Clocking on for the cull

On a balmy summer’s evening Richard Hardy considers the thorny topic of headshots

- Richard Hardy

As I clicked the gate padlock shut carefully and scrambled its combination, the village church clock struck 9pm. It’s unusual to hear the bells so clearly here but on a typically still and humid summer evening it wasn’t a complete surprise, merely a strong indication of the airless conditions.

Rifle, thermal, sticks and binoculars were quickly gathered from my truck, the essentials for a quick hour around this patch of young oak, alder, and birch. It is now well overhead height and safe from browsing, but without tubular tree guards, it is suffering greatly from the slightly crazed fraying of competing for young roebucks at the fag-end of the rut.

Gently closing the truck canopy, I settled into the practised routine of walking slowly and quietly through the knee-high grass. On the edge of a ride, I took a long view down with the thermal, ever hopeful of spying a buck leaving his chosen daytime laying-up spot and heading out for a night on the tiles.

Coming to the first ride almost on autopilot, my heart suddenly leapt into my throat – no need for the thermal scope or even binoculars. About 45 meters away were the tell-tale tips of almond-shaped ears, poking above the ochre seed heads. Carefully I took a deliberate step backward into the cover afforded by the nascent tree line, gently testing my footfall to avoid anything that could signal my presence, unnatural sound being the only possible method of betrayal at present.