Atilla the Hun or Spontaneous Combustion

Perpetual birdsong is the order of the day as I walk down every hedgerow in this part of The Cotswolds.   All the small birds you happen to come across are all busy feeding their fledglings with mouthfuls of insects. The between time of this frenzied feeding activity they can be heard in the tops of the Hawthorn and Blackthorn bushes singing out across the landscape in a joyful and triumphant fashion, as if signalling to all observers that with effort and tenacity it is possible to accomplish all.

Alarming news this week that was brought to my attention through the observations of the Coopers and a telephone call from my lifelong friend and great gamekeeper Nimrod, on activities of deer poachers once again in the area.  Nimrod arranged to pick me up at 7pm on Thursday evening to show me what he and the Coopers had discovered. 

Thursday night 7pm I was waiting out in the garden as Nimrod pulled into the drive in his Land Rover and soon we were heading out across country towards the Foxton Estate.  After about ten minutes we were driving down a track towards the river at the top end of the valley where it sweeps up to the Tiger Forest. This was the Abraham’s Estate.   “This is a bit off your beat,” I said to Nimrod.  We were approximately two and a half miles from my Badger sett and quite a few miles from Nimrod’s Foxton Estate. 

“I’ve been asked to look into these recent events by Lord Foxton who is great friends with the Abrahams’”

He pulled the Land Rover up at a very thick hedge where we both got out.  Down at the base of the hedge in a recently disturbed patch of cow parsley Nimrod was looking down on to entrails, guts and a deer’s head.  But the most alarming thing of all was the almost fully formed foetus of a fawn.  This deer had been slaughtered and butchered on the spot. 

Deer poaching is always sad but poaching deer when this near to giving birth is unforgivable.  Just a total and utter waste of life. The look upon Nimrod’s face mirrored my own.  The alarming reality of this situation were that these poachers were of the worst kind.  They were either totally ignorant of the life cycle of the deer or just didn’t care and no self-respecting poacher would ever try and claim a deer this time of the season, for the deer are about to have their fawns or they have already given birth and the fawns are now dependent on their mother’s milk.

“Allan!” Nimrod barked, “These poachers have got to be stopped.”

“Have you informed the police?” I asked

“Lord Foxton and the Abrahams’ have. We believe the vehicle is a double cab, green Toyota Hi-Lux.”

“I’ve seen it in the distance whilst down fishing.” I then went onto ask Nimrod what he believed they were killing the deer with, was it a .22 rifle?  Nimrod didn’t answer the question but walked over to the back of his Land Rover where he retrieved a plastic Morrison’s shopping bag and handed it to me.  I put my hand in and pulled out three bolts. 

“Crikey!  They are using a cross bow.”  The weapon that no gamekeeper or countryman ever wants to see in the countryside.  A tool used to despatch game only used by total morons.  Having seen the bolts the situation was all the more serious and a matter of urgency that we were to rid these poachers from this part of The Cotswolds as soon as possible.

We got back into the Land Rover and there was pretty much silence all the way home.  Nimrod pulled up to my house.  “I can count on your help then?”

“Defo!!” was the reply, “Green double cab Hi-Lux.”

“That’s right,” replied Nimrod nodding.

As I entered my kitchen Jackie was sewing a patch on her favourite pair of jeans.  I filled her in and within seconds the darning needle was down and she was on the phone to the Coopers, telling them to keep away from the Badger sett until the problem with the poachers and their crossbow had been sorted out.  As Jackie put the phone down she then asked if the police had been informed.  I replied that they had and that I would be going out for the next few evenings to see what I could see.  Jackie then made a few sandwiches and put into my old dinner bag and I was soon out of the house heading across the fields towards The Tiger. 

As I sat in the hedgerow looking down back through the valley from The Tiger, the beauty was awe inspiring.  I could see a small herd of Roe deer in the lush grass down towards the river, a couple of Barn Owls and everything was tranquil and peaceful.  But if I were to see the poacher’s truck, how on earth would I deal with it?  The time now was 2am and I decided that the poachers were not going to show this night, so I headed home.

The following night, Friday night, it was lashing down with rain, it had been raining all day.  After tea I made sure my mobile phone was fully charged when Jackie turned round and asked, “Surely, you are not going out on a night like this?”

“This is just the sort of night if I was poaching deer, I would be out in.” Jackie put half a pork pie into a bag. The time was 10:30pm when I left the house, I then made my way down to the garden shed where I picked up a can of petrol which I normally use for my mower.  I shook it, it was half full.  That should be more than enough. I then trudged across the fields making my way to the Tiger. The rain was driving down and it was being pushed across from West to East by quite a persistent bellowing blow but the temperature on this May night was not cold. 

As I walked towards the Tiger I was thinking more and more of a vantage point from where I could see as much of the countryside and the routes into it as I could. The spot that came to mind was Hangman’s Stone.  A place where many a Highway man and thieves were hung in years gone by for their butcherous exploits.

As I sat on an old beech trunk by the side of the stone, the rain was still cascading down from the skies.  I patiently waited.  Longing to see some lights or any sign that told me that the poachers were in the vicinity.  I looked at my phone and the time was 1:20am.  I was sopping wet through and I was now beginning to think it was going to be another ‘no show’. As I raised up off the trunk and picked up the half gallon of petrol, I saw some lights towards the North side of the Tiger.  I quickly hurried around the bottom of the vast woodland to greet it.  I was soon trotting towards it and much to my delight the lights were coming down around the bottom of the wood towards me.  I went into the woodland underneath a thick canopy of beech leaves.  There I stopped and watched the lights coming ever closer.  The truck then stopped and the lights were speedily extinguished.  Four hundred yards from where I was stood.  I had to get nearer quickly.  As I walked through the wood trying to make as little noise as possible it swiftly became apparent, this filthy, wet night was going to help me a lot more than it was going to help them.  The rain was dripping off the trees and the wind was whistling overhead.  I was now sixty yards from the vehicle and it was a green, double cabbed, Toyota Hi-Lux.  There were three men, they were unloading large torches and then I watched as one of the men leant into the back of the truck and retrieved two crossbows.  I felt a treacherous tingle run down the back of my neck as I saw him hand one to his colleague.  They were all dressed in green camouflage clothing.  I stood there under the beech cover and watched intently as they headed out from the Tiger towards the lush green river meadows where I had seen the deer the night before.  As I watched them go out of sight I walked towards the green Hi-Lux truck picking up a large stone.  I noticed there were false number plates stuck over the original license plates. “That is why you are so seldom caught,” I thought.  I smashed the windscreen with the stone, then I smashed the side windows and the back window of the truck and made sure that the truck was completely empty of life.  I doused the inside of the truck with petrol, stood a few yards back and went to strike a match which went out as quick as it was struck.  I walked over to the truck and pulled out a seat cover, which was stinking of petrol.  I got a stick from the wood and rammed it into the seat cover, turned it away from the prevailing wind and knelt over it with a box of matches.  Hair singingly quick, the ignition was instant.  I turned and threw the stick with the cover on it into the truck.  A ball of flame instantly evolved.  “That will give you something to think about.”  Then I hurriedly turned on my heels and I made my way up through the Tiger forest to the North boundary.  Once through the Tiger forest, I rang Nimrod.  I told him that I had bumped into the poachers’ truck and I had experienced spontaneous combustion of a green, double cabbed, Toyota Hi-Lux truck and if the police got to the bottom of the Tiger forest with haste they would stand a damn good chance of catching them.

Saturday morning, a visit from the Coopers, Nimrod and Lord Foxton.  All resulting in my behaviour being described as antics from Attila the Hun.  They just did not believe my explanation on spontaneous combustion and for a few minutes I felt like Vladimir Putin, the Russian President who was accused this week by our own Prince Charles of behaving like Adolf Hitler.  Never mind, onwards and upwards, please watch my short film of my badgers being visited by deer.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nelRi9ev0Pc&feature=youtube_gdata

Badgers in woodland relaxed and undisturbed.

Bully Badger Tactics.

Mayfly has once again honoured us with its presence.  A time of the year when fly fishing is at its best.  These last few days have simply been quite heavenly. Soft, warming and embracing sunshine that seems to wrap itself around the delicate young foliage and grassy river meadows, encouraging growth and nurturing all the new born additions to nature’s kaleidoscope of life. 

It is especially this time of year you see nature’s eco system working to the manner with which it has become tuned to. Manifesting itself in an almost constant flux of diversity and change.

As I stand on the side of the river bank with my trusty split cane fly rod, relishing every second of this God given bliss, the annoying, niggling arguments of the Badger cull of 2013 are never far from one’s mind. 

An interesting development this week from a Dr. Chris Cheeseman, a Badger Ecologist of the highest order.  A few weeks ago, Princess Anne’s remarks on gassing Badgers stating that it is the most humane way of dealing with them in her opinion was this week firmly put straight. 

Back in 1982, Dr. Cheeseman witnessed first-hand experiments on the designed efficiency of Hydrogen-Cyanide (HCN) at Porton Down’ chemical defence establishment and what he witnessed, he reported as truly shocking.  HCN was believed to be humane in its action, with animals lapsing into unconsciousness and either dying if the dose was lethal or recovering without ill effect from a sub lethal dose.  He had witnessed Badgers retching and vomiting while making distress calls.  When the Dr was asked what his thoughts were on gassing with HCN, he said it was clearly inhumane and should be stopped immediately.  This was (as I have said earlier) in 1982 and now here we are in 2014 and our own Princess Royal putting it up as an option.

Work was also undertaken to try to explain why Badgers frequently dig their way out of setts that have been power gassed with HCN.  Whole setts were evacuated with convoluting tunnel systems, hundreds of meters long, thus, gas concentrations fell well below the lethal dose to kill Badgers.  The demonstration for humanness of any gas, whether it be Carbon Monoxide, Carbon Di-Oxide or any other candidate gas fell far short of what you would expect from something being described as humane.  Like with free shooting, it is indiscriminate and as well as the infected Badgers being culled there is also a large percentage of healthy Badgers that are also destroyed. Badger setts are so very often in the most inaccessible places, the complex structure of setts make it almost impossible to achieve the lethal concentration of gas required to kill and Dr. Cheeseman also thought it terribly unlikely to be cost effective.  His words were, “To gas Badgers is a non brainer.”

Cattle measures are the key tools to control Bovine TB as Wales has already demonstrated by nearly halving the number of cattle slaughtered in just four years, from 11,671 in 2009 down to 6,102 in 2013.  This was achieved without Badger culling. 

The facts of the matter are, the spread of TB is done from cattle to cattle and if there is a need to tackle the disease in Badgers, vaccination offers the only viable option. 

My bitter disappointment with the BBC with its blanket non coverage of any news whatsoever to deal with the culling of Badgers was a travesty and in my humble opinion a blight on a normally great organisation. 

The Badger activists who give up their spare time and try their level best to bring this catastrophic, hair brained DEfRA, bully Badger tactics to the fore are to be applauded.  I have been told many times that public opinion on what happens to the British Badger is almost non-existent, that nobody cares, which is undoubtedly true, and when you see the organisations like the BBC with complete black out coverage, it is little wonder that the British public have no interest as they are so ill informed and so therefore totally ignorant as to what is going on in our glorious countryside. 

The Badger cull is a total waste of time, it will do nothing to alleviate TB in our cattle herds and it has already been proven to have had an absolute catastrophic effect on our totally innocent British Badger.

My particular Badger sett is still doing exceptionally well.  Daddy Cool has moved his family, once the cubs were big enough to travel to the Northern boundary of the woodland and as I sat watching the sett on Wednesday evening, I was quite alarmed to the fact that Mother Badger was spending sometime on spring cleaning her sett.  I had been there half an hour and no sign of the cubs.  After a further twenty minutes or so, Mother Badger seemed to be getting a tad anxious, but as you can see in my short film her anxieties were unfounded.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RDCKfJ95dZw

Cubs return home.

A Badge of Honour.

Walking past the giant Oak tree on the way up from the river this morning I noticed that it was almost covered in very tender young oak leaves and on the other side of the field I could see several Ash trees still very bare, showing no leaf what so ever. Armed with this information, once home I threw open the kitchen door and shouted this old country saying through the house, “Oak before the Ash you’re in for a splash,” which roughly translated means, that we are in for a good summer.  Very settled with little rain.  The reverse of the saying is, “Ash before the Oak you’re in for a soak,” which translates into a very squalid, wet summer. 

This week we have seen the great Sir David Attenborough reach his 88^th birthday.  Someone with whom my generation grew up with and the educational value from a wildlife point of view through the sixties and seventies up to this present day has been immeasurable. A very belated Happy Birthday to you Sir David.

Again, this week, the judgement of our Prime Minister, David Cameron, has been brought into question with the revelations of three members of the Take That pop group who invested £26Million in to a music industry investment scheme with the sole aim being potential tax avoidance.  Millions of pounds so say being lost in these new venture companies being set against the money being made elsewhere.  The comedian, Jimmy Carr was brought to our attention in 2012 when he apologised for using the morally wrong but perfectly legal K2 scheme in Jersey to cut his tax bill with which the Prime Minister was appalled, disgusted and disappointed stating that all members of society should pay their share of income tax.  An OBE was awarded Mr Barlow in the Queen’s Birthday Honours last week and Number 10 Downing Street has defended this honour.  All well and good but it strikes me as being the same type of judgement which we all witnessed with the Andy Coulson appointment and the standing by of another close friend of the Cameron’s, Rebecca Brookes. 

Judgement that was very much left wanting in both cases and when this government still proposes to go ahead with another Badger cull later on this year it doesn’t instil one with confidence that their judgement on this matter is as water tight and as categorically accurate as it jolly well ought to be, because, as I have stated many times before, a Badger sett that has been harmed or destroyed, Badgers seldom recolonize.  The Badger culls of 2013 have destroyed those setts forever and our natural Badgers are not great enough in number across our countryside to suffer these ill thought out, policy on the hock, ill-judged decisions.  With the Badger culls of 2013, it has opened up the flood gates in some areas to brutalise and attack our Badgers to an extent that has not been seen since the seventies.  Badger baiting is on the increase.

The Coopers are once again on full guard up at my Badger sett.  Their invalidity buggy once again is proving invaluable.  Its silence and camouflage colours make it the ideal surveillance vehicle. 

This year’s Badger cubs are nicely rounded and fat thus proving that the mother Badgers have plenty of milk to sustain them. The food supply is plentiful.  They are now coming into the easiest months in the Badgers’ calendar.  The play fighting from the cubs is now much more energetic and robust giving the Coopers and myself endless entertainment.  All is going very well for the Badgers in this part of The Cotswolds.

It is very interesting as to how the name of the Badger first came about.  The mammal was first noted for its defending of its burrow like a Knight of old and has probably come from the Badgers knightly emblem.  The creature’s white head with a broad black stripe on each side of the snout may have brought to mind a badge hence Badger.  Evidence supporting this theory is that an earlier name for this animal was Bauson which comes from the old French word, Baucenc, usually referring to a white patch on a horse and also meaning Badger. Bauson is first recorded by 1375, Badger in 1523.

Now with the lighter mornings and lighter nights we must all be ever more vigilante.  Our Knightly Lord Protector of our woodlands needs all the help he can get.

Watch my short film of my Badgers around their sett. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uzRzRWxq52E&feature=youtube_gdata

Mother Badger doing a spot of cleaning in and around her sett.

A Cat Bell Aids the Dawn Chorus

This week we have seen the Badger Trust raise three main concerns with DEfRA over the pilot culls, but as yet, they have delayed any decision to launch a fresh legal bid to halt the pilot badger culls in England even after securing meetings at the highest level with senior DEfRA officials.  Let us all hope DEfRA can still be made to see the error of their ways.

In and around the garden young chicks seem to be everywhere.  Blackbird chicks, Hedge Sparrow chicks, Blue Tit chicks, Great Tit chicks and even some Wren chicks.  The weather is suiting them all quite beautifully and what a privilege and a total joy it is to walk around the garden and see them all. 

It is a reassuring sight in amongst choruses of calls from their parents trying to ascertain their whereabouts for yet another beak full of grubs. 

I listen frequently to the reasons given on why the British garden bird has diminished in number by a staggering 60% and very often, to my surprise, some of the so called experts come out with the same old nonsense in blaming the Raptors, whereas in reality, the Raptors take very few garden birds.  I have been very lucky to have had the advantage and the freedom to have been born and lived in an area of exceptional outstanding beauty and it has given me an insight and an understanding of nature ever since I was big enough to stand and hold a pair of binoculars.

We have always had a pair of Sparrow Hawks around our garden and they will undoubtedly take small birds, the clue is in their name Sparrow Hawk, and it is the only bird of prey that specialises in hunting a garden.  His wings are so adapted that he can fly at low levels, turning in unbelievably tight, acute angles, and any garden which is blessed with one of nature’s breath taking pieces of art is all the richer for it.  The Kestrels will work along the verges and along the hedgerows hunting out voles and mice, this menu is their preferred luncheon.  The Buzzard along with the Red Kite will soar high in the sky on their look out for carrion, anything dead for they are and always have been opportunist specialists and kill very seldom.  The Long Eared Owls, the Short Eared Owls, the Tawny Owls, the Barn Owls and even the Little Owls, don’t bother the British garden birds to any great extent.  The biggest killer by far of British garden birds, and in my humble opinion the main culprit as to why British garden birds are in decline is the domestic cat.

I remember years ago I had an old pair of rough work boots.  Although they were half worn they had got to that stage in any boot or shoe’s life when they had become their most comfortable.  After some excursion across the fields, I managed to get them covered in mud so I put them under the bench outside our back door to clean off at a later date, when time was less pressing.  Some weeks had passed and the sun had begun to shine and the ground had become dry once again.  Spring was upon us and the boots that had been thrown under the bench I decided that now they would be the footwear of choice.  I went out of the back door and as I approached the boots where they had been kicked off, under the bench, a Robin jumped out of one and flew off at speed.  I picked up the boot and looked inside, there to my amazement were three young Robin chicks calling out for food.  I gingerly put the boot back into position and told my mother and father that I would be wearing wellingtons for a little while longer, until the situation righted itself.  As the chicks fledged and left the boot, the mother Robin used to venture in through the back door and as my mother cut the bread sandwiches for my father to take to work, the crumbs from the crust would fall from the bread board onto the floor.  This was the Robin’s cue for breakfast, and I can remember as a youngster watching the Robin on my mother’s slipper picking up the bread crumbs as if he had every right in the world to be there, which in fact he did.  It amused us all greatly at the time and it amuses me greatly now looking back. 

Garden birds like most country animals become so very, very trusting.  By putting a bell on a household cat the quality of life throughout the whole household takes on a whole new dimension.  The household cat does not need the garden bird as he only catches them for fun, he does not eat them.  His food is either out of tins or packets. 

A garden once again will reverberate to the sound of the dawn chorus and the feel good factor for everyone and anyone who can marvel at it and listen to it, is a joy that can only be served up by nature. 

Please watch my short film of my Badgers mozying about in woodland on a warm, spring evening.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aSKdjeZarpQ&feature=youtube_gdata

Badgers mozying about on a warm, spring evening.