Shooting Times & Country Magazine
Clearing the lens for a chance at Charlie
Protecting pheasant poults is a very serious matter this year, and as the sun comes up, Mark Ripley gets a chance to even the score
Iwatched as the sun slowly crept above the hillside, its warm glow stretching gradually over the autumn landscape. Deep in the valley below, the young poults started to crow as the light began to find its way between the trees where it warmed the edge of the pen, hidden away just out of view in the woods.
Far in the distant farmyard, the old cockerel voiced up once more, partly to awaken the farm and partly, perhaps, to reassure all who would listen that he had survived yet another night, despite his ageing years. As the valley began to fill with colour, I was able to make out, even from here, the patch of fresh coppercoloured pheasant feathers strewn in the grass a short distance from the wood. Another victim taken the previous day and a stark reminder of why I was here.
Short supply
A fox taking young pheasant poults on a regular basis would be bad enough at the start of any season, but this year the birds were even more treasured, with poults in such short supply and many shoots unable to acquire any at all. This shoot had been lucky and managed to buy in a couple of hundred birds — enough to enable them to run their few, yet exceptionally challenging, shoot days. The steep banks and strategically placed cover strips make for some ridiculously high birds that will humble even the best of Shots within the syndicate.
Foxes here are given no quarter; gamebirds aside, this is also a working sheep and pig farm, both of which can make easy pickings for the strong and stocky hill foxes. I shifted my seated position against the fence post to get some feeling into my backside. In doing so, I realised the dew from the grass had found its way through the many barbed-wire holes in the back of my once waterproof stalking trousers, adding to my discomfort. I checked the lenses of my scope once more to be sure they hadn’t fogged up, and was pleased to see the recently purchased anti-fog wipes had done their job in keeping them clear.
Two mornings ago I had sat in the same spot, at the same time, when a fox appeared from the top of the wood carrying a pheasant. As it stopped to readjust its grip on the still-twitching victim, I slipped behind the rifle, ready to take a comfortable 150m shot, only to find the objective lens completely obscured with moisture. After a frantic wipe with the remnants of a tissue from the bottom of my pocket, I was just in time to see the tail end of the fox disappear into the opposite wood, leaving me kicking myself for not being better prepared.
Several poults began to wander out of the wood and scratch about
“This year, the poults were even more treasured”
in the grass away from the wood or stand to flutter their wings and voice up in the early morning sun. I watched their antics idly when my attention was drawn to one close to a patch of nettles near to the corner of the wood. The other birds were relaxed, but this one stood frozen with its neck outstretched, attention fixed on the patch of nettles.
Ginger glimpse
As I watched, there was a stir in the cover and a glimpse of gingery brown. The pheasant quickly backed away to join its brethren further along the edge of the wood. I was unsure of what had moved through the nettles, and I’d come to the conclusion it was probably a rabbit, until a few minutes later the familiar pink, pink, pink alarm call of a blackbird again drew my attention to that end of the wood.
Setting aside the binoculars, I slowly slipped behind the riflescope, twisted the zoom ring round to maximum magnification and began to glass every inch of the nettles at the edge of the wood. As I did, something jet black caught my eye — perhaps a dead branch among the leaves or maybe just a shadow?
Instinct drew my attention back twice to the odd feature until, just as
I was again about to move the scope on past it, the pointy object flicked around and I realised I was looking at the tip of a fox ear.
I was treated to a brief glimpse of both ears and a sharp eye observing the poults before, judging by the movement of the nettles, the fox turned full circle and laid down, again disappearing from view. No doubt with those ever-vigilant, hungry eyes peering out from cover for any living thing unfortunate enough to pass within striking distance of this beautiful yet efficient killing machine. For now, like the fox, I could do nothing but wait.
My biggest frustration was that I could see no part of the fox to confirm it was still laid in the nettles, leaving me constantly to scan each edge of the wood in case it slipped unseen through the trees and out on to the open hillside. Foxes are no fools, and will cover open ground quickly in daylight for the safety of the next patch of cover, so I needed to stay vigilant. A long and uncomfortable half-hour passed with me tensed behind the rifle, waiting for the stalemate to end.
As the morning drew on, the sunshine began to lose its battle with the patchy clouds, and with the first spits of rain, my chances began to feel slim. I felt sure the fox would now slip into the cover of the wood to lie up for the day if it hadn’t already done so.
The still morning air was slowly broken by the sound of an approaching quad bike, which would be the young farmhand coming to check the sheep on the bank above, still mostly huddled together for warmth and safety with just a few grazing away from the rest of the flock. This disturbance was sure to drive the fox into cover, and I resigned myself to the prospect that I would need to be back in this same spot well before dusk in the hope of catching the fox leaving cover for a night’s hunting, if it hadn’t already caught a poult around the release pen.
Sitting up, I reached for my flask and the now barely tepid contents and watched the young lad on the quad skilfully swing between the ewes,
“A long and uncomfortable half-hour passed with me tensed behind the rifle”
visually checking each over as he went. No doubt his next stop would be down to the pen to check on the treasured stock of birds, and I halfexpected my phone to be ringing at any moment with him telling me of a fresh pile of feathers found close by.
As I rose the cap of the flask to my lips, a flicker of movement above its rim in the distance caught my eye and I froze mid-sip. My eyes focused, and there in front of the nettles stood an alert-looking fox staring back up the slope above the wood, clearly concerned by the sound of the quad bike. I’m not sure if it was the flask cap or me that hit the ground first, but I was behind the rifle in a flash.
Fox in the scope
With lukewarm coffee running off my hand and down the sleeve of my jacket, I eased the rifle round to find the fox in the scope and quickly picked it up moving back along the edge of the wood. I tracked it as it went, praying it wouldn’t suddenly slip through the fence into the cover of the trees.
I tucked the rear bag under the butt of the rifle and squeezed it to level the crosshairs on the fox as it slowed, looking for a place to slip through the stock fencing. Instinctively, I knew I had seconds to make the shot and gambled on giving out a shout. With a loud “Oi” hollered across the valley came the desired effect. The fox stopped dead and its head spun around to look back towards me.
The shot echoed out across the valley, but I never heard it; neither did the fox. I was too focused on listening for the sound of the impact to confirm a solid hit, which came after what seemed like an age. I didn’t need to hear it, though — I’d seen the impact through the scope close to 200 yards down the bank.
The fox instantly dropped in a cloud of moisture and fur from the rapidly fragmenting bullet, dropping it fittingly next to the pile of pheasant feathers, and the very deed that had sealed his fate.