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.

Something I wrote a few years ago:

It had been quite a struggle for my friends to persuade me to go. I had hummed and harred for months. Could I afford it? Had I the time? But most importantly, did I really want to kill a black bear?

Eventually, after a flurry of emails and phone calls it was decided and a couple of weeks later I was threading my way from North West Scotland to Gatwick, collecting one of my companions on the way. Needless to say, getting a rifle through Gatwick was a farce of epic proportions. Contrasting sharply with Halifax, Nova Scotia at the other end. Canadian customs officers were polite, efficient, smart and intelligent, the British ones had learned to stand upright. We regained my friends rifle with a minimum off fuss and a cheery ‘have fun in the woods guys’. (Yes, I know!)

It was a long drive in our hired Jeep and we arrived very late at out hosts house. They had waited up and had laid on a hot meal for us. This was to be a recurrent theme – the sheer friendliness and hospitality of the Canadians amazed and delighted us. Then it was up to our bunks. We were billeted above the tack room and next to the hay barn. The evocative fragrances of horse, leather and hay lulled us to sleep quickly.

The morning saw us back in the Jeep heading down to the Department of Natural Resources for our bear permits. The operation was slick and the application process simple. The staff in the office couldn’t have been more helpful. Then back to base for another 6000 calories and the inevitable steeped tea. The Canadians must be the only people who drink more tea than the Brits. The only difference being they leave it to brew on the heat all day!

After lunch it was rifle time. We headed out in the Jeep to find a suitable spot for a bit of familiarisation. Our guide set out a cardboard box with a few dots on it at 20 yards. Wait a minute, 20 yards? Yes, this was going to be close in stuff. Next he produced a varicose selection of weapons. One of my pals had brought his own Remmy 7 in 308 but for the other two of us there was a combination gun – 12g over 7x57, the Guides new pride and joy 7mm Rem Mag Browning and a venerable old Winchester lever gun in 32 Win Sp. I immediately knew I had to choose the Winchester. So small and neat, it looked like a toy. It was then I noticed the scope…or rather the absence of one. OK. It was iron sights for me. I picked up the little rifle and felt at home with it immediately, I stoked it up with a few cartridges which looked about the same vintage as the rifle and proceed to put all of them in the little black dot. I was amazed. It was a real cutey to shoot.

As the September day began to cool it was time to kit up. Earlier we had hung our hunting clothes on the line to blow through and remove a bit of scent. Our guide handed out rubber boots as he maintained our leather ones would allow too much scent through. I got lucky and got a pair of enormous Canadian winter boots…perfect on a day where the mercury was topping 27! We piled into the vast Dodge Ram pick up and headed off.

Now, I knew we would be hunting from tree stands over bait, but I was still a little hazy over what this would actually mean and I would like to say at this point, I really didn’t know whether I actually wanted to kill a bear. We arrived at the first bait, deep the woods. Two of us waited in the truck while our guide took the first victim off to his stand. The tension was building in the truck I can tell you.

A few miles further on and it was my turn. L took me off the track and to an area which looked like the aftermath of an explosion in Tesco’s bakery. The were bits of bread and cake everywhere and a smell of bacon grease hung suggestively in the air. At this point, I felt qualified to answer the age old question ‘do bears shit in the woods?’ Oh yes, they do, and then some!

L showed me to the tree stand. Hmmm. It was a 15’ vertical ladder made from scrap wood with an 18 x 24 square of ply at the top. An inverted bucket was perched precariously on top of this. The whole thing was tied back to a wobbly spruce tree with a bit of frayed cord. Another bit of hairy rope was dangled from slightly higher up the tree – evidently the safety strap! Another piece of cord dangled by the side of the ladder. I tied the rifle on as instructed and ascended to my eyrie. Oh Jesus, the slightest movement set the whole affair swaying terrifyingly. Why is it for someone who has never been good with heights I always seem to end up having to climb into the most frightening places.

I got onto the ply but really couldn’t steel myself to go that last little bit and get my backside on the bucket so I settled with my legs dangling over the front. After a few minutes I began to recall my instructions. I must be utterly still, utterly quiet. I would not hear bear coming, they would just appear. Then, unbidden, my hosts tale of a bear climbing the ladder onto the platform and him killing it with the back of a hatchet came to mind. I tucked up my legs.

After a quarter of an hour the wood began to settle down. The blue jays were the first to return, they squabbled and squawked over the bread. They were joined by the squirrels, grey jay and snowshoe hares (rabbits as they call them in Nova Scotia and very highly prized they are, apparently). Spruce grouse hung around the outside of the scene. What a fuss the squirrels made over that bread, they were hilarious to watch and time passed quickly. A grey jay perched briefly on the end of my barrel caused me to jump out of my skin.

All this time I still didn’t know whether I wanted to shoot a bear.

‘You won’t hear him, in thirty years of bear hunting, I’ve never once heard one coming in to the bait’ This quote was always in my mind as I sat there. Another tens minutes passed, I was feeling vaguely nauseas from the swaying of the tree when I suddenly became aware of a presence. I didn’t hear anything, I don’t recall seeing anything but I looked down to my left and there looking up at me was bear. From just fifteen feet away. Check sphincter.

We continued to look at each other for some seconds. It seemed an awful long time. Bear slowly turned to make his escape. I watched him put each foot down so softly, he placed the outside of his foot first and then lowered the sole so carefully and within a few moments had made his silent exit. I hadn’t managed to move.

I sat still and silent for some time. I could tell from the other wildlife he was still around and ten minutes later he slowly made his way towards the bait, this time down a perfect alley for the shot. Did I want to shoot this creature, what right had I. This was no cull deer, this was a black bear in his prime. Another piece of advice came to mind…look at his ears. If they look small, he’s a big bear, if they look big, he’s a small bear. Did they look big or small? I just couldn’t decide. He ambled closer. Slowly, so slowly I put up the little Winchester and settled the front pip comfortably in the notch and made a three point line to his heart.

As I began to take up the slack there was a rumbling whine from the track 100 yards away and bear turned tail and vanished. As the noise of the passing quad vanished I sat stunned, the decision had been taken from me.

I sat as instructed until after dark when L turned up in the Dodge. I made my way back to the track to find a grinning A…his bear was in the bag.

A meal of bear steak and mash was some compensation. Eating bear is almost as incredible experience and hunting them.

I sat up that tree for another 5 nights and saw not a hair of that bear. So, he’s still out there and I know one thing, bears are safe from me. I can find no reason to pull the trigger.

Just some scribbling from about six years ago now, how time passes.

Since leaving home and entering the world of work and marriage, my step son and his friend (who we’ll call L & R) have slowly but surely become urbanised, I don’t mean that they have become clueless townies, just that their lives are lived in the terrifying conurbations of Oxford and London respectively. Having watched both of them grow up in the countryside, it was sad to see the change when they brought their respective wives and babies up to visit over the New Year.

While chatting they both expressed a desire to experience highland stalking. A few phone calls later and I had cooked up a day out for them with a local professional stalker. I thought it would be better for them to go out with someone else, they would probably gain far more than if they just followed me around my patch. One of my better ideas as it turned out.

Dawned the great day and they were kitted out in a motley assortment of my oversized gear and their own Royal Marine Reserves kit, we took a couple of Tikkas belonging to the stalker plus my Mannlicher. Left over Christmas cake was stuffed into pockets and we were off.

Very subtly D, (the stalker) wound us up a steep drag, contriving pauses to look at things…but actually allowing us to regain our breaths, it was beautifully done. At the top, D toddled off for a spy and left us to drink in the view. Even though I’ve lived in the Highlands for around 4 years now, it still takes my breath away. D came back shaking his head, nothing to be seen, very unusual…it was clear that this man knew his ground like I know my comfy chair.

 

A bit of a wander and we spied a few beasts. We got to within 300m of them but D would not allow the guys to shoot. Much too far for newcomers. A big old hind was slightly higher than the main group and had us pinned down. As we watched, the low group started to graze towards us. I could feel the tension from my young charges, see the rigidity and slight shiver in their bodies…I knew they had become totally absorbed.

D decided that we should retreat and make our way to a position where the old girl couldn’t spot us, then wait for the group to graze into us. This we did and a long damp, cold wait followed. I was glad they weren’t having it too easy! After an eternity, backs started appearing over the closest ridge and the beasts wandered in at about 90m, perfect. A whispered command, ‘shoot’. A shot from L. A beast fell. Got up, a shot from R. The hind fell again, not a twitch.

The look on those faces will forever be imprinted in my memory. Ear to ear grins doesn’t even begin to cover it. We reached the beast and D gave them a full run down on it’s age and condition, the gralloch and too much else to remember. Such a knowledgeable guy and a total Gentleman. If he’s reading this he will know who he is and should know that he made those two youngsters incredibly happy and also the perhaps more importantly, has made two complete converts to the cause.

Oh, perhaps I should mention one more thing. My step son L is a vegetarian. To see him walking off the hill bloodied and grinning was indeed a proud moment for me.

Oddness...

It’s rather odd. I’ve had a whole week of no weird stuff happening to me. Usually my life is a morass of strange connections and unusual happenings. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t go out to look for this stuff, it just sort of happens. I can’t actually remember when it started, unless you count the general oddness of the old farmhouse in which I spent a deal of my childhood, but more of that in a forthcoming book.

The oddness of my adult life just seems to have always been there. From black dogs to whistling wanderers there’s always something strange going on. Take for instance the whistling wanderer. I used to have a business involved in aviation wildlife management. My base was airside on a smallish international airport, in an old second world war ammunition store, complete with blast walls and huge steel doors. My days were long and did not end until the last daylight flight had arrived.  I would then hurry back, lock the equipment away and in the sudden quiet would often hear a noise. A slow, almost bored whistling. No tune, just notes, flowing, rising and falling. Not unpleasant. But as I was always completely and utterly alone, distinctly strange. To my mind it was the sound of a bored guard strolling round the buildings. But who knows.

An altogether more sinister experience was waking up in a cold sweat of dread at the same time of night – every single time I stayed in a particular house. Others experienced bed covers being pulled down and nameless fears. It was later learned that a stable lad hanged himself in that room many years before.

Some experiences are benign but weird. Take for instance the time I was driving home past a very remote cottage at around three in the morning. As I passed the gate I happened to look towards the house, there in the gateway, not five feet from me was a man standing bolt upright reading a newspaper – in the dark. I didn’t look in the mirror after I had passed, I knew the nocturnal reader would not be there.

Another local house seems beset with oddness, the (occasional) appalling smell at the bottom of the stairs (where the owner was found dead), the ringing doorbell – which has no cable to it and don’t even ask me about the security cameras!

More recently I’ve heard the sounds of cattle being herded in a deserted clearance village, observed strange dividing lights in the night sky and had a period of ‘corner of the eye’ people where they shouldn’t have been. Really, this is just the tip of the iceberg, my life seems full of this strange stuff (and I’m very much not alone round here) and it was having a period without any oddness that really caused me to think about it.

So, by now, you’ll probably think I’m a tad weird, prone to hysterics, maybe a bit fey? Well, perhaps, but I’m also a hairy arsed wood cutter and stalker so make of that what you will.

There’s more to heaven and earth and all that…

We’ve been South again, just for a few days. New arrivals to meet, folks to see, places to visit, shopping to be done. You know the kind of thing. As always, it got me thinking about people. I watch people a lot when I’m in a populous area. Sometimes with wonder – an underpaid waiter in a restaurant giving fabulous service. Sometimes with desperation – a soon to be mother standing outside the doors to the maternity unit smoking as if her life depended upon it. In fact, that woman standing there, wreathed in smoke, Venflon in back of hand, overweight and unkempt was so shocking to me that I could think of little else for the rest of the day.


My initial and anger and revulsion brought about something unexpected. A new kind of awe and respect. Not for her, no matter what your circumstances you can at least offer your baby a chance by giving up smoking. No, a new awe and respect for city dwellers. When I arrived home to Skye, it was utterly dark, utterly silent, the air was like wine, the water unsullied with chlorine. I thought back to my visit to Oxford, that is where the real work of humanity is done. Not here, me pootering about, playing with trees and deer. No, the real work of humanity is a nurse who will treat that awful patient just as she would treat her own sister, a hotel cleaner who day after day follows the same dull routine, the research scientist, the receptionist, the cop and the crossing guard.

All these people, these amazing city workers make the world happen. In medicine and law, hospitality and hygiene, in finance and service and supply and manufacture. I take my hat off to you people. You people who can tolerate the orange glow and traffic noise, the dirt and the smell, the proximity of other bodies. You are truly incredible. I now see that my own life is that of a monk or a hermit, merely peeking occasionally into the real world of people. I am grateful to you and for the work you do, as I know that I could not, for all the tea in China, live and work in a city.