Shooting Times & Country Magazine
COUNTRY DIARY
An invitation from a friend to join him on a rabbit stalk offers a chance to bring a forgotten firearm back into use, with very satisfying results
The little .22 CZ rimfire has languished in the gun cabinet, next to its big brother, the .30-06, for several months, untouched, unwanted. Bought from a small gun dealer in Exeter five years ago when we were plagued with rabbits, it proved to be accurate and deadly, made more so by the Hawke scope and the screw-on silencer. The local rabbit population was satisfactorily held in check and cottontails in several guises were on the menu until, some three years ago, there was a dramatic fall in numbers. While you might have seen a dozen or so scurrying white tails in the horse paddock, now the grass was bare and no new shiny black droppings or runs into the hedges were to be found. Nor did I come across any bodies or signs of myxomatosis. It was indeed a puzzle, for some eight miles away, my stalker colleague, Charles Fenn, was inundated with healthy bunnies on his patch.
There were rumours of a new rabbit virus that was decimating warrens in parts of the country, and I began to wonder whether the burgeoning polecat population was also partly responsible. These animals, many of them descended from escaped polecat ferrets, have rapidly infiltrated our part of the West Country and, I know, are giving keepers another problem with which to contend. Then, to add to the list of woes, a handful of young rabbits, which appeared this spring to offer some hope of a revival, were struck down by myxy. As I have previously recounted I had to kill several youngsters suffering from the hideous disease, eyes blinded, heads swollen and suppurating.
The .22 rimfire was, it seemed, doomed to a lonely, unloved existence — and then Charles rang. He had just wandered out with his .22 and shot eight rabbits. Would I care to come over and try my luck on another evening?
A week later a clear-sky evening after a day of unremitting sunshine with a slight breeze from the west would, I thought, be ideal for rabbit stalking. I quickly checked the rifle, picked up 10 rounds of rimfire .22, my old Swarovski binoculars and shooting bag and set out.
Half an hour later, Charles and I quietly entered the first field of the small 30-acre holding of rough grass, with steep banks surrounding a gorse thicket. The faintest of breezes was in our faces as we picked our way across a field of tall grass, riddled with rabbit, badger and roe runs, working towards an iron gate in a thick hedgerow. Silently, we peered into the next field. The grass was shorter but no rabbits were to be seen. At least, I failed to spot one. Charles has better eyesight and, rifle resting on his folding tripod, took aim. Plop! A nice threequarter-grown youngster was in the bag.
Big buck
We slowly wandered round the field edge towards the gorse thicket. Again Charles spotted and shot a rabbit that I failed to see. Very frustrating, but my chance came shortly afterwards when, behind a gate set in an ancient hedgerow, I spotted a wellgrown rabbit perhaps 60 yards away and downhill. I set the cross-hairs on its chest, squeezed the trigger and heard a satisfying thud as the bullet struck. This proved to be a big buck.
We slowly meandered back towards the farm, taking in a water trough on the way where we paused while I gutted the rabbits, using a stag-horn folding knife given to me by my old friend Richard Prior. A quick slit down the belly, the skin pulled aside, then a sharp flick and the entrails flew into the grass, doubtless to make a supper for a local fox.
A perfect evening’s sport, with three clean-shot rabbits in the bag. The next morning, I prepared them for the freezer using my own method. Each bunny has its skin cut in a semi-circle halfway along the body and then the two halves are pulled apart, the skin on the legs pulled down and each leg cut off, together with three back slices, the kidneys and the front legs. I use a pair of bone shears, which make life much easier. Each rabbit was then bagged, two for the freezer and one in the fridge for a rabbit casserole. Now all I have to do is clean the rifle, ready for the next foray. This, to my way of thinking, is real sport.
“I spotted a well-grown rabbit perhaps 60 yards away. I set the cross-hairs on its chest and squeezed the trigger”