Lucky Escape

I shot this in a hen house at 2.30 this morning -

It's only one of this year's cubs, but already old enough to be out by itself doing a bit of opportunistic hunting, honing its skills.

The house it broke into had a Buff Orpington hen and her brood of chicks inside - my flock replacements for next year. I heard the hen screaming, which is enough to wake me out of a sound sleep.

My heart sank when I saw the edge of the chicken wire lifted away, and a pile up of chicks in the corner. The hen was still screaming. She sounded frightened and angry at the same time. At least she was alive, as were some of the chicks.

The fox saw me and panicked. By this time Mike had handed me a .17 rifle and I dispatched the cub while it tried to dig its way back out. I had to wait until morning to see which birds had been injured.

I'm thrilled to report that, so far, there are no broken wings or legs, and all the chicks look alert if a little ruffled by their ordeal. There is a light dusting of feathers on the house floor, but most of them come from the mother who's sporting a rather bare neck.

The cub tried to supersize his meal and it backfired on him. It's a lesson he won't get a second chance to learn.

Sheep and Deer and Fox and Dogs

I got up this morning in anticipation of catching the partial solar eclipse, but instead I was treated to the flat grey fog that England is famous for. I missed the lunar eclipse last week for the same reason. All the grandeur of astronomically significant events scuppered by a low front. I sulked for a bit, until the clouds dropped fat snowflakes. Nothing accumulated, but it made a lovely wintry backdrop for my morning chores.

One of my chores is still handfeeding Eudora. Her sight, or perhaps her neurological impairment, is preventing her feeding properly without help. I'm still hoping this is a temporary set-back, and I've called the vet yet again. To tempt her appetite back, I feed her all her favorites: molasses-flavored water, sugar beet, and barley. Ivy is a good tonic for sheep so on shoot days while I'm supposed to be watching birds overhead, I'm picking young ivy leaves and stuffing my pockets full, to bring back for Eudora.

Even I know I'm a bit of a sucker for spoiling her with treats. Eudora can't be that impaired as she's already learned that if she bleats she gets fed. You could argue that I'm the impaired one, handfeeding a sheep on demand. I'm thinking of re-naming her "Eudora, Queen of Sheepa". I draw the line at building her a throne.

From sheep to pigs: we took delivery of half a pig from Peggy, my butchery teacher. She kindly saved me the belly in one piece, so I could try curing my own bacon.

A side-view of the pork belly in cure

I've used her recipe, and the pork is now submerged in its curing solution, salt, and water. I need to leave it soaking for the next 5 days. It will be ready to hang in the chiller for drying on Sunday, just as the two deer hanging in the chiller now will be ready for me to take out and butcher.

I didn't shoot these two; Dave the stalker shot them for me so I could have a bit of time off over Christmas with Mike. I still need to cull three more roe does from that area by the end of March because I culled a buck there last summer. The roe deer management ratio for our area of England is 2.5 does per buck. I will aim to take an older buck out of the area this coming summer.

Nearly all keepers' wives help on shoot days working the dogs or cooking, and in the off-season we help raise the chicks, but only a few of us stalk deer or help with vermin control. We're a large shoot but have a small staff, so we need all the help we can get: outside stalkers, ferretters to control the rabbits, contractors with tractors to put in crops for the pheasant. And willing wives of course.

To add to the workload this time of year, it's mating season for foxes. Vixens call up dog foxes, who flood in looking for a good time. Underkeeper Pete and Stalker Dave have shot a few, but I'm taking the lazy option:

A fox cage, baited with cat food. It's on duty all night protecting my chickens (I already have to get up at 2 a.m. to feed Eudora). I set it this evening, and almost immediate caught Podge in it. She knows a cage trap means tasty treats, and that we'll eventually come and let her out. Gun dogs are too smart for their own good.

And Mike's just this minute told me we're about to adopt a chocolate labrador! It's a temporary arrangement. One of our clients has been looking for another chocolate lab, and we've been offered a 3 year old bitch that needs a new home. I will settle it in with us, and make sure it has all its basic gun dog training before it goes to its new home.

I'm glad it's a labrador, as they're pretty easy going. Spaniels have more energy than I do. However, between 6 dogs and a self-important ewe taking up all the kennel space, I will have to make room for the new dog in the house.

Thankfully, one of the perks of shoot season is that the shoot guests never finish their wine and kindly give the keeper the extra bottles from their well-stocked cellars. The availability of good wine helps me to cope when my husband tells me he's bringing home another dog.

We've been so busy I've not really had time to think about the New Year or relevent resolutions. We celebrate slightly different holidays, based around the rural calendar. Our holiday period starts Christmas eve and officially ends on Distaff Day, which is this Friday. Traditionally Distaff Day is when women resume their work, picking up the distaff and starting to spin wool I suppose. Typically, men's work doesn't start until Plough Monday, two days later than women's work starts. Read into that what you will.

Anyway, it's only 352 more days til Christmas eve.

More foxes

Underkeeper Pete organised a fox drive last night. The concept is a few people with guns stand in a field on the edge of a woodland while others walk through the wood. The fox is disturbed by the walkers and breaks cover in front of the waiting guns. It's a more common practice on the continent. In France, I often saw a line of men dressed in country clothes, guns ready, almost vibrating with excitement on a roadside, while others walked through crops of corn disturbing wild pigs or foxes in their direction.

We only had one fox for our evening's work - a vixen. Her milk was dried up so her cubs were old enough to fend for themselves. Mike saw her leave her earth and run in the opposite direction, no doubt to draw our attention from her cubs. I called her and Dave shot her. She's still moulting her winter coat, and she's thin from feeding her young.

Fox driving doesn't seem the most efficient way to clear up foxes. Unless you get lucky and move quite a few through at once. But there is a social aspect, and this time of year when outdoor folk are busy cutting hay or lambing, this in an excuse to get together and catch up. When all the grass is cut, we'll go back to calling foxes to us, instead of chasing them. Fox calling is a solitary pursuit - one hunter and her rifle. And maybe her husband to call the fox because she's pretty rubbish at making the noise.

Besides the camaraderie, the views are great. I can see my house from the first drive -

 It's right in the middle of the picture. It looks very small from here.

I can see the sea from the second drive. I often forget how close we are to the ocean.

I have been practicing my squirrel trapping too. Here's my barrel -

It's a standard pheasant feeder. Our feeders are upcycled from a shipping container used by a local leather factory. We cut mailbox feeder slots into two sides -

For trapping squirrels, just enough wheat is put in to cover the bottom of the feeder (so pheasants can't reach) and a fen trap is placed on top -

I've left too much wheat in the bin and it's jamming the plate from beneath, stopping the trap from snapping shut. I would stop and check my trap, just to find a squirrel pouring out of the letterbox slot like quicksilver and making for the nearest tree. I've taken some more wheat out and set a second fen, so I'm hoping to find two full traps in the morning.

The springs are strong. I can attest to this as I caught the tip of my middle finger in one a week ago and it still hurts. I was lucky it was only the very end. It's perfectly capable of breaking bone. It needs to be, to ensure a quick death. I make sure the springs are strong, and I check my traps more often than is required, just to be sure nothing's trapped awkwardly or going to suffer. I have recipes for squirrel but so far I've been feeding them to the crows as an excuse not to eat one myself.

Some of the dogs came out with me to check traps today -

They almost look well-behaved here. Don't be fooled. When I took this picture they'd already been running, flat out through the woods, for nearly an hour. That's why all the lolling tongues. Pip, the yellow lab was full of energy this morning but skipped the evening walk, as she found a better proposition -

Shotgun!

That's what I get for forgetting to make the bed. The chickens were more helpful -

I've moved a few chicken houses and decided to turn their nitrogen-rich earth into a couple of vegetable beds. The chickens are clearing any tasty pests and refining the tilth for me. (All that and eggs too -  chickens are great!) It won't be a pretty veg patch, but it might keep us in lettuces over summer, if I can chicken-proof it. Well, at least I know one of us will eat anyway.

Mike's gone to do his final check of the incubators, and I'm off to bed. If I can convince Pip to go halves with me on that side.

Coming up short

Everything's growing. The chicken babies are getting bigger; some are foraging without their mothers now. Others are big enough to go to roost at night. Pheasant and partridge chicks are spending the warmer days and even nights now in their outdoor runs. Their adult feathers begin to grow and make their wings hang down which give them a slouchy teenager walk. The lambs are so fat it's almost obscene. And the horses have round spring bellies.

The only thing that's not growing well is the grass.

It doesn't matter what you farm: sheep, cattle, even alpacas. You are only ever a grass farmer. Everything depends on grass. Lactating ewes need it to make milk to feed this year's crop of lambs. Lambs and calves need it to graze. Even deer need the long grass as cover to hide their young.

A cold winter and a dry spring mean the grass has been slow to grow. Most of my time at the moment is spent moving grazing animals to any available patch of grass, even if I have to stand there with them as they eat it. Sometimes I'm patching fences with whatever I can find in the back of the truck: wire, baling twine. I had to tie two gates closed on a paddock this morning with the horses' bridles so they could graze the best of the grass in there.

The permanent pony paddock is left of the fence. It's horse sick and needs fertilizer and time to grow without being pestered by two gluttonous horses. I have let them onto the track the other side of their paddock, to let them eat what they can from that small piece of field, and for emergency fencing purposes ---

I blocked them in with the truck. The ingenious part of the plan was that I brought my knitting and a flask of coffee and was able to sit there and have an hour to myself.

The local farmers have a saying "Fog in March, Frost in May, isn't any good for hay". Which is exactly what we had. This means that hay is going to be short again this year. We need to get bales made, or bought and stored, before the end of summer.

We've just about come to the end of crow trapping season. I will pack up my traps by 1 June. I was surprised to see what was waiting for me in a crow trap this morning -

It's a fox cub. He climbed into the trap and got himself caught.

He might look like he's being cute in this picture, but he's actually hissing and snarling at me. This cub is the sign that it's time to trade in my crow traps for a gun, and do some fox control in the evenings. They get bigger alongside the pheasant poults. The foxes will have their share of the pheasants before pheasant shooting season.

A Surprise

It was a gorgeous evening, so I decided to get togged up in my warm clothes and try my luck in the high seat again. I left two hours before dark, and saw nothing until it was nearly too dark to shoot. Then, as luck would have it, a young roe buck (a primo meat animal) came out of the woods and hung on the margin of the field. He was just out of my sight line for a good shot. When it got too dark to see, I gave up. We'll both be back for a rematch.

I came home, fed the lambs, stripped off to my long johns and sat down to dinner in front of the TV (if Easter candy and a cup of tea counts?). It's all about the glamour here.

Dulcie our self-appointed kennel guard started barking. Mike got up to see what stirred her up, and called me outside. We could hear a vixen fox yowling, which is usually a mating call though it's late in the season. And it sounded like it was coming from the back field.

Mike has a gift for calling foxes in by making a squealing noise meant to imitate an injured rabbit. A hungry fox can't resist the sound. My gun was still propped in the corner, so I grabbed it and Mike grabbed a flashlight, and we hung out the bedroom window trying to catch a reflection of the fox's eyes in the light. Mike started squeaking, and a fox appeared right on cue about 80 yards away. I hung the barrel of the gun out the bedroom window and dropped the fox in the field.

I probably should have put some trousers on before going to inspect the fox, but that's another plus side to living in a rural area: Pants are optional.

It wasn't the vixen, but a dog fox. And a small one at that. When I had a look underneath, I found it had underdeveloped testicles. I have no idea why this is, perhaps just another of nature's oddities like the hermaphrodite pheasants. He seemed healthy enough otherwise; no signs of mange (common in foxes) or external parasites.

So, two hours in a cold high seat produced less than two minutes kneeling on my bed in a warm house and taking a quick shot out the window. I grant you, the last option is less sporting but at least I know he won't be feasting on any of my chickens. Speaking of chickens, I think there might be some 'Peeps' left in the Easter basket...

View Halloo!

There is a small shelf in the kitchen. One half is the "nature table" - found fossils, interesting seeds pods and bug carapaces. The other half is the "information centre" where we prop up invites and schedules to try and remind us when we're supposed to be at some function or other. This time of year it's filled with lists of dates for local hunts.

I should clarify the terminology. In England, 'hunting' means 'foxhunting' - riding a horse in pursuit of a fox (nowadays, only the scent of a fox). What Oscar Wilde described as "The Unspeakable in pursuit of the Inedible". Mike informs me that, in his experience, you would have to be pretty damn hungry to eat a fox. (Being experimental in college had a whole different meaning for him). What we Americans term 'hunting' - going after birds or deer with a gun or bow - is called 'shooting' (birds) and 'stalking' (deer) in England.

Semantics or no, I've never been foxhunting. But one of the local hunts crosses our land, and I thought it would be fun to go and watch the horses and hounds running over our little piece of England. Landowners who support the hunt are invited to attend hunt meets and sent a list of dates. The MFH (Master of the Fox Hounds) also called to ask if she could put a jump on our land for the day, so it looked like it could be a promising show. Particularly for an American who still finds British traditions a great source of hilarity.

But hunting is considered a rather upper class pursuit. And I didn't want to embarass the hosts by making too many faux pas (or is it fox pas in this instance?) Hurrah then for a guide to the British upper class - Debrett's.

I consult Debrett's - the bastion for etiquette and manners - for information on social matters. They publish books and have a handy website. They are the very definition of antiquated snobbery - in the nicest possible way.

In the appendices of its Correct Form guide is something called the Table of Precedence. This guide arranges everyone in England according to rank and status. Having a dinner party and you're not sure whether to seat your Baron or your Viscount at the head of the table? Why, simply check your Debrett's guide. (It's the Viscount in case you were wondering). There are even Tables of Precendence for ladies, and for Scottish people.

I guess, then, the starting point is finding your place on the list.

At the top of this list is HM The Queen, and at the bottom of the list is 'gentlemen' (and 'ladies'). Because we own land, we are raised one rank above 'gentlemen' to 'esquire' (and 'wife of esquire'). Only 90 places or so below the Queen! And to think, last year we were 91 places below Her. We're still below sons of knights and circuit court judges, but I'm begining to feel my own sense of self-importance growing. I may even start ironing my tractor overalls in keeping with my new status.

Armed with foxhunt how to's, I was ready to attend my first hunt meet. As with everything I arrived late, and my first image of the hunt was this -

Those minute dots on the horizon are actually horses. My initial thought was "Huh. Not much of a spectator sport then..." But I stood there, and then a horn blew and soon after the view changed to this:

And a second later, to this:

Then suddenly all the other spectators except us went running off in some pre-ordained direction to intercept the hunt at its next location and watch the whole 10 second spectacle again. So we just followed the pack, not unlike what the hounds were doing.

By the way, I am told they are called 'hounds' not dogs'. And they have a 'stern' instead of a tail.

I think that it's similar to watching professional cycling races like the Tour de France. A few seconds of frenzied excitement as the participants whizz pass at speed, followed by long periods of lull. I don't know about cycling, but a hip flask with homemade sloe gin is essential for watching the hunt. I'm glad I knew this bit of information before we set out for the morning.

We watched The Field (as the group of horses and hounds are called) ride off to our field (of the grass variety) and jump the hedge jump. Then it started raining again. That dampened my enthusiasm to follow them any further. I think I got the jist of this hunting thing, even if I haven't masterted all the terms yet. The next task is to actually get on a horse and join in. I have a plan for that too. Tally ho!

Death, Plague, and Pestilence...and it's only Wednesday

I redeemed myself last night. We went lamping for foxes (see post titled 'A Comedy of Errors' for explanation and background on lamping) and I killed 3 foxes with 3 shots. Two of the foxes were at 'The Hill' pen where we've had tremendous losses over the last week. Those two were cubs, and we know there's at least one more fox still up there - 4 more dead pheasants this morning confirm it. So my job isn't over yet.

We got home late and got to bed around midnight. Just as I started to fall asleep I heard an explosion of panicked chicks in the shed under our window. It was the meat chickens and something was in there with them, plaguing them. A rat. I got outside and crawled into the shed (it's really a whelping shed for dogs so it's only 3ft high inside) and found 29 chicks cowering in a corner, in danger of smothering each other. I untangled the chick "bait ball" and counted all 29 were still there and unharmed. Mike came out, handed me some bricks, and we did our best to block off the hole and keep the chicks safe, at least for the night.

I got up earlier than normal this morning to check on them - all OK - and to do Mike's chores and give him a chance to get a bit more rest. I walked the dogs and let the chickens out as per usual. One young cockerel flopped out of his run and looked unsteady on his feet. When I picked him up he was very thin and his legs were splayed one out front, one out back - an indicator of Marek's disease.

Although it usually affects hens, he's the right age and showed a number of symptoms. Marek's is a virus and, though our parent stock and meat chicks are vaccinated against it, the homebreds are not. It's not cost effective. And the vaccine is not 100% effective. Some of the ornamental breeds such as this poor cockerel are more susceptible. And there's no cure, only prevention through good husbandry. So it was a trip to the log pile again. I hate that trip.

A pestilence has beset the garden. I will disinfect their homes (should I mark an 'X' over the doors?) and watch our other chickens for signs of disease, and keep my fingers crossed.

Gamekeeping 101 - How to Spot a Fox Kill

Both the birds in this picture are typical of a fox kill. Use these tips for identification:

1.) Missing its head (image on left)
- A fox commonly bites the head completely off a bird to dispatch it, before going on to kill the next bird.
- If the fox had begun to eat the carcase, the feathers will be chewed off (i.e. quills will be partial and have rough ends) not plucked, and the feathers will be stuck together with saliva.

n.b. Sparrowhawks will also take the head off a bird but there will be a pile of plucked out breast feathers, with quill still intact, around the carcass and, strangely, you will usually find the lower mandible left.

2) In this peculiar position (image on right)
- The fox grabs a bird by the middle of its back and crushes the ribs - you can feel this when you handle the carcase. Often feathers in that area will be missing or sticky with saliva.
- When the fox crunches down he causes huge internal damage: the injury seems to cause the bird's head to drop back and arch, as in the photo. The head position is a primary indicator.

n.b. A dog may also kill a bird this way.