Bog Myrtle & Peat

I have never shot a roe deer. It’s something that I have always wanted to do, but for some reason or other I have just never done it. Roe deer belong to a culture that I don’t really understand, even though they live on my doorstep. Stalking in the highlands is a very distinctive experience. Spending a day in the remote hills with a stalker is a fantastic way to spend an autumn day, and I was delighted to shoot a rather mediocre stag a few weeks after my twenty first birthday, but that moment was part of a holiday, away from my day to day life. People who shoot roe deer seem to build stalking into their lives. They can go for a walk in the morning, take a deer, gralloch it, hang it and be in at work by nine, and that is not at all my experience of stalking.

I recently bought a .243 to shoot foxes on the Chayne, and ‘Little Meg’ is now a dearly beloved member of the family, but the prospect of deer was in the back on my mind as the till rang through. Deciding to “seize the day” yesterday morning, I drove up to the Chayne at six thirty for a walk around the forestry. It was an extremely bright dawn, and the clear night had frosted the grass into crisp clumps. My footsteps made echoing crunches and I was certain of failure within a few hundred yards. It was so still that the sound must have scared everything away, but I continued regardless. It is always so nice to be up and about at dawn that I slung the rifle over my shoulder and walked along the first block of forestry.

Passing through a low peat hagg and onto a ridge of tufted grass, I heard a grinding noise. The continuous line of pines was broken just ahead by a stand of ash trees, and at its most distant corner, a holly bush poked over the boundary fence. Something was rustling, and the grinding continued. It was a patient noise, measured and rythmic in the silence. Still thirty five yards away, I carefully loaded the rifle. The bottom twigs of the holly bush were being tugged. Something very small and brown was dancing in the leaves. I was so excited about seeing a deer that when I realised that it was only a squirrel, my stomach twisted with disappointment. I took a step forward and a hen pheasant exploded into flight by my feet and purred into the cover. The holly bush had stopped twitching. Looking through the telescopic sight at the squirrel, I saw with hair raising clarity that I had made a mistake. It wasn’t a squirrel. It was a roe deer’s ear connected to a roe deer’s face connected to the body of a roe deer, lying in the long frosty grass with its back against the dry stone wall.

It was “do or die” time. The rifle’s sight’s wobbled scarily, but I could see that it was a doe. She hadn’t seen me, and she stretched her neck to tug at the holly again. It had to be a head shot, taken freehand at thirty yards. The rifle sounded extraordinarily loud and pigeons clattered out of the pines. Five minutes later, I had my first roe deer gralloched.

It may not count as a proper ‘stalk’, but that first moment of triumph and raw excitement hasn’t worn off even now. I am constantly amazed by fieldsports. Just when you think that you have found your favourite, you try something new and it upsets your entire hierarchy. If roe deer stalkers are able to build moments like that into their every day lives, then count me in…