Back in the seat.

I have been away from tattooing for four years now. It has been the major constant in my life since I was fourteen years old.

I made the decision to retire and live out my days in the sunshine of California and followed that dream. Dreams can so soon fade as reality takes a hold. Our worldly goods were shipped off in a container and delivered to our new home.

We travelled between the US and Mexico for a good few years and met some amazing people, visited places that were so beautiful that they would leave you smiling for days. But dreams are double edged and as sharp as a razor blade. Things are never as they seem and even though it was never at the forefront of my mind, tattooing was always there, lurking and making me unhappy with my new life. The rot had set in but I was too wrapped up in the new life to see what had really happened.

Circumstances dictating that I return to my green and pleasant homeland caused a ripple effect. I had my eyes opened and my initial dissatisfaction with coming back faded and has been replaced with a diamond hard fact of life. I tattoo therefore I am. It is who and the what defined by the passion and love that I hold for the whole world of tattooing that has kept me alive and challenged. I need to be challenged to progress as an artist and a human being.

So here I stand at the death of a false God and here I kneel at the altar of my craft.

God works in mysterious ways and I choose to follow.

Thoughts from another world.

Batteries in the machine are what far too many people have become. Seduced by advertisements and acting like sheep. Buy this product, it will improve your life, go to this destination for a fortnight, all you have to do is work your life away to afford it. I remember someone pointing out the 40 40 40 concept and it scared the living daylights out of me. You work 40 hours a week for 40 years then at the end of it you get a 40% pay cut. That was of course before the Gordon Brown decided to plunder the pension pot to profligate his social engineering projects. That 40% pay cut is more likely to be in the region of 60% even less if successive governments steal even more. While Rome is in flames around us the sheeple watch reality television and discuss it with equally limp minded individuals over coffees that cost more than some people earn in a month. The greatest social engineering experiment is still underway and as an observer it both saddens and sickens me that the population is letting it happen.

Day in, day out the television pours out propaganda and politicians from the two horse race system move in their pre programmed, media trained robotic manner. Watch them closely and you will see their body language and hand gestures are so similar they could be clones wearing masks. Any right thinking person who has enough space left in their heads after the onslaught of modern consumer life should be able to spot these traits. It reminds me of the book Invasion of the body snatchers only these are not aliens they are self serving traitors to the people they are supposed to serve. Think about that last word for a moment. They are supposedly our servants. We vote for them on the premise that they are going to act in our best interests. To paraphrase the Pink Floyd song “In the flesh” I have some bad news for you sunshine, honesty isn’t well it stayed back at the hotel.

Thinking back to the dying days of Lady Thatchers government I remember the changes in the Labour party, rebranding to disassociate it from its shambolic association with the unions. The promises that were broken as soon as power was wrested from the previous government, it occurred to me right there that the new boss was exactly the same as the old boss and I voted them in, to my eternal shame. Life should be a collection of experiences that lead to improvement, so how is it that so many people can be dullards clinging to the hope that the next time their party wins it will somehow improve their own lives? Especially when all of the available evidence points to the contrary.

I have friends that are to all intents and purposes intelligent people. So it surprises me incalculably when I see them resorting to insulting other people for looking at alternatives to the established system. I find it even more puzzling when I hear that people choose not to vote at all. The vote is the only thing that a person can do, legally, to bring about change. Some of these friends claim to be anarchic types who hate the system and want to see it fall. They don’t vote at all so presumably they expect things to change all by themselves. Or perhaps they believe that the major parties will suddenly undergo a radical change that involves keeping promises. Either way they are delusional. For any type of revolution people need to actually act in one way or another.

So here it is in a nutshell. A general election is coming and for the first time in living memory there is a chance to revolutionise the political landscape in the UK. I make no bones about the fact that my X will go firmly in the UKIP box, even from over here in Mexico and I know that some of my friends will roll their eyes and think I am some kind of Nazi so let me make a few things clear.

Back when the issue of uncontrolled immigration first made the headlines there was a marked rise in support of the British National Party. So much so that the powers that be got rattled and the media went into overdrive to decry a legitimate political party. Headlines and references calling them Nazis were the order of the day and the professional politicians started to talk a good fight promising to deal with the issue. The quandary is that Great British sheeple believed the media and the outright lies that masqueraded as promises from the establishment. Note that I called the British National Party legitimate, because it is just that. Could you imagine a media outlet using tactics like those against the two main parties, of course not. The spectre of the BNP faded and those tough promises from the other political parties faded away into the ether.

As the old saying goes, today’s news is tomorrows chip wrappers. Though nowadays using newspaper to wrap is banned by health and safety regulations. I never did hear of death by newspaper poisoning but then again they insist that roofers wear hard hats, presumably to protect them from the risk of the sky falling on them. I digress.

As the election draws nearer the media will once again turn its attention to the threat on the status quo. The only difference will be the acronym in the headlines, UKIP will be the target and all sorts of scare tactics will be employed to ensure that they do not wrest any control from the establishment. The dullards stuck in their dogmatic beliefs that their chosen party will improve their lives will carry on regardless but with any luck when the dust settles the political landscape will be a much healthier one.

The last hurrah.

 The last few months have been hectic and the controlling of the local fox populations have had to take a back seat. We are moving to California so pretty soon my foxing days will be over. Slowly but surely the tools of my trade are being sold as I make way for a new era. I shall look forward to taking on the mighty wildlife in the old colony. This may be the last foxing tale I ever write so enjoy.

The farm drive that leads directly into the fields from a main road transforms my surroundings in just a hundred yards the busy A road is forgotten. Passing through the darkened farm into the first field the only illumination is from an old floodlight behind us, back amongst the hulking shapes of the barns. It casts oddly shaped shadows around us.

The field we enter is a hundred and twenty yards deep, in front of us at the opposite side is a railway embankment punctuated with arches leading into to more remote fields. On our last visit we left bait in this field and our mission for the evening was to re bait and just have a quick look around before going elsewhere. The Land Rover dies to order and the cloying silence closes in wrapping us in the cloak of night. The bait is offal and chicken carcasses provided by the local butcher. Nothing draws Charlie in like the aroma of rotting chicken. We alight the vehicle and make our way to the corner directly in front of us. There is a telegraph pole that is precisely a hundred yards from where the vehicle is parked. We will be putting a game camera over the bait to tag the visitors to the area, allowing us the luxury of turning up at the right time on the next visit.

The ground is sodden and a faint mist hangs above the ground as we retreat to the Land Rover, autumn is slowly dying and the temperatures drop evermore on each outing. We sit in silence save for the occasional noise as we sip on our coffees. Night vision has now reached its peak and I can see the embankment clearly in the withering moonlight. A faint rumble grows ever louder as a train comes into view, running from right to left. The light from the carriages spills out into the landscape. Tiny commuters framed by their windows slip by us on their way back to suburbia and the promise of a warm meal. The time has come for a look around so I leave the vehicle with my faithful Masterlight Supreme in my hand. My wingman stays and starts to scan his field. To the right of the vehicle a tall hedge bisects the two fields with a large gap at this end for tractor access into the next one. I walk twenty yards into the field where a tractor is parked on the edge and fire up the torch.

My technique for lamping is to put the focussed beam close to me on the ground allowing the softer light to spill out into the distance. I have been lamping with people who think they are lighting engineers for a disco and bemoan that they never see foxes. The soft ambient light is more than enough to see eyes and is less likely to spook our prey. Mainly nocturnal animals in rural environment do not see bright lights often so anything I can do to give me an edge is employed.

From where I stand to the opposite corner is four hundred yards and the field is eight and a half acres. The embankment runs the full length of this field too. In the far corner is a brick archway into another part of the farm. Keeping the lamp down I start to call softly, very softly. Again I have been out with people who will call as loud as they can as soon as they set foot or wheel into a field. If Charlie is close by they slink off never to be seen. I make a pass of the field with the torch but no eyes are forthcoming. I turn slowly to my left to leave the field and out of the corner of my eye something bright glints back. Something that was not there on the first pass of the lamp. The glint was well out from the fence at the bottom of the embankment. Perhaps just sixty yards away from me. I surmise it was on the way in to the call when I turned and it had caught me flat footed. I turn the lamp off and make my way gently back to the Land Rover in total silence to retrieve the rifle and my buddy.

We creep the few yards back into position. Charlie is still there but has retreated to the other side of the fence at the foot of the embankment. He sits still, blinking lazily in the edge of the beam. My .223 foxing rifle for the last few years has been recently sold so the rig is now an X Bolt .243 with 95gr lead tipped instead of 55gr ballistic tipped rounds. I make my way to the tractor while keeping the torch on him and lay the rifle across the bonnet. It sits as solid as a rock on the blue painted steel as I line up the scope with my predator friend. My wingman takes over the lamp and I settle myself down to take the shot.

As always my head clears and the only thing in the world is the shot itself. Posture, breathing, the feel of the stock in my hands. The eyes widen in distance as I crank up the zoom. Still he sits there confident and safe behind the foliage. My point of aim is clear of obstruction, as another train lights up the night sky in the distance the trigger pull ends and the round begins its short journey. The eyes disappear in a cloud of hot gas and recoil as my buddy calls a miss. The proof of this will be a walk of a hundred yards. We set off across the ploughed ground, stumbling along as our boots collect the sticky earth.

There he lies, a pristine specimen of Vulpes vulpes bereft of life, his confidence in the safety of his position having betrayed him. As the train rolls on above us the lights dance around the scene, the office workers oblivious to the dramas played out around them on their journeys in the dark.

Oh what a night.

The first fox of the night appeared as the combine was on the other side of the field, well out of the line of fire. Eyes popped up on a hedge line and were dismissed as a reflector on a trailer. Then the reflector blinked.

The moon is high in the clear sky so bright and clear that the craters are visible. The light from our closest neighbour casts deep shadows and gives the fresh stubble a pale complexion it is surreal and almost dreamlike. The swathe cut by the combine stretches away in front of me in a curve, first to the left and then away from me to the right, the cut is a good twenty feet wide. The eyes are intense in the beam thrown from the roof mounted Lightforce lamp though they are partially obscured by the uncut crop. I peer over the wing mirror through binoculars and my suspicions are confirmed. Although Reynard is within range he is behind the curve of the standing crop, to take a shot would mean aiming between the eyes and risking the bullet striking an obstacle on its travels. The shot offered is not a good one so I dim the lamp and start to call. Normally I would call them in using my mouth at this distance but tonight I opt to use Ihunt, a caller for the Iphone that I occasionally use. The solid state dying mouse calls for a predator to come hither. The eyes blink and move from side to side as the foe ranges its prey. Sure of a meal it comes forward at a trot around the curve, towards its nemesis. The Browning Xbolt is secure and held firm on the foam covering of the rest, the shape of the animal comes into full view though the scope, I close my eyes for a second and visualise the distance, a hundred yards I figure as I slip the safety catch off ready to send Charlie into the afterlife. Breathe in, breathe out, ready.

The field rises some forty feet from my position to the intersection of two hedges with a large gap between the two. The gap fills with light as the tractor and trailer come up the deeply rutted and winding track to meet the combine now coming back up the field behind me. I apply the safety catch and wait. The spotlights on the tractor roof breast the rise and shine directly towards me. Between my position and the tractor, which now looks like the spaceship in "Close Encounters" stands the enemy. I look through the scope to see which direction the fox will run as the beams of the spotlights transfix the animal in silhouette, the image is so clear that I see the ears of the fox go translucent around their edges as the light shines through them. If the night was cold I would be able to see its breath in the air. The fox stands there as the tractor approaches, it seems unafraid rather merely puzzled as to what the lights actually are. It decides that they are categorically unfriendly and bolts deftly to the right, into the crop. Round one belongs to Reynard.

The night progresses and rabbits run helter skelter in the dancing light thrown from the harvester. These particular fields are remote enough to employ the trusty Beretta semi automatic shotgun and the body count will be high enough to keep the farmer happy. My cigarettes ran out two hours ago and although the electronic device that I keep handy for such occasions still gives me the needed chemicals, it is not the same as a Marlboro. Mounted in the roof of the Land Rover is an old Midland citizens band radio set to channel 16, I press tx button and I tell the combine driver that I shall be back in ten minutes. Withdrawing from the field of battle it is a short drive into the nearest village only to find that the local Tesco convenience store is rather inconveniently closed. It seems that the villagers need to stock up early on any provisions in this locale. I make my way to the nearest filling station instead to purchase my needed nicotine and race back into the forlorn wilderness. I enter the field in the exact same route that the tractor and trailer had used to such good effect previously. In front of me the combine and trailer twinkle against the blackened background. They seem to hover in the air as there is no frame of reference in the scene. As the distance closes the reassuring ground appears around them. I am to the right of their position. The landscape drops away from me into another field that, as it is the other side of the brightly illuminated vehicles, is as black as pitch. To the right a tall hedge composed of high ferns and trees stretches off into the night. My Lightforce is on and dimmed to less than half power as I draw level with the other vehicles and as I swing to my left to park by the tractor a pair of eyes greet me in the darkness once more. I know that this field is two hundred and ninety yards across and the eyes are nearer than that but how near are they? I am illuminated by the harsh light from the combines floodlights therefore getting out to take the shot would be foolish so I drive around in the lee of the growling behemoth and off into the gloom on the other side. It is now me or him.

The field is triangular and I am now on the halfway point on the hypotenuse of the triangle facing the furthest point and the eyes have moved further away and down to the furthest point almost three hundred yards away. Battle is joined, mouth calling brings the enemy nearer but not close enough for a clean shot. The fox sits there, tantalisingly close but not close enough to ensure a clean dispatch. The electronic caller pulls it towards me but then it decides that it does not like the sound, the eyes extinguish and relight back on the far side. I call again using the back of my hand, softly but urgently, come devour me, I am mortally wounded. The fox sits resolute and unmoved. I know exactly how many clicks on my scope will, at this distance, result in a hearty clang on a kill zone sized gong but that is during the day and on a target that does not feel pain. This is a live being that will most certainly have a protracted and awful end should I fail in my duty. I look at the blinking eyes and muse that no doubt Reynard has a belly full of minced rodent already, hence his reticence on coming to the call. I put my arm out into the fluttering hordes of insect life attracted by my lights and wave goodnight to the winner of the contest. I look forward to our next meeting and may the best man, or indeed fox, win.

A chance encounter.

I often lamp alone, the solitude in the darkness is as peaceful as the modern world can be, just the sounds of the night for company. On occasions I will go out with a small circle of friends, this is usually just I and one other. Tonight was an oddity as due to circumstance as we had met up with another two friends who were lamping a different farm. We were parked on a layby on an main road where a famous highwayman once plied his trade, drinking coffee when the others pulled up for a chat. The hour was late and morning was but a few hours away, the traffic had all but stopped save for the odd lorry.

The layby is bounded on our right by a triangular field of some thirty acres, on the far edge is a bank that rises thirty feet at an acute angle. It is a field that is often used to zero rifles due to this feature. As we sit bemoaning our lack of success for the night I periodically scan the field with a small flashlight. On the third or fourth pass I see at the top of the bank a pair of dim eyes peering over the top. The chatter continues and I make a mental note of the position. I scan again and the eyes are brighter and have now moved towards us halfway down the bank, a hundred and seventy yards by my reckoning. I utter the word “Charlie” and the silence falls quickly around us. I signal the direction with my hand and withdraw the rifle from the darkness of the rear seat of the Land Rover. I now have a dilemma as the layby is well illuminated by the streetlights that extend from the traffic island in front of us. I know that Reynard can see us, far better than we can see him. The drivers door is facing his approach so I open it slowly, staying in the shadow of the vehicle I exit and on hands and knees I make my way. The hedge that runs the other side of the low wooden boundary fence has a break that covers almost all of the length of the layby. I choose to scale the fence at the point where the hedge ends rather than risk being spotted by the foe. The others are either behind or in the vehicles apart from one who enters the field in the same manner. The lamp is a handheld Clulite with an orange filter fitted. There is a conservation strip that bounds the field that at this point has a raised edge where the plough has pushed it up over the years. Tufts of grass and weeds grow along its length. As I crawl along on my stomach I curse under my breath. The grass is sodden and my water resistant clothing is no longer fit for purpose. I squelch forward and into position. The bipod is deployed and the lamp man is now behind me. I whisper to him and the field is bathed in an orange glow. I scan the field but it is devoid of eyes. He dims the lamp and I start to call softly on the back of my hand. The eyes look back they are now on the edge of the field, one hundred and forty yards at the base of the opposing hedgerow. They disappear and I call again slightly louder this time the reward is a pair of eyes sat halfway back up the bank. The wind, as slight as it is has changed and he knows something is amiss. The question foremost in my mind is how hungry is he? Hungry enough to ignore the strange smells perhaps. I start calling again, I put an urgency in the call that should sound delicious to an empty bellied fox. The eyes stare back, blinking occasionally and stubbornly refusing to come any closer.

I am closer than the original distance and estimate a hundred and thirty yards. At this range the vertical angle of the shot should make a negligible difference, the rifle a .243 Browning X Bolt is zeroed to maximum point blank range for the ninety five grain soft point Sierra bullets. The wind is so light that it is barely stirring the grass at my cheek, this is the moment if there ever was to pull the trigger. I have practiced the drill thousands of times, breathe in, loose the air out gently until it is all but gone. My finger is already resting lightly on the trigger and a steady pull ignites the fury. My vision is obscured momentarily and I miss the strike of the bullet but hear a deep thud come back over the rape stubble. My lamp man calls a clean miss and I look at him askance as I know that sound well enough. The field is bordered on the far side by a savage hawthorn hedge and the path to it is wellington deep in water. I weigh up the risk of drowning or disembowelment to prove my point and decide that it is not worth the nuisance. I know that it was a good solid strike and that is enough. The night is over for us and we decide that the beds are calling us home.

The following morning I have business to attend to in that direction and decide that a quick look around the area would not make me late. The drive was worth it, both to settle my mind on the shot and also to check whether or not the raider of pheasants needed another night out. Walking along the embankment I found a large dog fox in the precise position he had met his demise. Of course a photograph was sent via text message to the nay saying lamp man. Sometimes it is nice to be vindicated, is it not?

A winters tale.

Throughout the winter months I had been trying to alleviate two exasperating and troublesome foxes of their pulses. It had been frustrating as although they were never lamp shy but neither would they stay in one spot long enough to cross paths with a bullet. Calling them always failed so I started baiting an area with a good clear shot. On a glacial Monday night my shooting buddy and I departed in search of the pair of jokers.

We pulled into the field where the bait was set, the air crisp and clear with the odd flake of snow settling on the long suffering Land Rovers windscreen. A quick scan with the lamp revealed a empty field. Not a single eye to be seen and on checking the time on my phone it was apparent that we were too early. Off we set into the frigid night to another farm for a drive around to pass the time. An hour or so of contributing to global warming resulted in a bag totalling zero. Not a single creature seemed content to brave the low temperatures. Another look at the phone revealed that the time was nigh to return and send Charles to the happy mousing ground in the sky. Musing on the fact that with any luck the big old V8 would eventually warm up enough to prevent hypothermia we set off back to the baited field. The appointed hour was upon us as we drew into the farm, the engine still running, the heated seats threatening to cook our rear ends whilst our fronts were still frozen solid. I vowed to change the vehicles thermostat as soon as the weather warmed up. The irony was not lost on me. A sweep of the lamp revealed a distinct lack of glowing eyes once again. It is now one in the morning and a complete waste of time and petroleum so far.

There is a handy fast food emporium not a mile away from that spot, we headed off for a paper cup of stuff that in some way resembles hot chocolate. The emphasis is always being on hot rather than tasty. Reversing out of the field, back onto the deserted lane, we head up the slight incline that passes the farm buildings which are now on our left hand side. Around seventy yards away is a ten foot high pile of chicken manure. On several occasions we have spotted eyes on this monstrous mound of muck and sure enough, in exactly the same spot as usual, two dazzling orbs shone back blinking lazily in the orange beam. The game is afoot, lowering the intensity of the lamp, gently does it, put the beam cautiously over the Reynards head. He is still looking back at us with not a care in the world. Into reverse and the shot is lined up, engine killed, rifle resting steadily on the wing mirror bag. The eyes still blinking and watching us, the S&B filled with fur so clear that you can see the individual hairs. I exhale, squeeze and the resounding slap of a good solid strike echoes around the empty landscape. A short drive around the back of the farm buildings leads to the pile of unmentionable stench. You shoot it you fetch it is the unwritten rule so thankful of rather expensive Wellington boots, I scaled the fortunately frozen slope. Charlie was curled up half hidden by the straw that had been thrown on there. His desire for warmth and comfort had wrought his own demise.

My shooting partner decided to call it a night due to work the following morning so after dropping him at his car to depart the hunt was on again.

The temperature had risen a couple of degrees and there was now a faint mist hanging in the air. Returning to the baited area the lamp revealed a space devoid of fox so more fossilised fuel was going to be spent by the look of it. Deciding to get the warming fluid I turned around and headed up the same quarter mile lane that had just yielded a result, lamp on, headlights off. Eye, I am sure that was an eye on the edge of the road. We creep up the incline with the lamp dimmed. At the top of the incline to my right is a private tarmac road blocked by a gate that gives a clear view into the field to my right. As I pull into the road a foggy orange glow reveals not one but two eyes watching with curiosity at a hundred and fifty yards. The eyes disappear in the direction of the bait. I back carefully down the lane and a u turn reveals my opponent, nowhere near the bait but sat forty yards away and facing away from me, a galvanised farm gate separates us and it is closed. I dare not risk opening it as that will result in a vacant field before the deed is done. I deploy the shooting bag on the wing mirror and look along the side of the barrel to ensure that I have enough clearance over the gate to get the shot in. A lesson learned after a gate was holed while rabbiting. I give a short squeak on the back of my hand and and he looks over his shoulder sure in his mind that there is a free meal to be had. I exhale gently and at the bottom of the breath the crisp trigger of the Browning releases the firing pin. Powder ignites and a small but significant sliver of copper jacketed, plastic tipped lead hisses away. Almost simultaneously the hollow sound of the strike comes back in refrain. I smile inwardly and exit the Land Rover my posterior leaving a heat signature as I retrieve the second and final body of the night.

There is a lot to be said for a warm bed at the end of a wickedly cold night. Even a productive one.

Hot days and hotter nights.

Hot days and hotter nights. Summer, the season that most look forward to, the cubs are out and are interested in everything, playing in the freshly cut fields with abandon. As a foxing man I know that this is the time to get on top and keep the numbers at an acceptable level. Problem animals will be dealt with as and when they occur. That is and indeed always has been the arrangement with the farmers that I shoot for. On the commercial side of my shooting I find that the clients idea of an acceptable number of foxes is none. Tonight was a commercial outing to deal yet again with the local school. I arrive at the school in good time, Reynard shows up at anytime from a quarter to ten in the evening. As I arrive the school gates are still open and my usual route around the security barrier is blocked with cars. I send a text message to the site manager asking what is happening and get the reply that it is the seniors leaving party. He adds that they should be gone shortly so I settle down just outside the school and wait. I decide against entering until the last car leaves and the gate is locked. My Land Rover is sign written and my arrangement with the school requires me to be as discreet as possible as some people nowadays see the fox almost as a free range pet. The headmaster and site manager are not subscribers to this new age view hence my circumspect presence during the hours of darkness. The final car to leave is the headmaster and his departure signals the nights work. I enter closing the sizeable gates behind me and head to the trail camera that I placed there the day before. Though I know when the enemy starts his patrols it never hurts to continue monitoring as the game progresses. I sit in the car and review the video footage from the previous twenty four hours. The camera has a timer function and as I scroll through the videos of cars coming and going throughout the day I resolve to sit and read how to use this particular feature. Finally the video thumbnail shows a black and grey image. I press play and watch one of the many cats in the area walk by. The walk is more of a swagger as it must know that it is safe from my attentions. The next video shows my foe tucking into the bait. I look at the time stamp and now have a morning timeframe in which to lay ambush. The bait set previously has gone so I place a mixture of sardines and dried pasta twirls in their respective places. I check the line of sight to the two areas and move the Land Rover to a position that affords a shot from either window. I set up two rifles one facing in each direction. Both hold chambered rounds with the safety catches applied. I recline the seat and settle down to wait. Summer, I decide is not my favourite season. The weather today has been oppressive, although I enjoy the summer heat most days today has been humid with little or no breeze to bring succour. The night is little different save for the swollen moon peeping from behind the clouds instead of the hazy sun that ruled the day. To my right a few feet away the street lamp glares harshly into the cab and I realise that I am visible to the bait station on my left. I improvise and use a piece of thin perforated foam from a quad bike seat that is in the foot well. With this shut in the door and hanging down I am invisible once more. The vehicle feels more closed in as the temperature starts to rise. It begins to rain and my hopes of a cooling shower die within moments as it stops as soon as it started. The sweat starts to pool on my lower back and I can feel the slick sheen on my brow begin to trickle down, irritating as it goes. I wipe my face with the sleeve of my shirt as I stare into the gloom on the edge of the lights. A ginger shape slinks into the periphery on my right hand side. Experience tells me not to move, keep looking ahead and wait for it to come into view. It is so close to the vehicle that it must be able to smell me. It has gone, too close to the side to see now, seconds pass and the cat in the video struts from under the front bumper and saunters towards the bait. My trigger finger twitches slightly along the side of the rifle. The cat sniffs the air nonchalantly and walks within feet of the pile. It wanders off into the night, obviously a well fed beast and not in need of a free meal. I shift in the seat which is starting to feel damp from my sweat. I check the time and discover that I have now been sat there for nearly three hours. The appointed time for Reynards morning stroll has come and gone. I presume that the party earlier has thrown the timing off and decide that rather than sit in a pool of perspiration any longer it is time to call it a night. I only need to be lucky once whereas Charlie needs to be lucky for the rest of his days.