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.

A bad night.

Tonight should have been a walk in the playground at the school. I arrived in a timely fashion, some two hours before the time that I was winded by my adversary on the previous Saturday. I set up on a bench and chairs after checking the exact position of Charlies egress. As I suspected the fox had come under the green shiny two metre fence that surrounds the school on all sides. It is only punctuated by the two hefty gates at the entrance. The polished soil evidence of the red furred opponents belly as it has crawled repeatedly under the wire. The firing point has been set at fifty yards and I set the parallax accordingly, able to read the lettering on the side of the bait bowl I lay the rifle to rest and settle down to wait. The path that surrounds the school curves around me and the other side of this path boasts trees and shrubs that look much older than the eighteen months that the school has been here. Behind the flora the green security fence is obscured by narrow bamboo screening to hide the children from the driveway to the concrete garages and the back gated to the houses opposite. As I sit in silence with just the faintest of breeze rustling the leaves and making the branches creak slightly a car crunches up the gravel drive. I hear the squeal of metal on metal as the garage door is opened and then closed. This happens again ten minutes later and I wonder how much this two car galvanised building cost. As much silence as is possible in an urban setting closes around me once more. Children are still playing in their gardens, a last fling before their parents call them in for tea and bedtime stories. Further away someone cuts their lawn, no doubt at this time of night it is less of a chore as the heat of the day is gone. This along with the childrens voices eventually slip into a deeper silence that is only broken by a barking dog, of short stature by the sound of it and the occasional siren of an emergency vehicle in the far distance. I check my phone, 21;40, Charlie is due in a half hour or so. I load a round into the chamber and apply the safety catch. 21:50 and to my horror the automatic lighting on the building bursts into life. These domed flush fitting lamps are fitted at intervals ten feet apart and I chose the seat directly under one. Cursing my foolhardiness I make a quick decision to move into the trees and bushes in front of me. I walk softly through them closer to the bait and sit on the low pony wall. I can still see the bait to my relief. 22:00 and I reckonk that it will be another ten minutes before the foe appears so disaster has been avoided. So I thought. When I decided on my shooting position I had taken into account the prevailing breeze. My position had been perfect now however I was sat within the tree line and due to the change in my position the wind was now on my back blowing directly towards the bait. I look up at the sky and mutter a few choice words in the privacy of my own head. I make the decision to move completely while I have the chance. This rather than stay and spook Reynard with my scent for a second time. I reach the illuminated bench to retrieve my water bottle and the lid to the bait tub. As I look back a dark grey shape slinks away into the now black tree line at a hundred and eighty degrees to me. I look skyward once more, were I not of stout constitution I would at this point weep. I check the time on the phone, 22:10. The previous week I set game cameras up on the other side of the school on the edge of the minuscule wood. There was a ghostly image of a fox passing at 22:20 on there so I gather my things quickly and with the round still chambered I set of in a clockwise direction towards the wood. Walking quietly is an art form as any hunter knows, the ground underfoot is the challenge from leaves to twigs it will all scream when trodden on. As I walk I turn my feet outwards slightly so my step falls on the edge of my heels and roll them until the soles make contact. I make my stride slow deliberate and as controlled as possible. The breeze is louder than I as the school is circumnavigated. As I come to the final stretch the wood is to my left and as it the case with woods it is now in total darkness a good time before the open areas. The lights from above me shine directly down and fail to penetrate more than a couple of feet into the gloom. In front of me, through a fence that separates the teachers car park and the wooded area a fox saunters towards me. The fence is the same as the one that surrounds the school and has gates that allow vehicular access to between the two. These gates are open. Charlie has not seen me as I froze instantly. I quickly drop to one knee and assess the shot for when he will inevitably come into view. The backstop is a solid one so I slip the safety catch off and steady my breathing. The shot will be a close one so I make a mental note to aim high. Through the top of the scope I see the fox again, moving away back down the other side of the fence. No backstop and a shot through a fence ensures its safety as I engage the safety and walk through the gates to the Land Rover parked a few feet the other side. I open the door and empty my pockets ont the seat. The last item retrieved is the small torch so I switch it on and give the wood a sweep. There twenty yards away two huge eyes look back at me. Charlie had been disturbed by my vehicle parked on his usual route and backtracked to another entrance point. I creep around the vehicle and cradle the rifle in the crook of my left wrist. The torch in my left hand I come forwards until I am level, stooped over, with the bonnet. As I breathe out slowly the plastic bottle of water slips from my hooded sweatshirt and comes to an abrupt and particularly loud stop on the floor. I look at the sky once more and in a fit of optimism peer over the bonnet with the torch switched on. Not an eye, not one single eye looks back. Having confirmed that it is indeed that particular time of night for Charlie to come through I dip into the bait supplies and retrieve a tin of anchovies and another of sardines. These are smeared over the fence and left in a pile with a good solid backstop. Although the battle is lost the war is far from over. I shall bait the area for a few days and let the rhythm of nocturnal meanderings return undisturbed.