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.
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