Unexpected, Lapse of Attention

All day my team of falcons sat hooded on the screen in the mews as wet and squally weather repeatedly lashed the yard. We had hooded up to weigh everybody after breakfast and hopes of a later flight just kept being delayed by the next gust and darkening sky.

Cloud base at times was no higher than 300 feet scudding towards the south east. After lunch, end of daylight approaching fast and with still no flight the Cockers were anxious to get in the car dog box. With them in place everything just seemed to go on autopilot as I sorted meat for the whole team, fed those no longer flying so near to the end of the season, found Emma a place on the cadge and drove out the yard just to see what might happen?

As we passed the barns there were brilliant flashing lights of welders, the lads both hard at work indoors, out of the harsh weather. A large set of agricultural rollers being repaired in the half light caught my eye and from the gateway to the yard the farmer stepped out into the road, nearly under my wheels, turning his head away from the rain! We exchanged a few dripping wet words before we each were anxious to get on, the rain beating down and windscreen wipers working hard.  The farm track was flooded as the car splashed along, stopping every few yards to scan fields and copses with binoculars. Not much hope of seeing any game in this weather until I neared the small wood where the release pens used to be, several cocks crept along in the dank, dingy light, obviously unconcerned about our arrival. I parked the Explorer on the wet gravel by the new cart shed and steadfastly decided to get ready.

Across the north west skyline the sky lightened although it was still heavy rain with us. It would be a fine judgement to get the hawk in the air before a heavy wind resumed with the passing of the rain clouds and arrival of brighter conditions. We waited about ten minutes as the rain eased a little. Bleep, bleep, bleep as I switched on each telemetry tag and soon had Emma unhooded and on the car roof. She scanned the fields for only a few seconds, roused and took off to disappear over the wood and downwind before coming back over to see where we were.

Still raining, gently now, I set off towards the small pond about three hundred yards upwind with the cockers milling around. Now Emma was about five hundred feet, the cloudbase lifted, still climbing hard and as I watched her Will, the younger Cocker, decided to take this momentary lapse of attention to explore the hedge. Half way to the pond I looked about for the dogs. Where were they? The shrill sound of my dog whistle brought no response as I also became aware there was no sound from above, Emma's ringing bells were no longer in position.

Will has two seasons under his belt now and it has taken until this year for him to become reliable in flushing and following the bird in flight. He is now very familiar with the game and a real partner for the falcon in the air; he watches the flight, is always aware of her position and respectful of her role. But on this occasion my distraction missed an unexpected and unwelcome flush from the far side of the copse. The rain had eased and was gentle, things much more normal but it was time for telemetry, reassuring when it instantly bursts into sound indicating direction and some sense that she is not far off.

The winter wheat is well grown, soaked from the rain it washed my boots as I walked diagonally across the field towards the Victorian hedge,  keeping heavy clay off my feet. Its hard not to make assumptions and when the telemetry tone starts to change, remaining open minded to options is quite difficult. Will and James had returned but I was unsure of what had happened. Crossing a deep ditch, plastering my cords with clay in the process, I struggled up the far bank through brambles and frosted nettles to meet Will at the top staring me in the face to dab my eyebrow with his cold wet nose. "Well where is she them?" I asked him. It seemed like she must be in the ditch somewhere, probably on her kill? Will did not answer and skipped off.

The sound of a bell often carries well alerting my senses to the subtle sounds of nature, a crow calling some way off, a magpie scolding in the nearby hedge. Added to the clues from the bleeping receiver it was just frustrating not to have discovered her nearby  - unexpected, now here she is, she's come looking for me! Skimming over the hedge top and dropping to eye level she just circled closely with a lazy wingbeat. Will looked up as he emerged from the ditch, saw his partner again in the air and set off down the hedge line seeking new quarry.

Good - I wonder what happened? Better get back to it so I turned expecting her to remount in the usual manner as the dogs and I headed back towards the pond. Again through the deep ditch, more mud on my trousers, and out into the soaking wheat but it was obvious she had enough of the outing and would have no more of it. No mounting flight in this unwelcoming weather. As the lure came out of the bag she turned towards me gratefully, picked up as soon as I offered her the fist to take a full crop of wood pigeon by the time we arrived back at the car. Under the raised tailgate, at last out of the rain, we cleaned up, changed the tack, hooded her up by the lights of the car to leave with headlights showing the way home.

Unexpectedly it had been satisfying to fly Emma without seeing any of it! More than likely that Will had flushed and she probably caught a cock. On many occasions she has relaxed too much as she plucked or, just held it too lightly on the ground allowing its recovery for a sudden burst for freedom.

Anyhow, whatever had been her quarry she lost it and was not saved by Will's close attendance to retrieve the errant bird and bring it home to me! On this occasion it didn't happen but we had a flight against all odds and still enjoyed doing it. The relationship between us all brought warm satisfaction as I tied her back on the screen amid the rest of the team sitting with full crops.

Encouragement is not always measured by what is in the bag.

Why do we do it?

Why do we do falconry or any other way of life with animals for that matter?

This week a friend sadly lost his falcon in a tragic accident - something only too familiar to anybody who does. His sincerity in the words he wrote of the incident seem to say it all.

To those on Facebook Simon Higham wrote:

"Thanks all for your kind words, Jimmy was the one constant in my life for the past 3 years, when times were difficult he was never questioning or judgemental, he was the perfect tonic to a stressful life and we each shared a passion to hunt in exquisite style. He just loved to fall from the clouds and I loved to watch him, he opened my eyes to what is achievable and for that and many other things I am grateful to him. I have so many memories of days where he left me in awe at what I had seen and very few where he left me wanting. In a hunting companion I could have asked for no more."

"It's hard to quantify just what a special a falcon means to us, or hard to qualify what exactly makes that hawk special. But if tears on the page of the hawking diary are anything to go by, my late star hawk 'Jimmy Riddlebritches' was very special, at least to me. Done to death by man's destruction of wild habitat once again, he went out in the best style it is possible to show. Bottoming from a 2000ft stoop and with eyes on partridges scudding 200yds ahead he didn't even see the power lines, he hardly made contact but at that speed it was enough to kill him instantly, he never pulled out. I hope he is still stooping now with his eye on his prize."

"Simon Higham thanks everybody for your support, it's comforting to see how many people care about a little hawk that many of you never saw, it really makes me feel good about humankind. It is a long time since I cried over the loss of a hawk but then he was a bit different. Jimmy was a big part of my life for three years and I am very proud of the pinnacle that he reached in Falconry terms, and now I think it fitting that the way he went out was doing what he loved. Isn't it weird how the happiest memories hurt the most? I don't envy the job of his successor, Jimmy set the benchmark pretty high!"

For those who don't share their lives with the natural world it would be hard to grasp the relationships we live within the values of a natural world where love is harsh and sincere. Whether our friends be people or animals their loss in the hurly burly of life takes much coping with. 

Prickles

It's been a good year for apples and our store is overflowing. There are still Bramleys on the tree unaffected by the frost, not dropping till ripe but with the warm autumn many are not storing as well as hoped. The earlier varieties are in danger of going past their best so every day is a challenge in how to consume more! One of my favourites is a baked Bramley filled with sultanas, cloves and a little brown sugar, all smothered in custard of course. Today we had some left over batter in the fridge and lunch was apple fritters with cream and a drizzle of honey. My word what an appetising sight and smell as I carried them into the bright sunny conservatory but what a surprise to look at the weathering lawn to see a hedgehog walking amongst the blocks. The hawks had already been fed but Fleur only lightly nourished and as the prickly waddling ball got within leash length, just as I arrived, she inevitably attacked with some enthusiasm.

Her surprise was immediate with a foot full of prickles and after a couple of attempts to arrest what must be a tasty meal she returned to her block in chagrin, watching the rest of its perambulations with much interest, head upside down at one point presumably to see if there was another angle to it all?

  

About thirty years ago I built a small brick and thatch shed overlooking the lawn where I had attempted to keep a Goshawk. A couple of bales inside and a bow perch outside, she could choose which she preferred, whether to be in shelter or out in the prevailing weather. Yarak is everything of course with a Gos but every time we approached that desirable keen frame of mind and wellbeing I would find her at home, fluffed out feathers, foot up and a huge crop full after she had helped herself to the wandering garden hedgehogs grazing worms and slugs around her home. all that was left was a few spines, mot seemed to have been swallowed with no adverse effects. The whole idea simply did not work out.

Seeing Fleur so fascinated brought it all back to mind. The Gos-house still stands on the edge of the weathering lawn although I tiled it a few years ago when the thatch gave out but of late I have been wondering about a Gos and how an outdoor way of life might be recreated.

The apple fritters made with ripe desert apples made a delightful lunch, the dogs most disgruntled that they did not have even a small share. 

The following day our friend Spiny was back having learned that around the blocks small pieces of discarded meat and bone are available.

My tiercel Blue must have seen it all before since after an initial glance he studiously ignored the interloper at the foot of his block. After an hour or so chewing on the end of a chicken drumstick it shuffled off into the adjacent flowerbed, out of the chill north wind to enjoy the warmth of winter sunshine and some windfall apples. Recent gales have built piles of leaves under the Leylandii hedge where the family can find ample bedding for winter hibernation, even for these half grown young.  It was after last light, in the first dark of night a few months ago that Jenny had called excitedly to me to see something unique? On her way through the garden after shutting up chickens her torch had happened upon a pair of mating hedgehogs beside the trunk of the large Ash tree. It certainly was pretty unique to see, surprisingly noisy and rather frenzied it seemed with all those prickles to negotiate. But it must have worked as this half grown youngster now shows. 

What are friends for?

A couple of days ago I was all ready to go hawking, hawks hooded, dogs in the car, all the equipment ready to drive out the gate in rain and a stiff breeze. It would be challenging conditions to make a flight worthwhile.

The phone rang and Jenny answered to find my friend asking for me. There was no rush so I took the call and after some time chatting about the flights of the past few days, news of friends and general speculation I said I was going to hang up and go hawking. "In this weather" said my friend, "the forecast for tomorrow is sunshine and windless, why don't you postpone?"

So I came into the house, checked our local forecast since he is a little way from me, nearer the coast so that often our conditions are quite different. But on his occasion he was right, my timetable was rapidly redrawn, hawks on the lawn for a while, dogs disappointed and new chores to be done instead.

What a good idea it turned out to be as the following day dawned clear blue sky following overnight rain, autumnal chilled stillness and perfect flying conditions. 

Once again we loaded up, hawks, dogs, equipment and set off. It was entirely with thanks to the suggestion of my friend that I found myself with Emma waiting on as a twinkling speck at an enormous pitch as the cockers flushed two pheasants from the long grass and scrubby brambles. Emma's approaching presence was announced by the sound of ripping canvas from her enormous stoop. A classic game hawking experience savored as we watched her plume her prize, all regaining our breath.  It had been quite the most satisfying flight of this season so far! The day then made all the more surprising when this was followed by her sister Fleur giving a repeat performance. 

What had been a brilliant day in Norfolk ended with a delightful sunset, the more appreciated as I reflected on how blessed we can be by the consideration of good friends.

Death of a friend

Jenny and I are much saddened in hearing that Vic Hardaswick has died, a man who did so much for falconry over many years. 

It was with his partner Don Hunter that I first saw what accomplished Gyrs can do in falconry when handled with understanding and sympathetic management. Don showed us a Jerkin waiting on as a twinkling speck with concentration, loyalty and aerial style in mastery of any quarry, awesome to see from a creature of such charismatic beauty and presence. I was captivated when twenty five years ago captive breeding of hawks was quite new and it was Vic who bred and imprinted my first Jerkin. 

When the Jerkin came to me in England he never disappointed either in the field or as a charming character in home life and the breeding chamber. Over following years Gyrfalcons were constant members of our team, their humour and unmatchable flying ability often combined to amuse and astound, demanding attention in our relationships emotionally draining and fulfilling far beyond other aspects of our art.
Clearly Vic put so much into his falcons and my Jerkin showed me just how accomplished he was as somebody trusted in his creations. By his individual talent Vic contributed much to my falconry in subsequent years for which I will always be grateful. 

It was my good fortune to have known such a fine man. I feel loss of a friend tonight whilst appreciative that all of falconry is much indebted for his contribution in many ways over many years. All falconers have much to celebrate in his being and all are the poorer for his passing. 

Thank you Vic, even though you have left us you are still giving me pleasure today, there is still a Jerkin amusing us in my team.

Off to do life now.

As the day approaches for pups to go to their new homes everything gets a little tense, not least because the moment of choice arises when we have to finally commit to one of the litter. It's not easy to select one over another other than by sex of course. When we used to be a little more commercial about it all and sold the whole litter we only had to concern ourselves with making sure clients were satisfied and no mishaps occurred before collection. Today we breed less often as we are really only producing a litter to retain a youngster for ourselves to follow on and keep the line going. Its quite amazing just how complicated that process gets since to have a trained and reliable dog at any given time means in our case that we usually have several dogs, a youngster for three years being trained, one or two that are field trialing with Steve, a mature dog to work with hawks and who will also produce the next generation, and then one or two pensioners.

Our 'pack' is a constant delight but choosing the new addition seems to become increasingly difficult as the years go by. Maybe it's experience that introduces more and more things to be considered which in the early days blissful ignorance hid from awareness.

Modern food and maintenance seems to make all the pups fairly even and breeding seems to have eliminated many of the physical problems so that today choice mostly comes down to character. Many hours of observation over the eight weeks of rearing and weaning is the secret but even then it always seems like a risk in the end.

Somebody once said to me that a fishing rod and a pigeons wing helps, somehow it stuck and is now one of the routines that we do in the last week when we take the litter around the paddocks with the spaniels. This year our recent trip to the moors provided a more appropriate grouse wing, they all enjoyed it from the first appearance and it never seems less enjoyable to have a whole litter on point!

Steve arrived on time soon after breakfast and took four of the pups north to their new homes leaving us with just one bitch who was a little surprised to find herself sitting alone on the bales in the kennel wondering where the rest had gone? But all reports have been good - Ken sent a message to say he arrived home in the Isle of Man and was sitting reading 'The Field' with his pup asleep on his lap feeling 'heaven' had arrived.

Shades of Red

As I was picking my breakfast tomato the rising sun blinded me from the east and from that direction my friend in Moscow came to mind! Perhaps he is already flying his sparrowhawk around his garden? The mailman brought me 'Orientations' and 'Adriaan Mollen', books he had thoughtfully sent me.

In recent correspondence with my friend I had reflected that having been Executive Secretary of IAF for many years I have watched its evolution and growth with much satisfaction.

For many years I was Editor for the British Falconers' Club, first in creating their upgraded Newsletter (controversially introducing advertising and sales) and then the 'Falconer', the club's annual journal. It was all very interesting and great fun, a good preparation for my term as BFC President during which we produced a very large book, free to all members. During this period publishing became available to everybody as technology rapidly evolved.

It is rather sobering to recall that I was first a member of BFC in 1967! A very long apprenticeship in the world of falconry politics, hand in hand with my career in the creation of airfield commercial bird control and industrial bird control I have long appreciated the niceties of differentiation between the art of falconry and the world of commercial raptor use, very hot topics whenever the subject is raised!

When a group of us first got together in the 90's to restructure IAF and move it forward with Christian de Coune then at the helm, onto the path that has today resulted in this vibrant organisation, such things as the recent recognition by UNESCO of the 'Intangible Cultural Heritage of Falconry' were a distant dream. It has been a long journey, attending many conferences, dealing with governments, clubs and individuals from all walks of life, encouraging harmony and optimism. At times hard to resist the inevitable challengers and special interest group agendas it is wonderful to see IAF's integrity enhanced and in tact with its unique credibility in so many areas worldwide.

Last weekend we shot grouse over our setters on East Allenheads in glorious weather, it could not have been more enjoyable. I was watching the sire of my current litter of pups working the beautifully managed heather, still with honey bees working the few remaining blossoms for them to fill the hives lined up in the shelter of the dry stone wall.

Brochan was on the highest part of the moor with a magnificent view across to Muggleswick and Wemmergill, all so refreshing in the crisper northern air after the mildness and almost Mediterranean climate of Norfolk. We lunched in the heather with a few brace in the bag and Andy Ellis speculating about the wolf spider crossing his boot.

Our litter of pups have grown apace and now past the cuddly stage they are starting to become real fun. Each day we now load them all into a kennel and barrow them out to the paddocks, avoiding the distractions of the setters in the yard, and with the cockers to lead and respond to the whistle, their first explorations of this wider world can start. They will soon pick it all up and already it's an adventure looked forward to each day.

Next week sees the official start of the pheasant season when my Peregrines can really start their business. Three of the team have now fitness enough to be high flyers and the fourth is nearly there, I wonder where the pheasants are hiding? They keep eating the wheat I distribute and ducks are coming to the ponds - my farming friend has finished his sowing for another year, the fields become tranquil again but it takes a while for confidence to return. What a wonderful way of life blessed by autumn mists and dew, mushrooms litter the paddock, brilliant afternoon sunshine with long shadows across the lawn reaching for the concrete yard, late afternoon pink glow shining through the open door deep into the mews making the hawks magical with colour on the screen before evening. Some call it an Indian summer but no, it's just Norfolk!

Of Bikes and Mowers

Most days I take a ride around our village on my bicycle. There is something very intimate about a bike that puts me in contact with my environment, sensations that are lost in a car. It's a great way to stay in contact with what is happening in the community, to notice as the seasons change, gardens bloom, lawns are cut. Wildlife seems to accept me on my bike just as it does when on a horse, not so on foot.

Friends who visit often smile as they see me using my bike around the garden but its surprising just how far one has to travel in even a confined area, putting hawks out to weather, feeding poultry, doing stables, checking the paddocks, it all adds up to several miles each day and many years ago I learned that its a great saving on the legs to use my bike. In my experience bikes are like mowers, one ends up with a fleet in which each model has a different job to do. A look in my barn shows we currently have five different mowers, each with a particular role - we fitted a new engine and renovated the 50 years old Ransomes Auto Certes, it is a great delight as it makes the wonderful stripes of a well mown lawn and should now last another 50 years, an old Hayter rotary mower for the rough stuff, a newer JCB rotary for the more civilised areas, a big ride on for the large areas, and then a tractor mounted topper for the paddocks.

I have often wondered just why I find bikes so familiar and reflect on years of their use. When I was at school I did an early morning newspaper round on a very worn out old frame to earn money and buy my first 'proper bike'. At preparatory school my morning journey took me by bus into town followed by a walk of about a mile through the town past an old fashioned bike shop, dank and dusty with that unique smell of rubber and oil familiar to any bike shop. It was a small shop owned by a local biking enthusiast and in those days, not long after the war in the 1950's, when money was short and people were used to making do, there was little stock, the arrival of a new model for sale was quite an event. A Holdsworth, Dawes or Raleigh was something to be inspected and drooled over, feeding a young boys dreams.

Then when I moved to senior school there was another longer walk through Colchester town centre to get to the Grammar School on the other side of town from the bus terminal, again past another, better, more extensive bike shop. At senior school there were of course bike sheds to house a couple of hundred bikes of pupils who rode to school, for some of the boys bikes became a passion. Cycling was not just a sport or pastime it was a necessity for most people and for many it became an absorbing hobby as well.

In later life it seemed second nature to carry on. My old bike was still with me when we were married but the temptation and dream of the bike shop window became possible at last. I bought a duo of Claud Butlers, one for me and one for Jenny, nearly forty years ago now and they still delight me. Today my favourite bike still lives in my barn to take me on my frequent rides around the village. In subsequent years we accumulated a couple more, a mountain bike to cope with the garden and fields, then another that had some suspension but it soon broke and now hangs from the rafters awaiting repair. There is seemingly always something in the barn being renovated.

As we have aged the sport has become more interesting and now with satellite TV we can watch the big European tours all summer - how wonderful that in this era our British cyclists have won the most famous race, the 'Tour de France', two years running. The Giro d'Italia, opens the season and the Spanish Vuelta is near the close at the end of summer, we have just watched its finish and autumn is now here, hawks are on the lawn. Funny, mowers never seemed to get a sporty side but the seemingly ageless technology seems to hold a fascination of its own. Most women don't seem to get that somehow?

Peach Peregrine

Many years ago when I was a small boy the early TV gardening program on BBC was called Gardeners World and Percy Thrower had the whole viewing audience amazed as he was able for the first time to show people gardening ideas from his lifetime's experience. Almost another universe from today's slick shows but it brought a world of wonder and exotica to the average person.

John Wayne in one of his many westerns shared his cowboy's love for canned peaches which he intended to satisfy when he got off the trail, a love which I have shared for more than half a century now. When Percy Thrower planted a peach tree against a sheltered brick wall I was enthralled to think we could actually grow them in this country. The variety he healed into the soft loam was 'Peach Peregrine', quite the best variety available he assured us and the fireworks exploded in my mind, another variety of Peregrine! What could be better?

A few years ago I happened upon the framework for a large Poly-tunnel and with the help of some visiting Belgian and Greek falconers collecting a tiercel we erected it unexpectedly on the spur of the moment to the south side of the barn in a sheltered position. It became an amazing addition to our life and in the first autumn the local garden centre had some bare rooted fruit trees on offer, low and behold there was Peach Peregrine!

To say that it has thrived would in no way describe the immense joy it brings. From the early flowers in February, protected in the sheltered environment of our poly-tunnel we hand pollinate with the aid of a peregrine's primary, what else? Through until late July and August when the fruit ripen it has been a constant source for optimism. Last month we held an evening BBQ for local falconers and friends, what better opportunity to use some of the abundant fruit. Jenny cooked them and in a bowl of cinnamon juice, with added cream and ice cream what could be better for a group of Longwingers, peach Peregrine desert!

Send the Cavalry

I had been in the poly-tunnel and picked a large beefsteak tomato which was fried with basil in olive oil for my breakfast and whilst enjoying the flavour I thought about a message from the eo-sphere. One of my Iberian friends, a member of our small hawking club, sent a message challenging we British with his comments about 'Spanish Gibraltar' and wondering whether we might send the Royal Navy to deal with him although he lives in Madrid! Reconsidering he then suggests we send Bengal Lancers instead?

Strange this should be mentioned since only last month Jenny and I were with the Household Cavalry at their summer camp near our home here in Norfolk, their camp being in the grounds of what was Elveden estate, the decamped home of the Champagne Hawking Club during the Franco Prussian War.

As secretary of our ressurected version of the Champagne Hawking Club I am ever attentive to members concerns and noted that British Gibraltar was barely on the radar at the time of our visit to the cavalry but during briefing and contingency planning sessions we have little doubt it was of course included, although I must admit that I doubt Madrid was mentioned......during tent pegging and pig sticking exercises we saw clearly that skills with the lance and sword have not been lost although perhaps I should make enquiries to ensure that our Iberian club member is given special consideration, troops being made aware of his extensive experience with the sword in the bullring! Of course it might also be of some value that one of our UK members has now considerable experience of horsemanship in his tailor made suit of armour equipping him for the many jousting competitions he has undertaken. With cavalry backup surely there would be no match and Spanish pretences about a land grab easily routed.

Recently pups have arrived here at home and now they start to be amusing as they take their first steps and their first dishes of milk. It can take a while for them to learn that it is not for swimming but once they have licked themselves dry and got the taste they soon come running to the recall whistle which Jenny blows at mealtimes. We have done this for many years with the result that training is half done at weaning, the pup imprinted with the sound of the whistle. It's  just a small step to add the stop whistle so that the often seen period of chaos and loss of control in young pups can be avoided.

About a year ago we moved the dog kennel to a different stable in the yard when the last of our stallions died at the age of twenty three, his box became vacant. A better location for the dogs in a sheltered corner and more involved in general household activity their boredom was changed to relaxed loafing watching events from the concrete bench in the run. Now with the approach of weaning kennel space is required for the bitch who leaves the whelping room having come home to live out the rest of her life after the completion of her field trialling career and this her last litter. A fresh coat of white paint and shiny black tar splash band around the bottom of the walls makes it all gleaming black and white, a pleasure to see and somehow makes the dogs seem much more desirable. The new galvanised pen sections arrive on Monday and it will all be up and running, ready for our new pup to take her place in the pack and Ember to start her new career with the falcons.

These days we only breed our dogs when we want a follower in the team. So every three or four years is quite enough and something to look forward to, and now our new pup has arrived. Meanwhile our politicians seem to get ever more in a muddle - going to war with Syria is voted out so now we have to wonder whether British/Spanish Gibraltar might be jacked higher up the ladder to take everybody's mind off the austerity! Perhaps the Argentinians might be asked to mediate?

Roe Rut

Thirty three degrees, in soaring temperatures and thundery showers breaking what has been a summer drought Roe Buck rut has arrived. The females coming into season was obvious when one walked in front of my car to cross Long Row from a harvested barley field into one of standing golden wheat. Once she would have disappeared amongst the ears but with modern varieties having shorter straw she was visible right across the field as she spread her scent to attract this year's suitor. Following this sign I was out this afternoon to see what Roe are on my shoot? There is much activity with harvest in full swing, tractors and combines in all directions and much noise causing some difficulty using a Roe call in the still heat after lunch. Following a thunder shower it was a very pleasant experience as wood pigeons cooed loudly amongst the oaks in the Victorian hedge whist thermalling buzzards overhead called to each other in a  communal  outing, a cacophany of noises making the soft sounds of deer hard to hear. Sadly lacking any controls we now have too many buzzards and this year the shooting syndicate has given up, another aspect of country life slowly being lost to modern idealism.

As I gently blew my Roe-call hoping to bring a curious buck nearby a sparrowhawk appeared, probably also attracted by my call since the sound is very similar to the eyasses screaming in the nest. She was flying very slowly almost touching the ears of wheat in a thorough search amongst the stems for small birds now living and feeding in the ripe crop. Usual expectation is for the smash and grab style of ambush flight normally seen of this devastatingly effective predator but it was fascinating to see an unusually methodical style of hunting, leisurely flight with every attention to detail as it worked erratically across the endless carpet of ripe corn. For several minutes I watched its strategy, maintained until inevitable success brought today's meal.

Now into August and only nine days from the glorious twelfth, my friend is back from his summer concessionary family holiday in Italy and anxious to get his inter-mewed female Peregrine back on the block ready for the dash north to Caithness. So having prepared 240 wood pigeons shot off the fresh barley stubbles this week I delivered him a few frozen trays and helped him get her jessed up, coped and ready for the new season. At last it is here, the lazy days of summer suddenly become busy again, the breeding season is almost over as we wait for Ember to whelp in the next few days, moulting is nearly completed for most of the team and the new game season arrives.

So unexpectedly this evening, Nimo, my seven year old tiercel, sits on his block preening after a bath in the evening sun. Following what seemed a momentum I responded to the moment on my return home and also brought him out of the chamber, back into our life that is falconry. Tomorrow maybe Emma will join him.

A Long Drive

An enjoyable few days break in the Netherlands sharing experiences with many old friends has come at a pivotal moment of change in the annual breeding cycle at home. Our eyasses leave the nest, soon to move to their new homes and training for their new lives. I am delighted that my alluring male Gyr Peregrine was collected by a friend from France for a life of game hawking. What a pedigree, the  family he comes from an endless series of memories of so many flights. My two female eyasses, now just nine weeks old, will soon be on their way to the Middle East. Temptation will again be relieved for me - it's always difficult to resist an outstanding eyass, particularly one that I have been watching grow into such desirable perfection and although they appear identical one of the females has a look in her eye revealing some inner aspect of presence that always signals an outstanding creature.

Today we have to box up and transport them to the hack pen of their new owner. For many years, like most people I know, the wings and tail were taped with masking tape to preserve the feathers during transit, a process fraught with unseen consequences and little guarantee of success - it at least reassured the recipient that we had done everything possible. Today, in the warm days of summer, it makes more sense to understand the hawks natural behaviour and its reactions to how it finds itself. From that perspective it seems fairly obvious that when very wet, after a thorough soaking, it will settle in the travelling container and do itself little harm as well as being less stressed and cooler for the journey as it slowly dries out.

My nearby friend was kind enough to come and help with the task and promptly at 9.15 he drew into the yard. Both of us equipped with gloves, hoods, towels and travelling boxes we shut ourselves into the adjacent aviary, I immediately caught the first eyass with ease before she could get excited. No slouch she immediately vented her displeasure and bit clean through the glove - ouch! My blood oozed through the leather and the pain throbbed but adrenaline of the moment was enough to handle the pain. My friend got a hood on her and we weighed her in at 1330 grams empty - very satisfying although I knew she was around three pounds when I left an old fashioned balance in the aviary so that I could see how much weight they could depress when sat on its perch. Putting the new trial into effect we hosed her feathers, repeatedly, dipped tail and primaries into a full bucket of water and sloshed them about until soaked, no tape applied, just straight into the box still wearing her hood where she soon settled. The second eyass was identical except that her choice was to slash my forearm with a healthy gash. The plastic pet carrier was easily taken apart at the waist with four quick release catches so that on arrival any further handling was easily achieved with the minimum of fuss, hood off and into the holding pen. I was back home after 666 miles and 13 hours on the road, both delivered feather perfect, a job well done.

At my friends home I had seen more than 40 eyass Gyrs in his hack pen, what  a long way we have come in just a few years. A long drive usually leads to many thoughts and introspection.  My trip to the Netherlands meeting many old friends from different cultures makes me realise how much has been my privilege to see IAF grow over many years and to have worked closely with many wonderful people.  The  Association changes as characters come and go, as each new political agenda reveals itself but as in all human affairs we are never far from more difficult experiences.

One of my pleasures is fly fishing. For many years I was dedicated to my local chalk stream and would not have dreamed of any alternative, that was until a friend introduced me to bone fish, wow, there is something else.

In harmony with the season I am currently reading 'Another Lousy Day in Paradise' by John Gierach, a charming man I had the pleasure of meeting during my time in the US and with whom I fished and shared a bottle of wine on the riverbank. A plain speaking man, in his book he describes fishing as his passion, his way of life illustrated with a series of anecdotes among which he comments:

".......and eventually you have to pitch in, especially when the things going wrong where you are now are the same things you had to escape from some twenty years ago.

But politics is ugly, and it won't be long before you find yourself up a spiritual box canyon..........there are those who tell you not to let it get personal, but the dirtiest secret  in politics is that it is personal."

A crusty no nonsense sort of man his lazer vision seems to accurately describe challenges in the sport similar to many of those faced by many of my falconry friends I met in the Netherlands, people who struggle with regulators and opponents of their sport as well as some fellow falconers practicing 'the dirtiest secret in politics' at any cost. But it's not the only way.

Thankfully it has been my experience that at an international level there seem to be many people who recognise how fulfilling it is to focus on the art we practice and share its pleasure, reflect on our history, recall falconry's role in cultural heritage (as recognised by UNESCO), its ongoing contribution to more positive development of so many aspects of life today, worldwide. Perhaps it is the breadth of different cultures that keeps us aware of some truths and values often overlooked from a less demanding perspective - how fortunate to have such strong characters and great friends.

And now back home my way of life has changed gear, breeding is done, the moult progresses, a new game season will soon be upon us. Summer fun is to be enjoyed, today the Household Cavalry held their summer show in the forest at West Tofts, perfect summer weather, a big gymkhana and summer holiday for horses and soldiers who for the rest of the year are involved in ceremonial duties of state seen all over the world as well as fighting a war in Afghanistan. BBQ's, ice creams and horse games all in great fun just a couple of miles from my river, life is still on track.

Valkenswaard

People often talk of the quality of our sport, the artistic aspects as they perceive them, all seen in the light of our current values and society in which they live. Much comment seems to look at characters who lived a century or five centuries ago describing them as they fit into current perspective of values, with the assumption that this man was motivated by today's values, defining his actions by modern secular and scientific perspectives. This may also be applied to people from different cultures today but reality can be very different? If we could meet that man from 5 centuries ago or even a man today from another culture or religion his explanations might be very different from our expectations. This past week we have been looking into some of the historical aspects of falconry in Europe in the company of falconers from all over the world.

As is recognised by all its citizens, Valkenswaard in the Netherlands, owes its very existence to falconry. From 1550 until 1928 the Mollen family and others created an economy by  trapping and distribution of migrating falcons and hawks traded to much of Europe and even further. The soil in this area, like the Brecks of my native Norfolk, is almost pure sand  with the consequence that any agriculture is wholly dependent upon whatever manure and plant food can be applied. Before 1550 both areas were in great poverty  but in Valkenswaard it was later transformed by this new economy,  trapping falcons, supplying most of the royal houses of Europe.

Later the connection between the two areas grew when Hawks were supplied to the Confederate Hawking Club and then also when the Champagne Club moved to Norfolk at the time of the Franco Prussian War. Dutch Falconers were employed and then eventually the whole operation was transferred to the Loo in Holland in formation of the new club.

Today we are far removed from the constraints of that era with mobility and technology that transforms our way of life and distances us from nature in ways that our awareness finds hard to comprehend. This week I fulfilled my long held inquisitiveness when I attended the IAF AGM hosted in this historic town for falconers worldwide. We were generously welcomed in Valkenswaard, hosted in the town museum and civic centre, addressed by the mayor, whose chain of office has the image of a Peregrine falcon engraved in celebration of their heritage. Many of the roads were bedecked with flags depicting falcons and the IAF, how welcome we all felt.

Our way of life came alive for the local population when falconers from 40 or so countries around the world came together for the annual meeting of the IAF. Guest of our president was His Excellency Mohamed al Bowadi of the UAE who in his address to our meeting ably voiced the real essence that has been falconry for thousands of years.

 "We are all here because of an innate sense of purpose, a goal to protect the species that we love, and the long established tradition of falconry. In this journey we have unknowingly enriched who we are as humans, and as such as humanity.

We have crossed borders, bridged nations and creeds. This journey has allowed us as a community, to achieve what some may say, were far-fetched conservation dreams."

Recognition by UNESCO of the intangible cultural heritage of falconry in many countries defines and recalls the context for our way of life which gives us the privilege of our model of behaviour and values, close to nature and aspects of our own being otherwise confusing,  seemingly distant from modern society's  priorities. His Excellency went on the say:

 "I am standing here as a man and as a falconer. For many of us being a falconer and a person is the same thing, as the values, ethics, moral standards we strive for as people are the ones we abide by as falconers. To be a falconer is to embody the value of respect, resilience, tolerance, ambition, patience and humility. These values are universal and so is falconry."

Museum staff organised for us a practical demonstration of the trapping procedures at the traditional location where migratory hawks and falcons converge on the heath from all over northern Europe, Scandinavia and Russia in the autumn season as they head south. Of course this process is reversed in the spring when hawks return to their breeding areas.

Today, in countries where trapping is legal, it's a relatively simple process to drive around with traps at the ready and attract the chosen species. In the days of trapping at Valkenswaard it was a far more ingenious process requiring great dedication and patience, the help of a butcher bird, trained falcons and much good fortune to attract a passing falcon to the trap.

During our meeting it was fascinating to watch a presentation by Turkish falconers showing their traditional trapping of migrating Sparrowhawks which they rapidly train to catch migrating quail after which, when their sport is done, the hawks are returned to the wild to resume their journey. In national costume their traditional songs were stirring in many ways, touching feelings not far removed from my own daily falconry experience.  But we are all falconers in this world together with many shared values as His Excellency had reminded us - certainly it stimulates alternative viewpoints, creates respect and appreciation far removed from some of the more modern aspects with which we also contend.

Men's Problems - Friends

In day to day falconry and my way of life through the year I get used to talking with my local friends, local club members and our monthly social events when a group of us get together to share a meal. It can almost be that I have another life since I am also familiar with a large group of people around the world, people who write for the magazines, several who over a long period of time have become friends. The surprise and enjoyment I experience when a friend remembers me only seems to grow as time goes by. The accumulation of similar experiences somehow seems to make enjoyment grow and my appreciation ever more aware. When it is unexpected it can be whelming.

A few days ago it was my pleasure to meet again many acquaintances from the falconry community around the world, to spend time with them doing our business but also relaxing, sharing meals and much laughter over more than a few drinks. Freed  temporarily from the constraints of my own society and able to enjoy what other  nations still find 'normal' can be as simple as an occasional cigar so that somehow it feels special and a privilege in the company of resumed friendship.

But at this meeting how unexpected a surprise it was when my Japanese friend arrived, offering his customary polite greeting made the more so when he handed me a small bag full of carefully wrapped gifts! That he had remembered me before the trip to buy some small personal, traditional Japanese gifts was quite wonderful and rather humbling.

A few years ago as advancing years began to impose on me I had read of the beneficial effects of drinking green tea and how much lower were incident rates in Japan for male prostate problems, thought to be a consequence of their green tea consumption. Having had my share of attention from the medical profession and experienced their macabre habit of terrifying new customers falling into their grip, I have increasingly found some improved self management and diet adjustments paid dividends and reduced my own 'white coat syndrome'! When green tea came to my attention I of course contacted my friend to ask his guidance and explanation of what this really meant since it seemed obvious that it was not the variety of green tea available to us in the local supermarket.

After some research my friend was kind enough to explain some of the intricacies of the subject and the various processes in the creation of Matcha tea, a fine green powder dissolved in a little hot water and drunk over a small piece of candy, transforming the flavour into something more mellow and unique. With my friend's explanation I was able to source a supply and to my delight it was effective and my PSA levels did reduce!

The wrapping of my presents in traditional Japanese paper was almost an exercise in origami and so attractive I left their unwrapping until we returned home to be shared with Jenny.

When we finally opened the packages it was of course two different varieties of matcha and a delightful paper box of wrapped candies,  how wonderful that my thoughtful and considerate friend can bring such unexpected joy in expression of his enjoyment of our work together over many years. 

August Litter Due?

Our Irish setter bitch FTCh Tiqun Ember came home today, at the end of her field trialling career and hopefully to her maternity kennel after again being mated with FTCh Coldcoats Corbally Boy. Steve and I met on the Newmarket bypass as he was travelling to Cambridge and over a cup of coffee we chatted about our long association  and the many dogs we have now shared together. He sent me a recent photo of himself with six field trial champions on leash, four of them having also been in the top two of the British Champion Stake in five consecutive years! He really is a master of his art and through our setters we have shared many good times. In the photo "Brochan" the dog we used is giving Ember a kiss with the whole scene being reminiscent of the well known photo of Jack Nash holding nine Field Trial Champions! Brochan is owned by Jack's niece and God daughter Mary and is a fine picture of Irish Setter as were bred in the 'Moanruad' kennel and which our pedigrees follow.

Over many years now a lot of our setters have spent their first few years with Steve Robinson in Northumberland and then come home for a change of career as they adapt from the gun to falcon, usually sparking them into a whole new enthusiasm and rejuvenation.

Of course it also means they have to adapt from the moors of the north to the lowlands of East Anglia, from grouse in heather to partridge, pheasant and snipe in rape and corn. And now as my old bitch Ruby finally nears the end of her life so Ember arrives - she already knows the new way of life since she was with us for January of the past game season, returning to Northumberland for the grouse counting and mating, all in anticipation of this momentum.

She then has to get used to the idea of working with our Cockers, I wonder how she will like that?

Modern sexual techniques

An overcast chilly start to the day soon brightened into early morning sunshine and warming air. All the eyasses are out of the nest this morning and shouting at their mother who has denied them food for a couple of days to encourage this major change when they can start to feed themselves. The strange thing is that even though food is clearly visible and available they don't take it for themselves but still wait until she gives them permission to eat. My friend said that parental duties are 'fairly hard wired' into the adults and its fascinating that even though completely inexperienced any required behaviours arrive on the day.

The vet arrived promptly an hour after breakfast as the breeding season moves on and his modern equipment enables us all to see whether our mare Toffee has managed to get pregnant? Years ago it all seemed so simple and natural to take the mare to the stallion, try her again 18 - 21 days later and assume if there was no response that a foal was on the way. Today we have the video screen and as though TV addicts we all stare for the image on the scanner screen that might show the implanted foal at 35 days old. Within a few minutes as he manipulates the sensor inside the mare, in a most undignified manner, the image we all want to see appears (centre below). So unnatural has it all become in the light of progress that the sexual act simply does not occur any more! 'Far too risky for such a valuable animal to perform' and even though the mare visits the stallion he only gets to perform with a dummy for collection of his semen which is then artificially inseminated into the mare whilst hot in the straw and we all cross our fingers!

My friend has a large herd of pigs and they are all artificially inseminated but as he explains there is much to know for success to be the norm. Many people struggle with semen through the mail and at great expense have their vet do the work only to find that pregnancy simply does not occur. Naive assumption is that all it takes is to get the semen into the female and pregnancy is inevitable. My friend explains that in his pigs the largely unappreciated essential part of stockmanship is that he still has to use a boar to tease the sow into a state of excitement during which it is important that she picks up some of his saliva and close attention to get her hormones flowing in the correct manner. That is when she is artificially inseminated, fertilisation does happen and the implantation cycle can occur with all hormones in place. And so it is with horses it seems where the more successful studs use the stallion in just such a manner and simply sidestep the dangerous part of the mating process in which even the best mares are prone to kick and do serious damage. The days of the adrenaline rush for grooms and handlers are now mostly a thing of the past. We no longer have to conduct such risky adventures of bringing mare and stallion together - health and safety professionals are relieved - civilisation of sex has become the norm!

For many years now my falcons have been bred by AI and with that end in sight, for the ones I intend to keep, they are all raised from hatching to be imprinted with the human as their partner in life. It is not just breeding that this affects since the highly attuned relationship develops flying and hunting techniques vastly more satisfying than that achieved in normal falconry. In breeding eyasses this year an interesting experience occurred when I inseminated the falcon since my young Jerkin was only just embarking on his adult life and it was the first year he produced any semen. Under the microscope it looked unpromising with no visible motile sperms, it was just like water. About an hour later when my female Peregrine 'Gentle' had laid her second egg I thought I might as well inseminate this sample in case there would be any chance of a fertile egg, there certainly would not if it remained in the capillary tube. The Jerkin continued his unpredictable teenage behaviour and did not manage to produce another sample for about three weeks but it turned out not to be necessary as his first effort of 'clear water' got three eggs and these are the result!

Luckily for us it has not proven necessary with our dogs and the natural process prevails much to the pleasure of Brockan and FTCh. Tiqun Ember, our Irish Setters, who were mated yesterday - 'this is a date for your diary' said Steve on the phone ' Brockan did not need any encouragement this time, he was straight on before I could get into the yard!' On the previous occasion he had been a virgin and needed a lot of encouragement. Hopefully they will produce a litter of pups in nine weeks time at the start of the grouse season. It is a fortunate time for pups since Ember will soon be back in work for the rest of the game season and pups will be a year old for the next season and well into training.

And for tomorrow.....................?

Big White Teddy Bears

Spring cleaning is somehow infectious once it takes hold, simply keeping going and coping with the accumulated clutter from our wet winter is no longer enough, the fresh emerald green and sticky buds inspire a dormant set of feelings that thrust me forward into clearing up, moving stuff from one pile to another, having a bonfire of what is left and then seeing that there are numerous jobs still to do. Our eyasses grow at a fantastic rate and then quite suddenly growth is almost over, a period of patient calm arises whilst new feathers emerge from white down, excitement in daily inspection of what colour each will turn out to be? For Emma the most hectic part is completed, feeding changes to three times a day, then two as full crops are slower to digest, she can sunbathe on the front shelf, drying herself from a longed for bath after the weeks of incubation and brooding.

I was woken at 4.30 with hawks hecking loudly from all the aviaries. Often it would be the arrival of a heron looking for fish in the pond adjacent to the house but now long since emptied by their visits they have become infrequent. Looking out the bedroom window into the gloaming dusky  shadows under low braches of the conker tree, heavy with new leaves and branches weighed down with her 'candles' of flowers, I can only just see there is a muntjac doe grazing some spring flowers, almost invisible as her coat appears to take on the surrounding colours of bark and vegetation; the hecking continues as more hawks join in the ruckus, the muntjac oblivious it seems. I clap my hands, no response, the hecking seems even louder, surely it must soon wake the whole village! "Hey you, muntjac, clear off" but no response. I shout louder, now the village will know!

I think how difficult it is to outwit deer when I am stalking, it's astounding at how calmly they can take everyday commotion. A few days ago mother and fawn were in the habit of commuting  through the garden each evening  to the bird feeder to scavenge the sunflower seeds dropped by our small hoard of house sparrows. It's shockingly unexpected to see one looking in through the glass of the French doors apparently checking on us and the dogs looking back, galling to see her casually eat off another tulip for desert. Deceptively gently they move around the vegetation, carefully selective of each mouthful as they progress their tour. My friend Angela thought to send her whippets to chase off her deer in a similar circumstance not knowing just how easily the fragile looking muntjac can look after itself, armed with small tusk like teeth with a razors edge, both her pet whippets were easily sliced open in self defence. Big bills from the vet and now two dogs that think it their duty to seek out these small deer, and ongoing worry when she lives in the forest.

As eventually this small deer moves out of the shadows into the light by the hedge to pass directly in front of Emma's aviary, her well grown eyasses bigger than mother, like big white teddy bears, can see the passing muntjac from their gravelly nest-ledge and decide to join in with mother's complaints with their eerie, deep, more penetrating sound invoking haunting images of arctic wilderness, from these big Gyr female hybrids, 'heck, heck, heck, heck.......' in deep choral trio. How much noise can a few birds make in the silent stillness of first light of morning? At last  the doe ducks through the hedge, rooks are still talking amongst their nests, a blackbird is still singing, tranquillity returns in a moment.

Back to bed but little chance of sleep now, after a few minutes it's obvious that the day has started and a cup of Earl Grey obvious before plucking the first wood pigeons of the day, breakfast for the eyasses, reassuring Emma that routine remains as normal. Spring cleaning still awaits.

Norfolk Rabbits and Common Buzzards

I awoke early this morning with alarm bells ringing in my mind as the mental note I made for myself yesterday  suddenly achieved the goal I had set for it -  to remind me to put some wire netting around the transplanted seedlings. It was nearly a day late that my mind remembered, hence my alarm, I had to go and look, had the rabbits had them overnight?

Yesterday in a fit of exasperated enthusiasm after breakfast, having first watered the polytunnel,  I planted out the sweet corn. Standing back and admiring the emerald green shoots in the chilly sunshine I was concerned about their survival, not just in the face of the very chilly spring weather that we are having but also recalling that last year the rabbits had three lots of seedlings, eaten off to the ground before I managed to exclude the pests  from the vegetable garden with sufficient determination for their survival.  After all that trouble it was more than disappointing that later in the year it was rats that moved in and stripped every ear! Another failure.

However, although my memory had not yet kept up with the urgency of erecting another layer of wire netting it turned out that overnight I had escaped the rabbit's attention and the flags of the seedlings were still gently moving in the sunshine and chilly early morning air.

Each year brings fresh enthusiasm and although I used to be plagued by rabbits today they have resumed being a minor nuisance. Several years of close attention and many evenings sitting in the loft of the barn shooting them in the adjacent paddock and vegetable garden made little difference. Life for a rabbit is so very different from our own perspective of the world, in every direction is another predator just waiting for a moment of opportunity to end its life and catch another meal.  It was the work of a few self opinionated 'conservationists' who did a low key release program for reintroduction of the Common Buzzard in East Anglia. Never mind that centuries of management and pest control had successfully removed the buzzard from our part of the world allowing other wildlife to thrive, this self opinionated program was sanctioned without consultation and now we all reap the consequences. The Common Buzzard is now common, as its name suggests, and of course a real difference occurred as they more or less wiped out the abundant population of rabbits that had rebuilt itself over a few decades. Some would call this success, others have a different point of view and priority.

When I started my career at Lakenheath in the Brecks the local country community were the descendants of the warreners, a whole community who had made a living from the rabbit in some of the poorest agricultural land in England, open heath and even sand dunes that blew in the wind.  Indeed Lakenheath airfield is built on what was the main area that the warreners worked, a sandy low hill to the north east of the village, ideal for the burrows and sparse vegetation providing perfect conditions for breeding rabbits. The old warreners effectively farmed this wild resource and in its heyday a train used to go every day to London Smithfield meat market taking many thousands of freshly killed rabbits to sell. They were humble country people making a unique living in conditions where nothing else could grow. Then the Forestry Commission planted a woodland factory of fir trees to form Thetford Chase over vast areas of Breckland. Of course it changed the landscape, ruining perfect hawking country, much used by the Old Hawking Club, the Confederate Hawks and the Champagne Hawking Club. All in the name of progress agriculture developed on the back of intensive irrigation from the underlying syncline aquifer fed by the chalk hills to the south,  transforming worthless soil into a vegetable growing medium to which has to be added all food for plants to grow.  With very low rainfall this semi arid, near desert has to pump all the water the plants will require. Today this artificial cultivation is producing mile upon mile of carrots, parsnips and onions with enormous financial turnover. With the transformation and loss of the warrens today the local villagers are supplemented or replaced in the farming and forestry workforce by immigrants from eastern Europe and South Africa and the economy gives the air of prosperity. Certainly it has all been transformed to a high value economy  fulfilling all of the concept of growth and high finance.

But still the rabbits survive. When we started work on Lakenheath airfield in 1970 rabbit burrows had wrecked the airfield lighting system and in 3 nights we shot more than 1800 within the perimeter fence, we  got very sore shoulders I recall.  In the following weeks we shot many more. Today they are as prolific as ever in these ideal natural conditions and are only kept in check by rigorous crop protection and pest control. And so it has been in the rest of this part of East Anglia. Disease comes and goes, but rabbits adjust and overcome myxomatosis and hemorrhagic virus, vast culling programs, gassing and trapping. The buzzard has success where all else fails. In my paddocks my dogs find empty skins with attached feet and head, what is left after the meal when the soaring buzzard is able to see and catch rabbits that dare expose themselves. A large skin is often where a full grown rabbit has fed the whole family! Foxes, stoats, weasels and mink simply have nowhere the success of the common buzzard.

So this morning Jenny and I erected another wire fence within the existing wire fence that forms the vegetable garden fortress perimeter. Another temporary affair in the ongoing conflict that is the lot of organic gardening.  Trying to cope with mother nature who herself is trying to cope in the face of our onslaught, justified as imposition of our will. But the rabbit survives and then learns to prosper even though it lives in a wholly hostile world, attacked from all directions, almost by every creature around, rarely a moment to simply enjoy the sunshine. I once injured a rabbit that squealed loudly. To my shock a muntjac  arrived from through the hedge and savaged the already injured rabbit until it was dead! They are equipped for the job with tusk like teeth, razor sharp along the edge and are well known for slashing dogs that might venture to tangle. Why would a deer become so fierce, did it feel driven to quiet the rabbit before it attracted predators? The fox, who will often come at a gallop to the sound of a squealing rabbit -  I was amazed but the muntjac  tasted great, as did the rabbit.