Long time no see...

Sorry all. No excuses. Busy shooting grouse, taking photos, writing articles, chopping firewood, making sloe gin, buying Christmas presents and playing with the kids. Doesn't time fly when you're having fun?

Summer Solstice…

WELL, not quite, but only a little out.

Can't believe it's that time of year already and things are so lush and green, it seems impossible that things could ever look as stark as they did just a few short months ago when the countryside was in the grip of the deep freeze.

Days of finger-numbing shooting seem a distant memory, but preparations for next season are never far away and I've been helping build rearing pens and make sure all is ship shape for THIS season's birds. Pics to come.

I must say, walking the dog early on a still summer morning is pretty special – what an incredible country we live in.

Still A'Freezin'

It was cold this morning.

Not just chilly, but cold enough for a decent ice crust on the car, and plenty cold enough to crisp up the hedgerows.

The skies were immaculate - due in part perhaps because there are no vapour trails from grounded aeroplanes?

For those keen to have a try at Sloe Gin this Autumn, now's the time to mark down the decent blackthorn bushes. All the blackthorns are in bloom now as you'll see from the photos, and it pays to make a little map of the densest concentrations on your patch - so you can then nip back after first frost and pick all you need in one easy session.

By the way, I've only just decanted the remainder of my gin from last year (that is, removed all the remaining sloes and sludge from the demijohn and decanted into bottles). If you start to get a good production line going, you'll have some of last year's SG to drink when winter comes and can stock up again ready for next year. If you see what I mean...

Although it's nice to feel the sun on my back again, I can't help missing winter just a tad. Let's face it, for many of us, it's when we do most of our shooting, beating etc. I've been out to bag a few woodies in the last couple of weeks, but the little blighters seem to nest earlier and earlier every year, and I just can't help feeling uncomfortable about shooting potentially nesting birds...

I've come out of hibernation!

Can't really make any excuses; it's just been cold, wet and miserable for so long, I couldn't bring myself to the keyboard to extol the virtues of another English winter.

But lo and behold! The sun comes out and all is right with the world once more. I've got a stack of good photos to share thanks to some nifty camerawork on some driven shoots over the winter - not to mention a tale or two to tell of snowy duck flights, bagging a Jay, hill stalking and much much more.

I will be sharing in good time - in the meantime, has anyone else noticed a large amount of ladybirds around this year? Perhaps we're in for another plague...

Back at last...

Well it's been a while - but hey, it's a busy time of year!

There have been shoots to visit, dogs to train, guns to buy, clothes to dry and handwarmers to fire up - and we've had the biggest cold snap for many years here in the UK.

For a week or more, we were more or less snowed in, which is pretty much unheard of in this part of southern UK these days.

But we have had some special shoot days, with birds towering in leaden skies and biting winds making pulling the trigger difficult with painful fingers.

Watch this space.

First Frost At Last

It seems to have been pretty late this year down south, but the first frost of the year has crisped the vegetation at last.

The sun soon warmed us all up, mind you, and it was the perfect morning to begin collecting sloes for this year's batch of Sloe Gin (traditionally you should wait until the first frost before picking these fruits of the blackthorn bush).

I do enjoy this time of year, especially the early mornings. There are some wonderful cloud formations, misty hollows and micro climates to be found.

Myxomatosis is rife amond the warrens again once more and we are finding fresh dead rabbits everywhere. The local predators are having a field day, and I have dispatched several coneys brought back to me by the dog.

After a quick tramp around, that morning cuppa tastes so much better, and my head is clearer for work.

A great way to start the day.

Safari Part II

Our first game drive was at 3.30pm to beat the heat of the day.

We clambered aboard the all-terrain Land Rovers which are open topped and one sided, with tiered seats for a great all-round view. Our tracker is Collen, from the local Shangaan tribe. He speaks little English, but doesn't miss a thing.

We encountered plenty within minutes of leaving the camp gates; hornbills, impala and a male Nyala (a type of antelope).

After about an hour of ogling at everything, Collen gave a low whistle and the jeep came to a sudden halt. There, in the baked mud of a former watering hole, pcok-marked by the huge footprints of elephant, lay a young female leopard. We had all looked straight at her and not seen a thing.

We manouvred closer as we all clamoured for cameras and binoculars. She was nervous at first, and scuttled into some low bushes nearby. But after a while, when we stopped and cut off the diesel engine, she calmed and lay quietly in full view almost 10 yards away.

Kipling couldn't do her justice.

A creature of immense elegance and grace, with markings no architect could hope to recreate. When she looked directly at me and I gazed into those pale green eyes, I was quite overcome with emotion. It literally brought a tear to my eye.

We stayed there for the best part of an hour, and she even got up and came closer, lying in the dappled evening sunlight looking for all the world like a domestic cat.

She blinked her eyes, rolled on her back and washed herself languidly for the cameras. An extraordinary creature.

We moved off and as dusk fell across the vast landscape, we found an almost stereotypically good granite outcrop in the middle of the bush.

We climbed its smooth sides to a plateau around 30 feet up, feeling the warmth of the day reflected on its ancient surface. And there, with Rory and Collen and our two game drive companions, Dennis and Christina, enjoyed a gin and tonic sundowner as the massive sky blushed and darkened above.

Trip of a lifetime...

I stumbled across one of my old travel diaries yesterday while clearing out the attic ready for the tender ministrations of the loft insulators. It details a luxury safari a mate and I undertook in South Africa many moons ago.

With a cup of appropriate Rooibos tea (a favourite out there, and still a favourite with me) I read it quietly for half an hour. What memories it brought back.

I've decided to include a couple of extracts here which might make interesting reading for anyone thinking of going on safari. I would not have written in the same style and manner these days, but have resisted the temptation to change or embellish any of it. I hope you enjoy it.

Part One

London Heathrow - Johannesburg

Jo'burg - Skukuza

Skukuza - Phinda

Richards Bay - Jo'burg

Jo'burg - London Heathrow

The flight and travelling time is tedious more than anything else.

South African Airways are an impressive outfit; seemingly everything in this amazing country has been carefully thought out.

Jo'burg International Airport was much like any other I have experienced; not threatening, just busy. Skukuza, an hour's drive from Mala Mala where we are to stay, on the other hand, is a comically tin-pot affair, with the feel of the cowboy west.

We arrived at around 9.30am, tired and dusty, to find that our luggage was not on the plane with us! Apparently, this is not uncommon. Fortunately, it was coming on the next plane, a couple of hours later, so it was not a major problem.

The hour's drive to camp gave us our first glimpse of the terrain. How can anything survive here? The place is parched, tinder dry acacias, thorny scrub, strawlike grass and Africa's pervading dust.

Apparently, there has been an unusually long dry spell; The Sand River, upon which Harry's Camp is based, is barely a trickle.

What a place Harry's is. Superbly practical, but aesthetic buildings, perched atop the meandering river. The chalets are nothing short of magnificent. The standard of a five star hotel, our room includes a secluded balcony overlooking the river and surrounding bush, two basins, a bath superbly situated so you can sit in it and look over the river through a huge window (which opens), shower, toilet and wardrobe with built-in safe etc. Each are totally self sufficient and totally secluded. The silence is incredible. There are currently only 14 of us in camp.

It's a shame the river isn't in full spate, apparently it attracts hippos and elephants. But there's enough water to still hopefully draw some of the animals in.

Our guide and host is Rory, an amicable chap from Cape Town. Young, tanned and a gifted naturalist, he speaks softly and with authority on plant, animal and bird life. He has a degree in Zoology.

The staff are very efficient and courteous. This is a truly class act.

Already from our room, we've seen startling birdlife, including iridescent kingfishers and hummingbirds sipping nectar from the flowers outside the chalet.

Wake up call is at 6.30am when Rory rings up. At 7am it's breakfast - anything you want from fry up to fruit. This morning I had cereal followed by bacon, poached egg, sausage and Welsh rarebit!

Mists and mellow fruitfulness...

A cold, creeping mist roiled in front of the dog and I this morning as we descended into the valley on our early morning walk.

The hilltops around were bathed in sunlight but this eerie, dank fug hung around the hollows, enveloping the lower reaches of our walk in a different world entirely.

The temperature dropped by several degrees down there, and the air was still; my ears were ringing in that crystal way I have only ever before noticed during snow.

Spider webs hung draped across the scarlet hawthorn berries and I realised that soon the first frost would be upon us; time for picking the abundance of sloes that festoon the hedgerows like little plums.

I'll be making some sloe gin that will warm me by the fire come Christmas time. And these thoughts prompted me to start collecting firewood on my walks. It's surprising how much you can collect over a couple of weeks, and free fuel is not to be sniffed at in these hard economic times.

I lit the first fire at home this weekend, with great reverence and ceremony, the family gathered round. The children have inherited my love of a good log fire, and stories sitting on the hearth rug are tradition already.

It is starting to feel like the shooting season now.

Woodie egg thief?

Now I know I am a bit obsessed with Woodpigeons - what 'real' UK shooter isn't? - but here's another little anecdote I wanted to share with you.

While out walking with the dog yesterday I heard the familiar clatter of woodie wings from a nearby ash tree, but I was surprised to see when I looked up the bird in question was flying off with what appeared to be an EGG in its beak.

Unsurprisingly, after around 100 yards, the 'egg' dropped to the stubbles, but annoyingly, despite a good search I couldn't find it to confirm the sighting.

I have never seen, or heard, anything like it before; can anyone shed any light? Have woodies been known to move/rob eggs before? The only thing I have ever seen a woodie carry is a twig for a nest...

Great White Woodie?

Okay, call me barking mad - and of course, many of you do - but this one has been drifting in and out of my consciousness for some time.

The eureka moment came yesterday afternoon as I ambushed pigeons from the luxurious comfort of a convenient stack of oat straw bales.

The sky was cobalt blue, the sun warm and a pigeon appeared almost magically overhead as it approached on the warm breeze from behind me.

In the split second before I shot it (why are my best shots always ones I don't have time to think about?) the light bulb went on in the old noggin.

Let me backtrack. A few years ago I was fortunate enough - if that's how you view it - to cage dive with Great White sharks in South Africa.


A friend and I travelled to the legendary shark-spotting capital of Gaansbai and headed out towards Seal Island; the spot where wildlife documentary makers camp out to watch these prehistoric creatures explode from the foam to capture unfortunate pinnipeds who inhabit the island.


Much of the memory of climbing into the cage and ducking underwater is hazy and dreamlike. Fear and adrenalin, the cold water below and searing sun above all merged into an unforgettable half hour of life experience.


But what triggered like a flash bulb in my mind as I shot that racing woodie yesterday was the similarity of the Great White cutting through the confluence of the Atlantic and Indian oceans, and a pigeon doing the same in a crystal summer sky.


I have noticed it subconsciously over and over and the similarity is uncanny. It seems to happen most often when the birds are flipping in towards the decoys looking for a place to land with their wings set at a downward 45 degrees, just like the pectoral fins of an incoming shark.


There - I've got it out of my psyche. Think about it next time you're shooting pigeons in a sea blue sky.

Mountain out of a molehill

Well it's been an busy week in The Amateur Naturalist household, and no mistake.



It started with much excitment from my five year old daughter as the pupae she had been looking after had turned miraculously into a moth!


It was the first time she had seen the entire magical process from caterpillar to finished article and for once she was lost for words. It truly is one of nature's wonders, and I realised that as an adult I had forgotten about the beauty and awe it inspires. I'll be paying more attention in the future.


Next up was Gary the snail. The unfortunate mollusc had been held in captivity for a couple of days at the insistence of my youngest daughter, aged just two. So after his enforced confinement in a plastic tub cut with airholes, we finally released him into the long grass at the back of the house. He looked pleased with his escape, but daughter number two wasn't sure about our parole policy.


The very next day launched the great fish mystery. Upon coming downstairs yawning and scratching I stared befuddled for a moment at a puddle on the kitchen floor. And then I noticed there was a small silver flapping going on in its midst.


We are fish sitting, and for some unexplained reason, the tank's inmates have taken it upon themselves to leap for freedom. Three times that day I rescued the great escapers until a lid was the only solution.


And just yesterday we awoke to another situation; this time mammalian and not piscine. The lawn had two new additions, and they weren't of my making.



A mole had invaded the sanctity of an Englishman's lawn. It could not be tolerated.

I knew that if left, the precious parcel of green I so lovingly tendered would soon be decimated by the underground marauder in his ever-growing series of tunnels from which he claims his nighly bounty of earthworms.


So I consulted old Les from up the road. A proper country gent is Les, of the old school. He was a farm labourer and gardener all his working life. He now tends the most magnificent vegetable garden it has been my privilege to see. In exchange for a couple of pigeons now and then, we sometimes find a sample of his produce waiting by the back door; perhaps a bag of thick ropey runner beans, or a couple of onions the size of small footballs.


As I thought he would, Les knew the solution. A couple of rusty old mole traps were fetched from his shed - strange looking contraptions too. Les then dug out the newest tunnel, set the traps and covered them all over with a thick sheaf of grass.


"Keeps it dark, see," was all he would say.


Then he reburied the traps in the soil and went on his way. The girls checked the traps 15 times that afternoon, with no tell-tale sign of the two arms being spread, indicating the trap has been sprung.


But when we got up early the next day, one of them had been. A quick dig and the poor miscreant was unearthed, crushed by the powerful arms of the trap.


A shame to kill such a lovely creature for going about his business, but I won't have greenfly destroying my honeysuckle and the same goes for moles and lawns. A good chance to show the girls one of these amazing creatures up close though and explain their strange, twilight world.

Rain Stops Play

I've been enjoying myself (and getting wet, inside and out) at the England v Australia Test Match at Edgbaston this week.

The game was marred by the lashings of summer rain that have been pelting these shores for a couple of weeks now, after a long dry spell previously which had crisped everything up.

We seem to swing from one extreme to the other, with not a lot of 'normal' weather inbetween. It may well be my imagination, but every few weeks seems to bring reports of hottest, driest, wettest, windiest, coldest this that or the other since records began. Must be hard for the birds and beasts to know whether they are coming or going.

They were still swifts over the skies and along the canals of Birmingham this week, but there weren't a lot of insects for them to scoop up, thanks to the wet stuff.

Butterflies were aplenty though when the clouds intermittently relented, making the most of the thousands of intrepid buddlhea which have colonated the miles and miles of deserted industrial sites and towpaths of this historical city.

Plenty of wasps in your beer too, but you'll find reports on Aussies, cricket and wasps in a much earlier post on this blog.

Back to the real world now, and some reporting work to do for the shooting, fishing and hunting newspaper, The Countryman's Weekly (more on the publication here at www.countrymansweekly.com)

Bugs and butterflies

It's a great time of year for butterflies. Noticed this Small Tortoiseshell and hundreds of his kind flitting among a sea of Creeping Thistle as I walked the dog the other day.

There were butterflies all along our route, drifting across swathes of wheat or lifting startled from our footsteps among the meadows.

And in among the nettles were swaying clusters of caterpillars, which will eventually transform themselves into the mighty Peacock butterfly. Always worth leaving some nettles in your garden, they are a boon to moths, butterflies and more.

Having filled up the paddling pool for the children, I noticed how many bugs and creepy crawlies soon find themselves trapped on the silvery surface. No wonder fish have so much natural food at this time of year. If a three foot paddling pool can trap literally hundreds of insects in 24 hours, imagine the tonnage of fish food collected by a good size stretch of river or stillwater?

Foxglove Fanatic

I have something of a fixation with foxgloves at the minute.

What extraordinary plants these are, and although widespread across the planet, seem quintessentially English to me.

Propogated entirely by the wonderful bumble bee, these glorious flowers have a shelf life of just six days between opening and falling from the corolla.

It is interesting to note that while many bees and insects are attracted to the striking plant, none of them rest on it, perhaps because they recognise its poisonous character.

Well known and used for centuries to treat a variety of ailments, the plant produces the important heart drug Digitalis, highly poisonous but effective in tiny doses. Increased doses apparently cause a variety of cerebral symptoms, including seeing everything coloured blue!

A side effect of its use is loss of appetite and some desperate souls have been known to use it as an aid to weight loss.

Well, it doesn't make me blue or hungry, but it does give me enormous pleasure in the garden as the bees clamber in and out of the throats of its magnificent flowers. I have spent many hours in Devon and Cornwall marvelling at the strain of pink foxgloves that carpet the verges and embankments of those sun splashed counties.

Good Boy!

The picture says it all. The old boy is coming on a treat.

After a recent foray on pigeons hammering the spring rape, I returned home to fetch Diesel to see if he would be keen to help me pick up. And boy, was he.

I left a few obvious birds out for him to find, and he even discovered a pigeon I'd forgotten about deep in some tall rape stems. He shows no concern about picking up these loose-feathered birds, which apparently some dogs do.

I have not exposed him to a shooting situation yet, or even the sound of a shotgun, but he is already working fine with the noise of a starting pistol and I'm delighted with his progress. I hope and believe he is going to make a great shooting companion and I can't wait for that moment when I shoot a bird over him and he retrieves it for the first time. Life affirming stuff.

Kentish coastline

I've mentioned before my penchant for the seaside, and this last week I've been able to indulge it to the full.

A week in Whitstable is to be appreciated at any time of the year, but when the sun shines, the wine flows and the asparagus grows - what more could you ask for?

I really resent not having plentiful and varied fresh seafood readily available where I live. The last few days have been heaven. Oysters each day, a luncheon of tiny slip sole, barely cooked in seafood butter, stiff-fresh mackerel fillets and bundles and bundles of beautiful crunchy asparagus.

No wonder they call Kent the garden of England. Everywhere you go there are hop plantations, fruiterers, pick your own strawberries, raspberries and vegetables of every size. And did I mention the asparagus?

Although some of the seaside towns can be a bit rough around the edges, there are some truly lovely parts of Kent that I had not experienced before.

And one night, as whorls of my cigar smoke eddied in the breeze and I sipped a fruit-laden red wine, I had time to notice things around me again; I find it often it takes a few days of solace to open my eyes to the real things in life once more.

As dusk fell, I watched as the daisies on the lawn of our cottage began their evening ritual, closing their petals up for the night until the rays of the sun would unlock them again in the morning.

Such a ubiquitous plant, visible everywhere and ignored by all. But what an amazing organism just the same. Every bit as special as a rare orchid in its own way and worthy of study and wonder on a ethereal June night.

Messing about on the river

I've always wanted to live by the sea but living perhaps as far away from it as it is possible to get in the UK, I've had to settle for hours spent by a meandering stream.

I've tried my hand at the floating fly with some success and landed my share of coarse fish, but seem to spend most of my time gazing wondrously at the flora and fauna that abound near the water's edge, particularly in the summer.

Whether it's the glut of a mayfly hatch, as songbirds stoop to take their share of the winged plunder on offer, or the sight of an unfamiliar and beautiful flower on the bank, being near running water holds a special charm over me.

I took the dog down to a shallow stretch recently to gauge his appetite for water work. In true style, he was in and retrieving before either of us had a chance to think about it.

But while I was there, inevitably my mind strayed. Small boys unnwittingly did their bit for conservation in the dappled pools as they rootled about under rocks for the destructive alien species of crayfish; a Kingfisher piped past with that umistakeable whistle and flash of burning blue; and fry of all varieties darted and sashayed through the cool, crystal water.

I know it's been opined many times before, but it's true what they say. There's nothing so nice as messing about on the river.

Red Kite

I saw a red kite wheeling over the back of our house last week, soaring in that angular, almost prehistoric way they have. It quite made my day.

It is the first I have seen in such close proximity to the village, and considering only 10 years ago I was travelling around the country to catch a glimpse of these magnificent predators, it demonstrates a remarkable resurgence in their numbers.

It was a tradition that on the May Bank Holiday my then girlfriend (thankfully now my wife) and I would travel down the M40 to Stokenchurch to see Red Kites mewing and planing across the chalk hills of the Chilterns where around 50 pairs had been introduced, I believe sometime in the late 80s.

We then lunched at a favourable local hostelry and chatted enviously to locals who told us the birds regularly swooped over their bird tables as they scavenged for scraps.

The afternoon would be spent around local bluebell woods, marvelling at that incredible palette of blue that seeps from the gloaming under the trees. After a pleasant couple of hours following badger tracks and birdwatching among the trunks, we would head home and open a bottle, feeling we had been part of a small but important natural success story.

I can hardly believe that today I can walk out of my back door with my binoculars and find a kite or buzzard hunting alongside me in the local rides and hedgerows, where once only the humble kestrel ruled the skies.

Screaming of the swifts

Spring is getting close to top speed and ready to burst, full-stride into early summer.

We've had an outstanding few days on the weather front, helping to remind me that when we get our dose of decent sunshine, there's nowhere better to be.

The evenings now draw on incredibly late and it's still light enough to walk the dog at 10pm. Those dark, dank winter days seem like someone else's memories, so distant do they seem while I sit sipping a G&T watching the sun go down.

Surely someone somewhere has carried out a study which proves that people are happier when it's sunny? As I write, I can hear kids playing outside, and the smell of burning charcoal wafts through the open window as barbecues get dusted off and wheeled out for a chance to cremate some meaty offerings.

Birdlife is frantically busy, nest-building and chick-rearing, with barely time for a few hours' sleep before the sun is out once more and the whole process begins again. Cats are prowling all hours too, taking their massive toll on our songbirds.

Another added benefit of having a dog is that these furry feline marauders are kept out of the garden. Diesel's training is going well, with multiple retrieves and even some water work taken in his not inconsiderable stride. The light evenings mean fitting this in after a day's work is no problem. The children adore him.