Shooting Times & Country Magazine
Country Diary
A peregrine on the hunt is mesmerising and the biodiversity of a North Pennine moor brings hope, as does the arrival of pinkfeet from Iceland
Yesterday, as I went out into the outer harbour to look for a bass, I was met by a shrieking cloud of Sandwich terns, which rose up from the high sands and chivvied a dark and dangerous-looking shape coming from the west with quick strong wing beats, followed by a short glide — unmistakably a peregrine on the hunt.
He, for it was a tiercel, ignored the screaming terns in his wake and plummeted toward the foreshore at a swirling bunch of knot. In the panic, one split from its fellows and fled, corkscrewing across the harbour, inches from the surface. The peregrine followed the dodging wader and overhauled it in seconds. There was a flurry of wings as the masked bandit swept in for the kill — but he missed, and somehow the wader rushed on across the surface of the water. From the harbour, there was an uproar of shrieks and furious piping from every foreshore bird in the area.
Without a pause, the peregrine swept up into the sky on sickled wings and stooped again with terrifying speed. This time the dodging wader had no chance and went off in iron-bound talons to be plucked and eaten on the dunes. Probably rather a good breakfast.
Mournful piping
A north wind blows and numerous golden plover have arrived, still handsomely dressed in summer plumage, golden caped and black breasted. Their mournful piping is so clear but so discrete it is difficult to know from which direction it comes.
I was shooting on a North Pennine moor last week and was hugely impressed by the biodiversity on display. We saw golden plover there too, as well as snipe, black cock and grey hen, pipits galore, a sparrowhawk, English partridges and goodly numbers of grouse. What is all this grouse moor monoculture nonsense from the antis?
Anyway, back home in the lowlands, family groups of whimbrel are coming in from the north. They will feed up and move on to spend winter along the shores of
West Africa. I haven’t seen such numbers for years. The first teal are here, in small family groups, but it’s early and these could be local breeders — from the Midlands, perhaps? I have seen some wigeon, alarmingly in pairs. I hope they haven’t been hit by bird flu. Only time will tell.
But the real harbingers of winter, the pink-footed geese, arrived this morning. I heard them from my bed; crossing to the window, I looked up and, high in the pale blue sky, making a yapping sound like that of a happy pack of terriers, there they were in perfect V-formation.
They must be so happy to return to these shores where the fields are green and the stubbles are still there, littered with grain. More than 50,000 will hopefully come from the blasted screes of Iceland to overwinter in East Anglia and feed up on the sugar-beet tops of Norfolk.
The swallows are still here, probably waiting for this northerly wind, and someday soon I know we will wake up and something will be missing from the sky scene. A little sadness of another summer passed will settle over us.
The other great migration — the twitchers — haven’t arrived yet. At least not in great numbers anyway. A few residents lurk in hedgerows or stand in clumps on the
“They were making a yapping sound like that of a happy pack of terriers”
sea wall, dressed in camouflage parkas, their fantastic equipment in camouflage cases. They hunch over camouflage tripods and peer through wonderful Swarovski scopes.
I’m so jealous as I walk by, so I always ask for a look, and the owner flinches as if I have asked if he prefers snipe on toast or fried bread.
Willie Athill has spent time in the British Army, maritime salvage, oil and gas exploration and now farms seaweed and shellfish on the north Norfolk coast.
Well, the clocks are really ticking now. What seemed like weeks away is now only a matter of days away. I refer, of course, to our first shoot day of the season. The grouse boys have been hard at it for weeks and those shoots with early-season partridge will have a full month under their belts. But for us, October is when we make a start.
Decisions that are made in the spring and summer will either have a positive or negative impact on the season, so with the absence of a crystal ball, it’s always best to weigh up the different scenarios and never be frightened to ask someone’s opinion. I have been a keeper for a long time and think I have a fairly decent handle on the job, but that won’t stop me picking up the phone and asking for a second opinion.
A friend of mine, who is one of the most skilled and forward-thinking keepers I know, will periodically ring me for advice and to discuss certain issues. Now, I know he doesn’t really need my advice and has already come to his own conclusion in regard to the problems he may be dealing with, but he likes another opinion and, likewise, I do the same with him. Somebody once said, “You have two ears and one mouth, so you should listen twice as much as you speak” — that’s not a bad adage. We should never stop gaining knowledge.
While the Guns will be looking forward to the start of the shooting, another set of people who will be hoping for a good season are the beaters and pickers-up. These stalwarts of the field come from all walks of life, with a mixture of experience and ability, but are united by a love of the countryside, being out in the fresh air and, hopefully, being part of a winning team. One thing is for sure, we couldn’t do it without them.
A good few years ago, I was asked whether someone could bring a chap with them who had never been beating before. I knew this chap pretty well and knew he was keen on the countryside and a thoroughly nice fellow to boot, so I said, “Yes, bring him along.” I’m always keen to get new people involved.
On the morning of the shoot, the weather was drizzly and overcast, not a bad flying day at all. I arranged with beatkeeper John to drop the flanks off; I would meet him and the main line at the start of the drive once I had sorted the Guns out. As I drove up the track to the starting point of the drive, I could see John unloading the beaters and explaining the drive to the team.
Several of these lads had been doing this drive for years and knew it inside out, but they were always very attentive to John’s instructions, just to be sure they got it right.
On this day, however, one or two of them looked a little distracted and there was the odd wry smile. Now, on shoot mornings, my sense of humour is usually put on ice until later in the day, and today was no exception. As I passed one of my regulars, I enquired, “What you bloody grinning at?” to which he responded with a shrug and an even broader grin. Then all became apparent.
The next beater in line was the new boy, raring to go with polished wellies, a flag in one hand and an open umbrella in the other. With sparks flying from my eyes, I turned to John, who quickly and diplomatically explained to our new team member that perhaps he should leave his brolly on the beaters’ wagon. We have laughed about it many times since and, as I have said before, you see all sorts in this job.
“With the absence of a crystal ball, it’s best to weigh up different scenarios”