day was thankfully a little less dramatic.

Big Shouts to the people who have sent me useful stuff for testing:

SG-20 who sent me some of their two-pack adhesive with which I reattached the sole of one of my beloved Lundhags. The glue is good for mending waders and a lot of your other outdoor gear, I've already used it to reattach the other sole and it's really good stuff.

3M Ultrathon for their slow release insect repellant - DEET incapsulated to provide slow release protection against flying biters - good gear I've used it a few times and it works well, and being Tick Season much appreciated. If you are going afield please read this primmer on Ticks by longterm reader Pablo from Woodlife

Trucker's Friend who sent this hammer, pry bar, nail puller, zombie-whacker, thingy which we used to take some fencing down.

More soon
your pal
SBW

Book Review: The Lure Of The Falcon

If you like your humor understated and if you've ever found yourself enthralled by small creatures in wild places try this one on for size, its a boy-meets-nature memoir with a difference.

Boy meets nature, boy finds broken Kestrel, boy mends Kestrel, boy takes Kestrel with him to boarding school, boy takes Kestrel with him to WWII. Boy and Kestrel are captured by the Germans, boy and Kestrel escape from POW camp, boy and Kestrel are captured again, boy and Kestrel......

We were thrust at bayonet point into a room on the second floor and lined up infront of a large table littered with papers, telephones,typewriters and other official impedimenta. Behind the table, wearing civilian clothes peering at us through rimless glasses, sat the flesh and blood embodiment of the villainous Gestapo chief that I had seen in scores of films. With pasty face and soulless eyes he was about as alluring as a bird eating spider. As soon as he saw us there before him, bearded filthy and rheumy -eyed with weariness he started barking questions in the approved hollywood manner.
Suddenly his tirade which had sounded like a succession of bursts from a bad-tempered machine gun ceased in mid-volley and I saw our  inquisitors cobra eyes fixed on me  - where a slight but obvious bulge appeared in my ancient jacket just above the waistline. He threw back his chair and, moving with surprising speed, hurled himself round the table and grabbed me. One podgy white hand dived inside my jacket, in search no doubt of the pocket radio he suspected to be concealed in my bosom. there was a slight upheaval, followed by a yelp of pain. He recoiled and withdrew his hand which was dripping with good Aryan blood.

 Cressida had struck her blow for freedom. Now surely Nemesis would strike me down. Feeling if I felt anything, that i really had nothing to lose except life itself I put my hand to my jacket. Cressida scrambled aboard and I withdrew her into the daylight.  There we stood Cressida and i exposed to the full fury of this powerful representative of the third reich.  I glanced at Cressida , her hackles raised, her wings hanging as she mantled, her eyes glowing like red coals. the expected revolver shot never came. I looked at the Gestapo officer who had retreated a few steps,  his pallid face was if anything whiter than ever. I glanced at the armed escort, the henchmen behind the table all were speechless but when I looked longer I saw that they were inarticulate with ill-suppressed laughter.

Well worth a read

more soon
SBW