Country Diary

Culling fallow deer from a high seat on a soggy November day is a good way to spend a chilly morning, especially with a vital bit of kit

Ihad sat in the same high seat almost three years to the day and lain down five fallow deer during a carefully orchestrated deer move. So I was confident of finding the seat again, even if I would be looking for it in the dark. However, the clear instructions I’d been given to locate the seat still came in handy.

“Go all the way through Copse Ground until you hit the Shire Rack then hang a right. Keep going along the edge of the wood until you reach the dogleg. You’ll see an old rusty pheasant feeder hanging on the fence. Your seat is almost opposite the feeder, about 10 yards into the wood.”

A quick flicker of my headlamp caused a mob of roosting woodpigeons to depart, but I picked out the rusting drum and was in position within a minute or two. By 6.10am, I was settled into my seat, which leaned against a splayed hazel tree, ready for coppicing. Given the soggy November morning, I was grateful for the thin, selfinflating seat mattress I’d shoved between the wet plastic and my no-longer-waterproof stalking trousers. Clearly, I’ve become a stalker who likes his creature comforts.

Hot-water bottle

I keep this super-lightweight roll-up mat in my stalking pack and it is a treasured bit of kit. It was given to me almost a decade ago by a group of visiting Danish hunters and, on cold, damp mornings like this, I wouldn’t want to be without it. It’s like sitting on a hot-water bottle.

There were four other bums on seats that morning, with two Rifles walking; not that the latter expected to see much action. Their role was to gently move resident deer around the woods. In Cranborne Chase, culling fallow deer is a priority objective for woodland management and manoeuvres like this can yield numbers of super-wary fallow that a solitary stalker would struggle to take on their own.

The heavy drizzle turned to squally showers and the ash and hazel canopy above me crackled as the drops battered the leaves. Slowly, the dark gloom began to lift and, as the sun rose elsewhere, shaded leaves grew green. My high seat looked down a narrow ride that meets a coppiced glade fenced with piles of brash to keep hungry deer from munching on the rejuvenating hazel stools. Dormice like it here and their crooked, numbered nest boxes are scattered throughout the wood.

Two energetic wrens entertained me by chasing each other, their dumpy little bodies flitting here and there but going nowhere in particular. I think I heard a tree creeper. I did hear rooks calling and I watched a grey squirrel busying about, either burying or searching for food hidden beneath fallen leaves. High on my stilt legs, I felt like a heron patiently waiting for breakfast — alert and ready for that one peripheral movement that warns of approaching prey.

The sound of a muffled rifle shot came my way and soon at least six wandering fallow deer appeared just beyond the end of the ride, well in range but their bodies partially masked by shrubby understorey. A handsome buck brought up the rear, his pale palmate antlers twitching. The deer moved on. A near opportunity was lost.

Almost immediately, a blackish fawn appeared on the edge of the ride, about 80 yards in front of me, before spilling out into the open with a group of seven fallow. They looked jittery and circled each other, none of them offering a clear shot. I would have preferred to have taken the older spotty doe but when the frivolous young fawn stepped to one side, I took the quarter-on shot.

Frustratingly, he didn’t behave as I’d hoped. Rather than running fast and then slumping, he stooped and stuttered and wobbled, before disappearing out of view. Having given him a while, I was slightly on edge as I approached to where I wanted to see him lying, but he wasn’t there. He was 20 yards further on, slumped against the base of an ash tree. My shot had only grazed his heart, but his lungs were smashed. I was relieved that the shock and rapid loss of blood pressure would have killed him quickly and painlessly.

“High on my stilt legs, I felt like a heron patiently waiting for breakfast”

Mike Short is an ecologist at the GWCT. He is a keen angler, deer stalker and forager and helps to run a wild bird rough shoot in Wiltshire.

The fallow deer came well into range but their bodies were partially masked by the understorey