Dave the Scarecrow & the Pigs Return

If it's not one pest, it's another. We're getting on top of the fox problem at 'The Hill' but now buzzards are giving the little pheasant poults a hard time. I think I explained in an earlier post that buzzards will sit in trees above the poults and worry them so much that they won't come out to eat or drink. Once they're weak enough, the buzzards picks them off at their leisure. In this case, it's probably this year's young buzzards learning to hunt on a pretty abundant food source.

It's illegal to shoot or trap buzzards so we made 'Underkeeper Dave' here:

I love making scarecrows - it reminds me of Fall in New England and seeing scarecrows with pumpkin heads sitting on porch benches. Sadly, this is my sole artistic endeavour for the week. And I had to lend Dave my best hi-vis waterproof coat. Neither of us know (or will admit) where the size 8 flowered wellies came from, but it lends Dave's outfit a bit of flair.

Here's Dave in his new home in the pen. The big eyes are supposed to be an additional deterrent for the birds of prey. Dave's job is to stop this from happening:

There were 20 or so little kills like this. I hate losing birds.

We also rode the horses yesterday to try and keep them fit. The winds and storms have passed through so they are more settled again. It was a quiet amble (our horses' favorite speed) through the cider orchards. Chris the orchard man has already started harvesting, and there are lots of apples on the ground waiting to be hoovered up and sent for making hard cider. It looks like a record crop this year - they're expecting to process 800 tons!

After our ride Mike went back to "check on the pheasants" (and sneak in a little fishing!) before dark. I was still thinking of those wild pigs we saw yesterday, and thought I would go sit in the high seat and see if they return to the field. It was a sunny evening and at worst, I could enjoy a few hours with the late afternoon sun and a beautiful view. I often bring my ipod and listen to books or the Craftlit podcast. I had been doing this for an hour when they appeared in the field, nearly under my feet - too close to get a shot and close enough that they winded me or heard me and trotted back into the woods. No matter, they may be back.

And they were, half an hour later, this time at a reasonable distance 100m or so away. I had a good look at Moby Pig - a sow as big as my quadbike. A half-bred for certain. She is the leader of this clan. Following on behind her were two ginger colored pigs, most likely sows as boars that size would have been pushed out of the group by the matriarch. And Moby Pig's 9 or 10 mini stripers maybe 6-8 weeks old.

At this point I saw Pete walking up the far hedge - he obviously had the same idea as me. He couldn't see me but I could see he was safely out of shot. I picked a barren ginger sow and dropped her in the field. Pete heard the shot and saw where I was. Now he might have a chance at the other ginger sow - he had a shotgun with rifled slug so needed to get much closer to be in range. I stayed loaded to back him up; he was on the ground and pigs, especially a big mom with youngsters, is likely to charge. Though not ideal, I could drop her if necessary, so I stayed on her.
The pigs were staying with their fallen friend. It's hard to watch, I'm never sure how much they are aware of. Research on elephants acknowledges that they grieve for their dead. Pigs are so smart, I don't think we should be quick to underestimate them.

But it's a trade-off. They're escaped domestic crosses which dilute the 'native' boar and do a tremendous amount of damage to crops. And it's meat, and I'm not a vegetarian.

Pete never got close enough. They winded him and ran back to the safety of the woods.

We bled and gralloched the pig, and loaded her into my quadbike and I drove home. Hunters on the continent often put a leafed branch in the pig's mouth as a sign of respect, like offering a last meal. I always try and show my quarry the utmost respect, and ensure the kill is quick and clean, to prevent suffering and ensure the most amount of meat is usable. This carcase will go to our estate stalker Paul for processing. Paul pays me in meat for the freezer.

Dakota always has to check out the trucks and quadbike when we return from a trip without her. Most dogs are afraid of pigs, and rightly so - a wounded pig that size could easily kill Dakota. It is one animal I hunt without the backup of a dog.

It looks like we'll be having wild pig for Christmas dinner then.

Partridge & Pigs & Plums

Our partridges were delivered at 8.30 yesterday morning, and it was "all hands to the pump" to finish the pens. I ran ahead to secure the pens, tying up nets and blocking any partridge-sized escape holes. The boys followed behind filling them with partridges. We were done pretty quickly, and it was back to ours for some well earned fried egg sandwiches (thank you chickens!)

We left the new arrivals to settle in with minimal disturbance and used the 'free time' (what a blessed phrase that is...) to do some reconnaissance work. My 40th birthday is coming up this month (what a horrible phrase that it...) and I wanted to start the decade as I mean to go on, with a spirit of adventure. So Mike and I are planning to ride our horses from their stable to a little field we own about 10 miles away, camp overnight with dogs & horses, and ride them back to their stables the next day. It'll be the longest ride Mike's done since his accident but he assures me he's feeling up to it. I don't doubt it - he's as tough as they come.

We drove out the back roads and checked the map to get our bearings and make sure that bridle paths and rights of way were in usable shape.

We came across a little local traffic.

And just in case you didn't believe me that our roads were a little 'rustic' -

The horses are fit, the route is mapped; it all looks good for our trip. Now we just need a whole weekend of good weather between now and the end of the month, which is not as likely as it sounds. I suppose if I really had a spirit of adventure I would ride regardless of the rain.

On the way back we decided to pick some wild plums, which are in shorter supply than the sloes. We only know of one tree on the estate. While picking, Pete the underkeeper came by on his quad. He'd just seen a group of wild pigs on Slights Field (all the estate fields seem to have a name), and he was off home to get his gun. We couldn't resist the opportunity for wild pig meat meat, so I got my big rifle and joined him.

I say 'wild pig' instead of 'wild boar' because in this case it is domestic pigs that have broken free from a pig farm and become feral. You can tell the difference by color: pigs are usually a solid color and boar are striped. Wild boar and domestic pigs can breed and produce viable offspring, and the smell of a female domestic pig in oestrus will attract wild boar. The male (boar) will break through fences to get to her, then it's a free for all.

This little group had a great white sow (Moby Pig?) as its matriarch, and some slightly smaller ginger and dark pigs with her, and a litter of very small stripy boar piglets. Wild pigs or boar are jumpy and very difficult to stalk. They are on the move all the time; you have to shoot them when you see them or they're gone. It took us less than 10 minutes to get our guns and get to the field and they were already heading for the woods. We tried to split them and run them to where one of us could take a shot. No luck. That's pig shooting for you.

Here's a sign of pigs working a field. Small patches of the sward are turned over where they root for worms and small invertebrates with their snouts. Badgers will do this too, but on a much smaller scale.

Pete needed to feed his pheasant pens so I offered to stay behind in the high seat, in case they came through and I could get a shot.

I waited for an hour but saw nothing; I caught a lift back with Pete on the quad. On the way home we did see a beautiful roe doe. She probably had a youngster somewhere nearby. Had that been a buck, I would have had something for the freezer, but I have the memory of that graceful deer silhouetted against the hill. And a bucketful of wild plums for jam.