Bog Myrtle & Peat

Five days have passed since I declared war on the fox responsible for killing a snipe. The grudge match did not last long.

Lamping doesn’t really seem to be working on the Chayne. There is no cover on the farm, so foxes are spotted at ranges of six and seven hundred yards, well beyond the reaches of even the most ambitious marksmen. Searching for other techniques to bring foxes within range of my little .243, I found a copy of John Cowan’s brilliant new book “Advice From a Gamekeeper”. The book deals with all aspects of the gamekeeper’s life, and there is a long chapter detailing fox control.

It would seem that, after a cold night on the hill, foxes are inclined to find somewhere where they can sit out and catch the first rays of the rising sun before turning in to sleep for the day. In his book, John Cowan writes that if you can find a nice, east facing  spot just as the sun is coming up, you’ll find a fox. I had no idea how accurate his prediction would be.

It was a hard, crispy morning on the Chayne, and my footsteps crunched in the solid drifts of snow . I arrived at six fifteen, just as the sun was glowing over the distant Solway, and I set off up the hill to the woodcock strip where I found the remains of the snipe on Saturday. There was no wind at all, and I quickly gave up all hope of surprising anything on the farm. As the sun slipped over the shoulder of Criffel, an orange beam of light lit up the trees ahead and I stopped to scan along the boundary with the telescopic sight. A strange beige shape made me double check. It looked vaguely like a roe deer, but as I swung the rifle back to my shoulder, I noticed that it was only a swirl of dead grass. I almost ignored it altogether, but the first rays of sunlight suddenly picked up something else. It was a fox, and it emerged into the fresh glow to sit down without a care in the world.

I dropped to one knee, but at one hundred and fifty yards, the crosshairs were still wobbling. Lying down on the crispy soil, I picked a point on its chest and squeezed the trigger. The fox vanished instantly, but a meaty slap of contact rang out into the morning. The bottom boughs of a pine tree behind the swirl of grass began to twitch and it was clear that the 75gr hollow point had done its job.

She was an old vixen, with a scar or deformity on her nose which had divided the black tissue and revealed sinuses and a section of cleft palate. Given that the fox breeding season is now on the way out and the dog may not mate again, I had maybe just saved a promising section of woodcock habitat from what could have been any number of fox cubs for the summer. It was almost a shame to kill such a fantastic looking animal in one of the most beautiful dawns I have ever seen on the farm, but there will always be foxes, and giving the ground nesting birds some breathing space has to be my priority. Five days have passed since I threw down the gauntlet, and in my opinion, the whole affair has been brought to a satisfactory conclusion. The next problem will be finding her mate…