Shooting Times & Country Magazine
You see, wishes do come true
The garden-raiding muntjac are back, to his mother’s dismay, but Ed Wills is delighted
Iwish the muntjac would come back,” I said dreamily, gazing out of the window at the rose bed beyond. It had been almost a year since the original lockdown was imposed, and in that first stint an invasion of muntjac had arrived at the boundary of the garden and made several attempts to cross the border and graze on my mother’s prized roses (The buck stops here,
29 April 2020). They had lost five troops for the cause, including one with a stunning gold-medal head.
One year on and I was back in the same scenario, except there were no muntjac. Hearing the longing in my voice, my mother looked at me sternly, “tsked” and left the room. It seemed the loss of last year’s roses was still a raw subject in her mind.
A few days later, as I returned to the house after looking round the hedgerows to see if all the partridges were safe and sheltered from the heavy wind, my mother came storming up to me, looking fit to burst. “Well, you’ve only gone and jinxed it,” she huffed. “Jinxed what?” I asked, not daring to believe. “They’re back.
The muntjac are back.”
I quickly learned what had happened. My mother had gone to fill a rusty wheelbarrow with compost for her beloved roses when an enormous muntjac had erupted from the depths of a yew hedge beside her and sprinted off towards the far corner of the garden.
Full pelt
I grabbed the .243 and, leaving my excitable, squealing cocker spaniel and irritated mother behind, I moved to the corner where she had seen the beast last. The tracks were clear in the muddy, saturated ground and each hoof print was splayed to show that the muntjac had been running full pelt. I followed the tracks as far as
I could to the edge of the wood, where the fence line lay, and looked for a hole but could find none. I decided that the best thing to do was to revert to my previous tactic and come back at dusk and wait for the muntjac to show itself.
Rabbit tracks
Alongside the deer slots, I could see hints of rabbit tracks as well, though I couldn’t be sure they weren’t actually hare tracks. We haven’t had huge numbers of rabbits in Hampshire for quite a while, so I wasn’t optimistic and thought nothing more about it.
Five o’clock came around and I set off to take up position underneath the shelter of overhanging trees and beside an old, twisted bunch of roots, which a badger had long since vacated and left a sizeable hole in the centre. Using an old roof tile as a lean for the rifle, I settled down to watch the spot where I thought the muntjac would emerge.
It is strangely peaceful being out before dusk at this time of year; the countryside seems to hold its breath and then, as dusk falls, it lets it out in a fury of noise. Cock pheasants — which are far too numerous this year, for obvious reasons — crow themselves hoarse, owls hoot and take flight and hares chase each other over the dead leaves of oak trees that shiver in the occasional gust of wind.
“There was a flash of brown and my pulse quickened”
As nature closed in around me, and the rooks, their cries muffled with beaks full of twigs for their nests, flapped overhead to their homes in the Scots pines, it was incredibly hard to keep focused on that one position. Suddenly, there was a flash of brown in the corner. My pulse quickened. I looked through the scope to find a hare nibbling some grass. As I studied the hare through the scope, a rabbit hopped in front of it. I cursed myself for leaving the .22 behind and made a mental note to come back the next morning for the bunny.
The darkness was now setting in. A grey squirrel had joined the unlikely band of the hare and the rabbit and was chattering loudly, but a rustle in the brambles away to the left made it stop and pay attention. A fourth
visitor had arrived, and this was certainly a muntjac. However, as I watched him approach a disused paddock, I could tell that this wasn’t the large animal my mother had seen. I pushed that thought away and focused on my task.
Side on
The muntjac had now crept in far enough from the tree line, but was facing me. I waited patiently for it to turn and present a better shot. My hands were beginning to turn numb with cold and I flexed my trigger finger to try to work some feeling back into it. The muntjac slowly grazed away from me and turned side on. I positioned the cross-hairs over the vitals and squeezed the trigger.
The sound of the shot caused the squirrel, rabbit and hare to bolt for cover, and the muntjac tried to follow but collapsed after a few feet. Cautiously, I approached it for a closer look. It was a yearling buck. I dragged it back to the larder and my mother came to inspect and identify it herself. She shook her head sorrowfully. I reassured her that I was going out tomorrow for the bunny and would let her know if I saw another muntjac.
The next morning dawned and I chose a spot to put me easily within range of where I saw the rabbit. With the better light, I now saw where it might have gone. A number of holes, which I thought were disused, lay about an old ash tree that was slowly dying. I remembered my aunt had brought her two ferrets along years ago to try her hand at bolting rabbits, but all that happened was she had to wait for three hours for the ferrets to emerge again. My leaning post this time was an old bollard and I set to waiting patiently again.
Five minutes later, no fewer than three rabbits emerged from the holes, scratching their ears and hopping around on the morning dew. I had three bullets in the magazine, so I had to play this carefully. If I waited for the bunnies to settle down and make their way far enough from the holes, I had a chance of getting more than one.
I watched them through the scope for another five minutes or so. The morning chorus was light and cheerful, in stark contrast to the cacophony of dusk. Songbirds were chirping as they flew from branch to branch and a bumblebee attempted to land on my hand, causing me to hurriedly brush it away. The rabbits had moved another 2ft away from their hole but time was getting short. Soon work would have to start and the garden would be a hive of activity, so I steadied myself and took aim at the rabbit closest to the hole.
I squeezed the trigger, the rabbit dropped and I quickly pulled the bolt back and forward again. I turned to put the scope on another bunny, which had its head up and was sniffing the air. I fired the .22 a second time and at the shot the second rabbit joined his fellow in the grass.
The third bunny, which was furthest from the hole, had now figured out what was going on and was sprinting for safety. It stopped for a moment on the doorstep of the hole and sat up straight. I quickly swivelled around to get the cross-hairs on it, but it turned in and disappeared into the darkness. And that was that.
Delicious meat
On arriving back at the house, I skinned and paunched the two rabbits and gave them to Ed, my
“The dawn chorus was light and cheerful compared with the cacophony of dusk”
neighbour, who had expressed an interest in tasting rabbit for the first time. I received his verdict the very next day when he sent me a bottle of beer in thanks for such delicious meat. I assured him that I would send more his way if I got any.
The whereabouts of the larger muntjac remains a mystery and I believe it has made a conscious decision to avoid my garden. The roses are safe for now, but I secretly hope that one day, temptation might draw the beast back.