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.

Sometimes

Sometimes I think it's all in my head. Sometimes I think I imagine this pain, the pain in my hands and my hips, my back and my knees but then along comes a day like today and I know it's real. A day such as this when I've taken my full complement of pain killers and cannot wait for my little blue 'oblivion' pill at bed time. A day when the bath could not be hot enough or long enough to get the cold from my bones or the knots from my muscles. A day when working in the wet and the cold seemed to go on forever, every log I picked up weighed more than the last one and every small knock felt like being hit with a hammer. No, I know it's real.

Positive Things

I've changed doctors. Should have done it a long time ago. She listened, she thought creatively, she gave me time, she asked me the right questions. She has taken action, bloods next week, huge raft of tests. Then meetings with specialists dependent on the results. She gave me a super blue pill to take at night. I slept like a log. Like I haven't slept for years. She has also given me homework, things to make me look at what's going on in my life. At last, I feel I'm making progress.

Something from a few years ago...

I asked my neighbour's son ‘so, have you been to the top?’ indicating the hill behind our houses.

‘Yeah’ he answered with all the certainty of a 14 year old, ‘but there was nothing up there’. I didn't answer, the conversation not worth pursuing.

The first few hundred feet are heart breaking, lung stretching toil. Your mind can think of little but the heave of your chest and flexing of your ankles…and then it becomes a little steeper. The grass gives way to a jumble of rocks interspersed with tortured, stunted birch trees. Small streams cut through, making steps in the rock, although steep, the going here is slightly easier, just watch for the loose rocks, their coating of algae making them all the more treacherous.

With surprising suddenness you are though and on to a more level patch, although level is a relative term up here. A small flat area with a patch of dead bracken, red gold in the early light provides a place to take a breather. The dog however is still keen so you press on. As you turn a woodcock flushes from beneath your feet, the only sound the sharp flit of its wings as it falls over the edge of the hill into the safety of the birches. Before long another ridge rears before you, not so steep but covered in rank, knee deep heather and tussocks of moor grass. From a distance the high lifting gait you adopt must appear comical, but there is no one to see you. Another hundred feet sees you to the top of this bank, as soon as you hit the crest, there is the heartbreaking sight of yet another ridge blocking your way. This one is unassailable without some climbing, not being in the mood for this you stroll along the foot of the ridge until it starts to comes down to meet you. Here at the foot of the ridge the vegetation is more sparse, huge rocks emerge like the backs of fossilised whales, complete with a crusting of lichen barnacles.

Some call this landscape colourless; to you it’s a blazing cacophony of shades and hues. Every tone of brown, grey, green, yellow and red is here. From a lichen so improbably lime green to a pure white lump of quartz. From the black, black peaty pools to the violet hues of the moor grass in the distance…and that’s before the sun has come out to gild the tops of the nearby mountains with a rich, regal orange glow.

You are nearing the place where the ridge has dropped to meet your level, you can take a step up and then walk back along the top, parallel to the path you just walked but higher. Another five minutes walk up the steady incline of this hogs-back ridge and you come to a perfect view point. You can see most of the loch from here, all the way to the open sea some five miles away to the south. A creel boat is carving the water, getting out to his grounds before the weather turns. Look north and you may see the post bus in the distance making its way around the head of the loch just a small red smudge against the huge conical hills beyond the road. Look to the west and try not to feel daunted by the sheer cliffs rising behind you, their outcrops of icicles looking like something form another world. Above the cliffs you can just see the peaks of the mountains beyond, a dusting of snow contrasting sharply with the elephant grey of the ancient weathered rock.

As you stand and stare an odd ‘cronk’ sounds from the distance, a pair of ravens are dancing, the sky their ballroom. Their intricate moves cement the bonds of the pair, another clutch of eggs will follow come the longer days. A shape moves into view beyond them, massive, dwarfing the ravens. A little shiver of anticipation runs through you. Is it a golden? No. The wing shape is not quite right, the neck too short, the build too massive. Yes! It is! Your first Sea Eagle. You watch its perfect mastery of the air for fully five minutes until it dwindles to speck in the distance. Just that sighting makes it worth the climb.

The dog is becoming impatient so you walk on, day dreaming a little, perhaps about the ancient Gaels whose land this was, perhaps saying a quiet word of greeting as you pass a small circle of jumbled stones, all that remains of one of their hill shelters. You cannot help but marvel at their hardiness, no Goretex or fleece then, no central heating or hot water. A commotion ahead stops you dead…a red deer hind with last years calf at foot has been dosing behind a rock. They gallop off, hooves beating a tattoo on the peaty soil, pausing to look back before they cross a ridge and vanish into the vastness of the hill. The dog stays at heel, he knows not to chase them.

Coffee is calling so you turn for home, descending quickly, much more quickly than the walk up. As you go down, the sounds of the sea begin to reach you, half a dozen oystercatchers bicker over ownership of a small section of beach, an outboard motor whirrs. The ground becomes a little less steep, less heathery. You think back to the autumn when this area was covered with the perfect white flowers of grass of parnasus. Each a beautiful little wedding bell.

The dog noses a wisp of snipe into the air as we pass the rushy field, their sharp ‘scaarp’ giving them away.

You've only been out for half an hour but you feel some justification in scoffing down that last blackcurrant muffin when you get back into the warmth of the kitchen.

No, there is nothing up there, at least, nothing that matters to that adolescent boy. But for you, there is a world up there.

Bored

Bored, bored with feeling ill all the time. Bored with the crippling headaches, fed up with the shooting pains in my limbs, fed up with constant neck pain, tired of feeling vague, tired of being tired, down about feeling down, cheesed off with losing grip in my hands, fed up with the lack of mobility in my joints, fed up with forgetting, tired of not sleeping, hacked off about not being able to do a full day's work, bored with not be able to walk far. Tired of feeling ill.

Sorry about that.

My good friend EC Hunter has published his first book: Windigo

The Gun Thing

I won't deny it, I like to shoot and I like a nice gun or rifle. I like turning a clay target into a puff of dust, I like punching tiny holes in pieces of paper at unfeasibly long distances. These are things I can do, I can't hit a golf puck and I don't know one end of cricket racquet from the other. I love the engineering and accuracy of a modern sporting rifle, I could stare for hours at the craftsmanship of a hand made English gun, they can truly be works of art. I make no apologies for this. People make no apologies for loving cars or motorcycles, riding horses or flying down a mountain on skis, indeed why should they? If one is careful and considerate, trained and educated problems will be minimised. Not entirely without risk, obviously, when we take on life on this planet, risks are attached and have, in some measure, to be accepted. It's about attitude.

Where am I going with this? No doubt you will have seen on the news that yet another mass shooting has taken place in the USA. Tragic, pointless and grim. I can't pretend to know why these things happen but one thing I am certain of is that there is no need for civilians to own assault weapons. Yes, I know that mass killings could take place with a pair of hand crafted Holland and Hollands...but have they, ever? No. I doubt it. I am certain that owning these types of weapon can only breed a certain attitude, after all, what are they made for. Killing people, that is all, that is what they are made for. There can be no argument that they have a use in hunting, none at all. Even I, a fairly low-level stalker these days probably shoot more deer in a season than the average American hunter does in a lifetime (the irony being that their wildlife laws are far stricter than their gun laws in many cases) and I do it very well with a bolt-action sporting rifle. What about home defense? Surely assault weapons have a place there? No, if you must have a weapon for home defence then any shotgun will do the job. What else? Well, I have seen folks on the TV running about with them playing at soldiers. If you want to do that JOIN THE ARMY. I really can't think of a valid reason for owning one and if I were a citizen of the USA I would not want 'my right to bear arms' to be responsible for the death of even a single child. Come on shooters of America, sort yourselves out, you have a great country and incredible opportunities. With rights come responsibilities.

A Year On

I was just reading a post I made a little over a year ago. In it I mentioned my hands were becoming a concern following my wrestle with 'suspected' Lyme disease (it's only the doctor who says suspected, I don't!). Without doubt they are worse, so are my hips, knees, back, neck and shoulders. The vagueness hasn't got too much better, nor the lethargy, nor the headaches. I don't write this as a 'poor me' but merely to warn. We are almost at the end of the tick season now but spring will see the little beggars emerging again ready to offload their burdens into YOU. Be aware, know the symptoms, know how to remove ticks properly and know when to take yourself to your doctor.

What next? Well, I could go and get more antibiotics but I'm not inclined to. I still don't have a proper diagnosis. His answer was 'yes, it's most likely Lyme'. Multitudes of blood tests have proved inconclusive but as anybody who's read anything about it knows, the tests aren't infallible. One thing is for certain. I have arthritis and it's unpleasant and I don't really know what to do next. Thank heavens for Naproxen and free prescriptions.

There's a decidedly autumnal feel out there this morning. The midge population is dropping away (heaves sigh of relief), birch seeds are fluttering down like snowflakes and the bracken is turning.

Talking of bracken a couple of weeks ago the helicopter was here to take advantage of the 'Asulox Window'. Oh dear, what a palava. Half the population are up in arms about their water supply/vegetables/bees/washing/heaven knows what. The other half would like to see a little less bracken. Well, I fall into the less bracken category without doubt. Damned invasive, tick harbouring plant that it is. But what about the others? Well, I grew up on an arable farm and sprays hold no terror for me but I suppose these folks who grew up in towns and have heard nothing good about chemicals perhaps needed a bit of hand-holding before the helicopter descended. A little bit of prior information might have gone a long way to help acceptance. I'd better say no more.

What about the wider world? I sit here in a very small corner of it and watch as world unravels before me. I don't quite know why but I get the feeling that our wee planet is in greater danger now than it has been for many years. Perhaps ever. It seems clear to me that the Syrian problem is a front for Obama and Putin to orchestrate another World War. Why? Easy. Just read 1984. We should listen to Orwell. This is about money, it's about control, it's about vested interests.

Then there's Fukushima. It's pouring radioactive waste into the Pacific. Already fish are being caught off the West coast of America which are hemorrhaging from their eyes. This is not good. This is doubleplusungood.

So there we have it, a depressing little start to a sunny Sunday morning. Sorry about that.

The Biggest Issue

This is not going to be popular but then I’ve never worried much about being popular. I’m sure others are saying this too but this is my take.

All the problems of this planet are caused by over population. Not of rats or Japanese knotweed. Not of cockroaches or termites. Of HUMANS. Various estimates put the maximum population that this poor planet can accommodate at between 1.5 and 4bn. We are well over that now and growth is unfettered and exponential.

We see a starving child on the TV and our hearts go out. The personal tragedy is heart rending. We phone up and pledge money and maybe save that child. For what? To salve our own conscience? Certainly partially. Is there actually such a thing as true altruism? Doubtful. But that is a separate issue.

Back to that starving child, see the flies crawling round its mouth, its distended belly, crusted eyes and skeletal limbs. We save that child with a dribble of gruel and a shot of vitamins. Project forward twenty years, perhaps that child has fathered another two, three, four children it can’t support, perhaps another drought or famine or war has occurred in the area. Never mind, the ‘altruists’ step in again and off we go for another round.

Meanwhile in a prosperous western country every year the older generation just gets, well, older. Advances in medicine and care keep people alive much longer than their three score years and ten. There are fewer still births, prosperity encourages people into large families, social support encourages people into large families. People who should die from diseases don’t.

Even modern wars don’t encourage wholesale killing like wars of old.

But why is this important? Why should we care? Every human on the planet creates more demands on our finite resources, creates more waste and leaves less room for nature's systems to function. One day those systems will cease to function and the Old Testament will read like a holiday brochure.

So there we have it, unfettered breeding, more people living longer and nature’s traditional culling methods being over-ridden at every turn. So what is the solution? Can anything actually be done? As far as I can see the only thing we can hope for is personal responsibility. Replace yourself and nothing more. But will this happen? No, of course not. Lack of comprehension of our situation, lack of education, lack of giving a damn.

Our time on this planet is running out.

The Passing of Childhood

I only went in to turn and vacuum the mattress. It seemed like a useful thing to do during my enforced holiday from the world of woodlands. On every available surface in the room was the ephemera of childhood. Tractors of every make, size and colour, implements to match. Books, magazines, drawings. The games, both favourite and unplayed were piled on shelves. Keepsakes and treasures, dust covered and seemingly forgotten. The soft toys still piled on the bed looked forlorn and lonely. Over this was spread the occasional newer item. A climbing magazine, a pair of hiking socks, the tag from his new tent. A stick of deodorant, a photograph of a bunch of friends at school, all wearing ties and smart jackets. A single shin pad, a pack of new mackerel lures and a used iTunes card lay on the carpet.

I sat down on the bed and looked at the scene, feeling despair at the passing of a childhood, a sadness at this small death. As I looked though, something changed in me. He was my little boy and always will be, now he’s my big boy and he’ll always be that too. We must embrace the change we see in our children, we must help and guide them on their next steps on the journey to adulthood, just as we did with those first faltering steps all those years ago. Now as I look I see hope for the future, bright, engaged, intelligent hope.

He’ll be home from school in just a few short weeks, his first year complete and then the page will turn, the next chapter will start and we will walk into it together.

My good friend Edward Hunter has published his first eBook, find out more at www.echunter.com

The Things I Love - A self-centred post brought on by a quad ride along a deserted beach.

The Things I Love are many, here are a few of them. Waking on a sunny morning, birds or water the only sounds. Returning home after a cold day to find the kitchen full of the smells of baking. Knowing that my house is heated solely through the sweat of my brow. Taking a high pigeon on a pheasant drive. Whiffling geese. The smell of the steam as your quad plunges through a deep puddle. A well ploughed field. A cock grouse standing sentinel.  The Field hitting the mat. Pheasants going up to roost. That frosty morning when you hear the first stags roaring. Tweed. That painful burst of saliva at the first mouthful of a really good steak. Vanilla. The first Pimms of the Summer – and all the rest. The smell of a Christmassy house. Goldfinches. Salt on your lips on a windy day by the sea. Leather seats. Tea rooms with cake stands. Cake. The carrots from a beef stew. Bacon. Aston Martins. The cry of a swift – truly the bird. The warmth coming through your jacket when your dog presses up close on a cold morning flight. Finding something long thought lost that brings a memory of someone long departed.

Old Land Rovers. Books, any and all. Maps and aerial views. Great coffee. Teak decks. The pinking sounds as a log burner heats up. The tapping of halyards against masts. Black grouse. The beaters getting closer. Driving on deserted roads in heavy snow. Roger McPhail paintings. Balsamic vinegar. The smell of a greenhouse full of tomatoes. Cows, the grassy smell, the warmth, the bulk. Muck spreading. A pile of sleeping pigs. Collective nouns. The purple colour of ash buds as they open. When your dogs sits with its’ chin on your knee. Cheese – Stilton, Brie de Meaux  and a Cheddar that makes your tongue go numb, all sadly a thing of the past for me. Wild weather. Quality kit – be it boots or gloves, coats or hats. Fancy gin. A big pile of logs, seasoned and ready to burn. A tricky descent, well executed. Views.  Music that reaches into my soul. The sight of a picker up surrounded by dogs walking along a ride. Realising that you’ve finished. Watching a questing spaniel. Lapsing into what amounts to a trance when words and ideas fill your head. The Sunday Times Rich List. A hot bath in an old enamel bath that’s worn a bit rough and has verdigris on the taps. Lapsang Souchong.

The sculptures of Simon Gudgeon. Eating from Wedgwood plates.  Oak floors. Flight ponds. A properly run Highland estate. Woodlands. A roe buck in his new summer pelage. Bluebells under birches. Hares. Getting a vehicle where many would think impossible. Beautiful guns. A flawlessly blue sky. The calls of grouse. The sound of a thousand pinkfeet in the air. Gorgeous boats, big or small, power or sail. The House of Bruar, but not their coffee. Tim Hortons doughnuts. The feeling of hot sun. Mountains. Not being part of the herd. Tapirs. Woodcock chicks. The first sighting of the new crop of deer calves. Good binoculars. The sound of widgeon. Roost shooting pigeons with friends. Setting off on holiday in the wee small hours. Sausage roll time on a shoot day. Not having to wear glasses anymore. A good axe. Sitting, watching and waiting. Walking on the high tops, looking for ptarmigan. Having no pressure of time. Freedom to act and think as I please. Life.

I have a pretty idyllic life and one that I suspect many people would give their eye teeth for. One of the most pleasant things I do in my life is look after a very remote fishing lodge (www.camasunarie.co.uk). It's a steep and rocky quad ride to get there and on a nice day the views, I think, rival anything in Europe. The house sits in a bay which nestles between Bla Bheinn and the Cuillin. It's spectacular but it's very location is part of a problem. To cut a long story short about 99% of the planet's rubbish seems to wash up there. Last year we took around 7 tonnes of plastic off, this year will be much the same. It's remote, expensive and bloody hard work.

Much of it is the detritus of fishing - the real price of fish as I call it. However, other categories of waste are represented - household, industrial, yachting...and fieldsports.

What? I hear you cry. Yes, there is always a profusion of empty cartridge cases washed up, not to mention plastic wads. In my opinion there is no need for any of it and it makes me angry, but what makes my blood boil is the cartridge cases, I know they are comparatively small but be sure, everyone who sees one will sway a little towards anti-ism. There is no need for it. OK, the odd one get's dropped, I understand that, but there are obviously still people around who think it is acceptable to toss their empties into the burn or the sea but this is completely UNACCEPTABLE. So folks, if you see anyone dropping their cases or you yourself are tempted....please, don't be a tosser.