Phew.

Well, back home after another whirlwind trip to Englandshire. We left Skye in rain after months of rain, drove through a big dump of snow and arrived in England to more rain, drizzle and chilling winds. Of course, while we were away summer happened on Skye. That was it, I was leaving, I was moving to Herefordshire or Cumbria or Derbyshire or Northumberland or Wales. Anywhere without insane amounts of rain, midges and wind. Anywhere with a modicum of sunshine and maybe occasional warmth.

We did the obligatory tour of wonderful relatives, too much 'outlet' shopping and an awful lot of eating. The drive back was hell. The A1 in fog was the Devil's own road, people with no lights, people driving too close and so many cars it was terrifying. Still, we made it through and the further north we travelled, the fewer cars there were and the more the fog cleared. We arrived home and climbed wearily out of the truck to an absolute absence of man-made sound. Birds and water were the only audible things. The air could be sucked in greedily and expelled lustily to carry out the toxins of the south. It was, quite literally, wonderful. We revelled in this experience until the kettle called and enjoyed tea made with water fresh from the spring and unsullied by chemicals. By now of course Herefordshire, Cumbria, Derbyshire, Wales and Northumberland, lovely though they all are, were forgotten and the West Highlands was the only possible place to live.

Woman's Hour...

I often catch Woman's Hour on Radio 4, some very interesting stuff on, not enough cake in my humble opinion but one can't have everything. Anyway, on the show the other day there was a young rapper (as I believe these youngsters are called these days) who rejoiced under the name of Angel Haze. Now, she said some very sensible things, even if her manner of speaking and the style of her art did grate on me a little - yes, I am a bit of a fuddy-duddy middle class old chap, but I can't help that. One thing she did say made me screech my truck to a halt and search out my pen and trusty Moleskine notebook. It was this:

If you're not doing something to make the world a better place then you're not doing anything at all.

Perhaps there is some hope for this old world yet.

Why Do I Do It?

The express train roar from a huge skein of pinkfeet coming into your decoys, the early morning sun shooting shafts of light through the mist at the start of a May roe stalk, a covey of ptarmigan slipping over the edge of the hill in a flurry of spindrift. A walk one, stand one day with a group of people you've known for 25 years. Cock pheasants going to roost while you’re waiting on February pigeons coming to the wood, a dog you’ve trained battling against a January flood to pick a cock widgeon you managed to scramble down, a venison casserole, watching the pickers-up work after a drive, being able to dream on the Boss stand at the Game Fair. 

Long tails tits and their antics while you’re waiting for the drive to start, being put on a peg hidden from the rest of the line, a grouse shouting goback-goback-goback, two buddies to pull you out of the mud, sausage rolls and hot soup laced with sherry between drives, squeaking in a troublesome vixen from two fields away, the look on my boys face the first time he fired a rifle, the hunt clay shoot on a summers evening, loading for a top shot, having a bond with like-minded strangers, watching a peregrine pick off a teal, that hind you didn’t spot until she’d seen you, knowing that the way we run fieldsports in Britain is second to none. 

A shout of ‘woodcock’, splashing home over a flooded field with a bag full of duck, memories of a friend now departed, being on the leader board for the flush…at least until Carl Bloxham’s team arrived. A complement on your shooting from the keeper, giving your neighbour a brace of oven ready pheasants, the old boy leaning on the fence, finding sport in unlikely places, haring across a field in the back of a dodgy old Subaru pick up, printing a cloverleaf group, a steaming spaniel, a comfy chair, a glass of malt and a head full of memories, that’s why I do it. Because I love it, because there is nothing quite like it.

We Need to Talk

We really do, there are some things you need to know. Here they are. Taking drugs is sooo fucking stupid. Binge drinking and this so call nekking is really bloody stupid. Driving like an arse is bloody ridiculous. Polluting the planet is utterly bloody bonkers. Smoking is bloody ridiculous. Food waste, there's just no need. Indiscriminate breeding, you have to stop it. Religious extremism, oh grow up, god doesn't care if you grow a beard or don't eat pork. I imagine he does care if you mutilate your children's genitals. Abusing health care professionals is just not on. Quit the gluttony. If you can't manage any of this, just please stop chucking your fucking rubbish out of your car window.

Please excuse the sweary post. I'm angry.

A Moment of Loss

I pick up her scarf from the back of the bedroom chair. Press it to my face and the tears seep into the silk, the scent of it into my pores. The swooping pit of loss overwhelms me once more. Just another day when my thoughts turn to the time I must spend alone.

The crunching of gravel brings me back, a car door opens and shuts. The kitchen door opens and shuts. She is home. I have not lost her today.

England...

England, I have visited you this last week. Land of my birth, home of many of my relatives and friends. I have to say, I was shocked. Where do I start? How about the grass verges? They were deep in discarded rubbish, a patch of woodland planted two generations ago by my family was knee deep in trash, including, would you believe, a flat screen TV, still in it's wrappings. The houses encroach ever closer to the farms, cars are everywhere, aggressive looking oiks wander aimlessly clutching fast food, discarding the wrappers. Dog shit, neatly wrapped in bags, adorns every hedgerow like some kind of hellish Christmas decoration. Shopping is the religion, consumption is the god. Hugely corpulent people wander the streets I visited, stuffing greasy looking pastry clad snacks of vaguely animal origin into their maws. There seems to be little self respect, let alone respect for others, there seems to be little responsibility and few morals. It is saddening. This is not the England of my Grandfather, it's not the England of my Father, it's not even my England. I was saddened.

On Boxing Day I went to see the hounds. I saw the traditions, I saw charitable donations, I saw not a scrap of litter, I saw lovely clothes and footwear that was up to the job. Then I had lunch in an old inn. It was superb, the service was excellent and the surroundings pleasant and I realised that my England was still there, still hanging on in quiet decency, still kept alive by those who love the land. I was encouraged.

I don't know what the answer is and of course, it is down to my personal taste that I do  not wish to live cheek-by-jowl with others but I cannot help but think that all of the problems of England are caused by over-population. I don't mean by any particular racial or religious group, by any nationality or sect. Just by people.

Just Musing

With a skittering of snow over the low ground, and rather more higher up it was a gorgeous start to the day. The sun shone as I drove up to the pastures to carry on cutting those invasive rushes. I know, shouldn't really be trundling around on the grass in the cold weather but if we get a snowy winter this job won't get done before we have to stop again for those ungrateful corncrakes. So, it's crack on, there's about 200 acres to top so it needs done.

With the topper merrily puffing out an amusing cloud of powdered snow, the tractor cab heater blasting and Jethro Tull on the iPod all was well with the world. Then, as I do, I got to thinking. Here I was, working the very ground that some of the songs I was listening to were about. Ian Anderson, head honcho of Jethro Tull used to own the estate and many of the songs feature landmarks or images found here. From the top of the field I could see his former house, the salmon hatchery he set up and the old fort at Dun Ringill. It all seemed rather, well, right. It's a shame he's not here anymore, I think he was a force to the good.

This of course brought me round to thinking about Highland estates in general and the way they are managed. To cut a long story short, the way I see it is this: The Highland estate is best managed by a wealthy and committed sporting family. They have the money to spend on infrastructure, staffing and local services. They truly love their estates and this is reflected in the amount of wildlife one sees and the care taken of it as a whole.