Arriving early at my parents house this morning I noticed the first frost of the season. The flattened divots nestling amongst the tussocky grass of the back paddock where mealy white and closer inspection reviled leaf blades toothed with minute crystals.The sky was bright with an unmasked sun rising with the promise of another warm day and as I inhaled the chill air, laced with the smell of fallen bramleys I felt a rush of excitement. When being a countryman is the day job, it is these moments which remind me why it was worth forsaking career and money to follow a passion.
The evening before last was spent lamping with H around the shoot and neighbouring land. Rabbit numbers are well up on previous years and myself and two other guns (not all shooting at once) accounted for around 70 bunnies. The sport is fairly exciting with H, thanks largely to the death defying platform bolted to the rear of his land-rover, on which the shooters are required to stand. There are precious few hand holds back there and slightest hill or bump sends one lurching back against the ‘safety’ rail, which yields with a less than reassuring ease! B also bagged two vixens with a display of rather fine shooting. One at over 200 yards straight in the chest and the other in the instant it stopped trotting in response to my squeak (squeaks made by the mouth or a device to imitate pray are often used to attract foxes).