27th January - Rough Shooting

Without the right frame of mind there is little point in going out shooting. It is meant to be a pleasurable pursuit, yet how many times in the past have I lost sight of that and spent days in the field frustrated with my bad shooting, worried that progress is too slow or angry with the dog. Something has changed, whether becoming a father has put things in context or whether it is simply a result of getting older, I have no idea, but I do know that I prefer it. I just feel more relaxed, happy for the day to take its course whether it leads to success or failure, more able to revel in the unpredictability of rough shooting which let's be honest, has never been changed by worry, anger or meticulous organisation anyway.

A light frost lingering in the cupped  leaves of autumn past, below a bright sun and blue skies is enough to make any mood light and Dad and I chatted as we walked the long row of gnarled poplars to the first pond. Drawing close I made my final approach where the waterside bank is highest, thus concealing my stalk and peered over the water cautiously. On the far side, in amongst a fallen tree black with damp and decay two tiny ducks sat apparently unaware of my presence. Getting down again, I signalled to dad to be ready and crept left aiming to drive them back towards him. Reaching my position I released the dog knowing that if she startled them and not me, oblivious to human presence there would be a better chance of them flying over one of our two guns. Trusty Treacle completely failed to notice the pair of teal and instead piled into a heap of brambles behind the water. Concluding that the element of surprise was lost after my shouting and whistling, I got to my feet which was enough to make the ducks leap into the air and take flight. At first they headed towards my father, gun at the ready, but then while still low, banked right and climbed, looping some way out past my position. Being too close together to take individual aim, I drew my bead on the pair, swung through and fired. The lead bird faltered and began to fall and for a moment I fancied the other was also coming down as it checked its flight but then recovering it’s senses beat hard with it’s wings and was gone. I have observed this phenomenon several times, when ducks in flight will stay with a shot bird momentarily, even diving with them sometimes before they realise that it is dead and not flying.

The rest of the farm yielded one shot for dad, which straight into the sun, he missed and we carried on to the block of land about cottage. On such a warm day the pheasants were bound to be out in the hedgerows, but a long walk around the perimeter produced nothing and although a fox, a woodcock and a pheasant issued from quarry wood, the bag still remained at one teal. The pear orchard, a favourite haunt of pheasants when there is still rotting fruit on the ground, held three birds.  Two flew out of gun shot but the third, a hen pheasant sped down a line of trees passing dad like a partridge. I didn't see him fire but heard the discharge and saw the dead hen when I eventually reached his position with the dog. The next wood was empty and whilst we chatted idly at the top of the ridge, Treacle bounded off along the hedgeline. Next thing we knew there was a whirring of wings and pheasants exploding in every direction. At least half a dozen must have flown back before two hens broke on our side heading low across the field. Dads cartridges were out, but mine were in the broken gun and snapping it shut I pulled on the nearest bird knocking it from the air with a puff of feathers.

After lunch we tried Release-pen Wood and Triangle Wood without success and ended the day with 20 minutes under some tall oaks shooting pigeons. The final tally for what was probably the best day's shooting of the season was one teal, two pheasants, four squirrels and three pigeons.

26th January -Where's Betsy?

Not a great deal to report.  I was on baby duty today and in between dealing with the fallout from an upset stomach which continues to dog him (well dog us really, he doesn't seem to be in any discomfort) I learnt music for forthcoming concerts. Youtube is an invaluable resource for getting to grips with new repertoire.  It's like having the Guildhall music library in my house, only without the difficulty of trying to recall the alphabet every time I want to find something. You think I'm joking but once a dyslexic always a dyslexic.

Whilst inside working on the computer I took the opportunity to research my forthcoming role as ' Betsy ' for the Morris. Essentially I get to dress up as a woman with the excuse that it’s a Morris dancing tradition. It certainly is traditional, that is confirmed numerous times on the internet and in various books but further information is hard to come by. So, in the true spirit of Morris I will have to devise my own way of being ridiculous.

25th January - Early Blooms

Despite my complaining about being cold and wet yesterday, the weather is essentially mild for the time of year and everywhere flowers are creeping out of winter hiding. Crocuses and snowdrops are in full swing on the lawn, whilst in Cranbrook I noticed two large camellias, one pink and the other a crimson red, both in full bloom. Seeing those beauties served as some consolation for my visit’s purpose - a trip to the police station to surrender my driving licence. I didn't even manage to do anything exciting for my three points and £60, just drove across hashed white lines on a motorway exit - a middle-aged driving offence if ever there was one.

Work continues in the vegetable garden.  The mild weather has allowed couch grass to creep in a tangled rooting mat across the beds and its removal is proving to be a time-consuming occupation.

Dinner

Pork chops with brussel sprouts, carrots, red cabbage casserole and apple sauce. I was so hungry when I came in from the garden that in my rush to prepare dinner I forgot any potatoes. Never mind, an hour’s Morris practice is much easier on a light supper!

24th January –Shooting -The End of Season Rush

 Today was the first of four shooting expeditions planned in the next seven days. The end of the season is rapidly approaching and to avoid despondency I intend to have had more than my fill by the time it comes. At least 15 years ago during my Christmas holidays I was a regular beater on the local shoot and since then a friendship has developed with the proprietors, a husband and wife team who being old friends of H’s often turn up on his shoot days. It was this couple who invited me on their shoot today and quite a privilege it was too as I have no way of offering them a return day, which is the usual exchange for such an invitation.

Being back on the old farm filled me with childhood memories: old man T espousing the history of chestnut coppicing and the decline of the brown hare whilst we trundled from drive to drive on the old trailer; the tractor adorned with scores of fox tails tied about its roll bar. One memory, perhaps the most vivid will likely never be invoked again - the smells and sites of the traditional hop packing shed where lunch was taken. Once up the open backed flight of stairs, the wooden floorboards, impregnated with pungent yellow pollen were tacky underfoot and from the corner loomed the ancient press, a great hulk of cast wheels and cogs. Like the old man the shed is gone now, burnt when drying hops were kindled by the kiln (a common enough incident in the old oasts) and has been replaced by a modern building, all concrete, profile sheeting, conveyor belts and automated machinery. Still as farms go nowadays, they don't get much more traditional. The Ts' small estate is something of a rarity, a true mixed set-up still producing hops, fruit, cereal crops, timber and sheep in the time-honoured fashion. This practice, carried on for generations, has resulted in a block of land filled with nostalgia and practical beauty, consisting of oak stands interspersed with hop gardens, old-fashioned orchards, small paddocks and fields of green wheat.

This entry was meant to be about shooting and I shall quickly mention that in the miserable wind and rain I shot with average ability at not many birds, finishing with a modest but satisfactory total of three pheasants and one pigeon. I say quickly because it is of far more interest to note that I nearly lost the dog, not through running off but dying! I have mentioned the trailer earlier and it is still in operation - a long flatbed with a double row of straw bales running up its centre to serve as seats. The dog, attached by a long lead to my cartridge belt sat beside me at the front of the trailer, then without warning decided to jump off.  The tractor, no longer hung with tails in these sensitive times, was moving at a fair pace and immediately the lead snapped tight and began dragging her in towards the trailer and its large wheel. Instinctively I leapt myself, being thrown violently sideways as I hit the ground, but to my great surprise I wasn't hurt and the dog was saved.

Dinner

Mutton curry with rice and cabbage. I returned home to a fantastic meal, much-needed after standing around in the rain all day.

23rd January - Jerusalem Artichokes

Fart-i-chokes!

With the garden tidy and all the chicken in their respective pens attention has turned to the vegetable garden. Digging the artichokes is always a laborious task, as every earth covered tuber must be graded by hand then placed either in the premium bucket for selling, or the seconds bucket for ' seed ' and animal feed. You will notice there is no third receptacle mentioned for home consumption - the ferocious flatulence induced by the innocuous looking nodules is such that Em has imposed an outright ban on their usage. A few years back in a slightly unkind yet ingenious prank, I loaded Mr. C up with roasted artichokes on the evening before his first night at Kit's (his girlfriend's) house. The result was explosive in every conceivable meaning of the word - so I don't bother saving any for him nowadays either. The best specimens are now washed and waiting to be taken to the farm shop with the next consignment of quail eggs, the proceeds from which should pay our vegetable seed bill for this year. Naturally the rejects will not be wasted and I worked until dark planting row after row of them in the pig run. There is so much meat in the freezer we don't plan to have pigs again until early autumn, by which time the artichokes should be fully formed. The quantity I planted should provide a significant amount of free fodder and will undoubtedly supply hours of entertainment for the porkers as they root them out.

22nd January - Logged off with Apple

No real time to write, I just wanted to show off the large stack of apple wood that dad and I have produced. It's all done now and the prospects for a warm cottage next winter are looking good.

A busy weekend.  Em and I performed at a Burns night on Saturday, the first I've ever been to. Why don't the English have a day to celebrate fatty food, drinking and the delights of women? On Sunday we were up to Surrey for a family 60^th.

The salt lick which I put just in the coppice close to the cottage finally appears to have been discovered by the deer. Although it had fallen from its metal holder, the red block was unmistakably licked smooth and in theory the local population of roe and perhaps even some fallow will visit regularly now. I noticed this development on a walk I took with Em and G down the hill to view the latest felling done by the coppice workers. It fills me with great pleasure to see the chestnut stalls cut down, for where the uninitiated see destruction I see assurance that this coppice will survive in good order for decades to come. Most chestnut stalls are hundreds of years old and only continue thanks to periodic cutting which allows them to regenerate. It is the areas of coppice which are not cut which face real destruction, as they succumb to overcrowding and being blown by the wind.

19th January - Rain

I couldn't resist experimenting with attaching a video, so I’ve started simply trying to capture the mesmerising drip of water from tiles on our roof. If it works at all, I suspect the effect will be a dark clip of a grotty roof, but at least I’ve tried.

With Em at work, I was on Chub-Chub duty but after a monumental breakfast he very obligingly went to sleep for 3 1/2 hours, enough time for me to busy around in the torrential rain getting the new chicken enclosures ready. Finally this evening I was able to collect the various poultry from my parents' house and sort the different breeds into their respective pens.

After Em got back I took the dog and gun down to the Bramley orchard for a few pigeons. There were thousands to look at, literally swarming the skyline, but in the absence of any wind few came my way and after a couple of shots the immense flock had departed. Earlier on I did have three good shots - buoyed up by my recent success and a pep talk from B yesterday I made a point of picking the birds up fast and swinging through hard. The results surprised me as I connected with birds I would usually consider beyond range and I must try to preserve the feeling and mental image of how I achieved it!

Dinner

Pizza served with potato salad and rocket. Though I struggle to admit it Em bought a couple of pizzas which were reduced the other day and as I spent most of the evening outside messing around with chickens, one of them made a simple meal. It was very nice in fact and a real treat to have the first ' baby ' rocket leaves from the greenhouse.

Rocket