There aren’t many full-time professional shepherds in Essex. But one of them lives next door to me. Michael’s a busy chap at the moment, keeping his flock nearby and tending to others too. But he always seems calm and very affable. So when I saw him last week, I was surprised to find him bristling with anger.
“My first ewes are lambing now. I sat up the whole night helping out an old girl with twins. They came eventually and I left her at two in the morning. When I came back before dawn, I cast the torch across the field and saw a fox carrying one-off.”
A series of Anglo-Saxon adjectives followed to explain his feelings for the fox. In an effort to calm his nerves, I offered to sit up the next night and try to prevent a recurrence.
Having just got a batch of new rescue hens — the bald ones — Mrs G was unusually enthusiastic about the plan, asking if I could also sweep around the caravan site where rabbits are undercutting the vans. She’s by no means anti-shooting, but it is a rarity when she actively encourages it. I was delighted to be able to oblige and so was my lamping buddy, “Ballistic” Bob Feaviour.
It was one of those cold blustery nights when what little natural light there was from the sky was shrouded in a thick veil of cloud. The ground was sodden and more rain seemed likely. We set up with Bob in the driving seat of his four-wheel drive with me protruding through the roof, touting a red-filtered lamp. I had my Ruger .22 and sound-moderator beside me for rabbits and Bob drove ready with his Remington .223 700 XCR tactical long-range model with a Shilen trigger fitted ready for foxes.
I tend to shoot from out of the roof, whereas Bob will stop and shoot from a standing supported position off the bonnet if a chance presents itself.
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