It is a small, overgrown wood on the outermost fringes of the estate. Far from the nearest farmhouse, cottage or byroad, it can be reached only by half a mile of rutted track that in winter is impassable to anything but a grownup 4x4 vehicle with suitable tyres.
Its very remoteness, however, means that it is rarely visited by woodsmen or foresters and, because it is so undisturbed, it has become a little haven for muntjac. Their tracks and signs are apparent everywhere. Last autumn, I selected a suitable spot and erected a free-standing portable high seat with the object of paying a visit once the last leaves had fallen and the trees were bare.
I did this early one morning in the depths of winter. The temperature hovered around freezing, but the frost had been kept off the ground — outside the wood at least — by a nagging north-easterly wind that prompted me to don full winter kit.
It is a slightly unusual wind direction which, rather annoyingly, meant that my access to the seat would have to be made downwind. It was still pitch dark as I crept between the oaks and found the narrow path leading to my chosen position, but the inevitable happened.
Indignant
With my high seat almost within touching distance, there came a bark from deep in a bramble-filled ditch in front of me. I had scanned constantly with thermal binoculars on my way into the wood, but I had not detected the buck that stepped out 25 yards ahead of me, looking most indignant. The buck barked insistently for some minutes, but he did not run. I remained rooted to the spot until he settled down a little and I managed to climb into the seat, from which at last I had a grandstand view.
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