Shooting and Fishing the subtext to a family weekend.

My Wife’s family live in Devon and she asked me to arrange accommodation for us when attending a family party.
I recalled that IanF had advertised a holiday cottage and thought that here might be a chance to incorporate something slightly more interesting into the weekend.
Then I got asked by another friend attending whether I would help sail his boat back to Cowes afterwards with the promise of a bit of fishing on the way.
This was problematic since my Wife would be driving the car back and I couldn’t leave my rifle in it.
However, Ian was quick to offer the loan of his which solved that problem.
We drove down on the Friday afternoon and settled ourselves in before driving off to the party. The rain was a bit thick as was the satnav and we very nearly ended up on a south Devon beach at one point.
We returned to Ian’s hunting chalet at about 0100 and I went straight to bed because I was due to get up at 0545 to go stalking with Ian.
The alarm on my phone duly went off and I sat up, leaned forward to find it and promptly banged my head upon the sloping roof. After I found and switched off the phone, I quickly got dressed and went down the stairs in the dark, knocking off the decorative top of the newel post en route and waking the rest of the family. So much for stealth!
Ian’s tap on the door came as I was struggling into my boots and I snuck out to join him in the gloom.
We climbed into the same Landover that had so gamely handled the snow on my last visit and set off.
A quick sip of the triple sugared coffee proffered by Ian shocked any remaining sleep out of my system as we discussed the weather in general and the current rain in particular.
A short trip through the lanes and we found ourselves staring at the vague outline of a gate through the drips running down the windscreen.
Ian, after what he said was a careful perusal of Metcheck announced that it was going to ease off for a while and then another band of rain was going to come through.
The rain was a fair bet and seemed to have been a constant companion over the last few weeks.
The gate gradually became clearer in the gloom and we carefully climbed out and glassed the field beyond.
Nothing.
What self-respecting buck would be thinking of sex in this weather?
Not to be put off, we drove off and stopped by a gate looking across the opposite valley.
We carefully checked out various likely shadows until Ian spotted something promising in the middle of a field.
Further long observation revealed that it might have something between the ears. We set off down a track, barely wide enough for the Landover until stopped by a pair of gates. We got out and with rifle and sticks set out to close the distance.
Squelching slowly and steadily down a hedge, through it and down into a deep Devon lane until we got to a gate out the far end.
Over the gate and into a field. The wind was good and coming towards us.
The next field put us in view of the beast again and it stopped and looked around with a raise head for a few minutes.
No doubt now, it was a buck. It walked forwards a few paces and we crossed down through the field, over another gate and into the field at the valley bottom.
The buck was still out of sight as we came to a stream swollen with rain.
I wondered whether my old Musto boots were still watertight as we waded across. Surprisingly, given their age and condition, they were.
We cautiously stalked across the field trying to see the buck through a heart shaped gap in the hedge about 3 metres across.
It was there, Ian put the sticks in position and I put the rifle on and peered through the sights. Nothing.
The branch of tree forming the descending point in the top of the heart shaped opening was obscuring the buck. Ian, to my right, could see it but I couldn’t.
A quick bit of shifting around and there it was.
Some hurriedly whispered tips from Ian about resting my elbow on my knee and a range of 120 metres and I was in position. I looked at the buck through the scope and at that moment he raised his neck and looked.
I knew that at any second he was likely to step forward again and out of view. No time to think, time to act.
I quickly lined up on the heart and pulled the trigger. Crack, no Buck in the sights, no soggy thump of bullet hitting flesh.
A slap on the back and a Wadmansheil and handshake followed.
Ian asked if it felt good? Yes I said but I was wondering how good, not having seen it drop or heard the noise.
Ian reckoned it had dropped on the spot from a spine shot but I couldn’t square that with my mental sight picture of when I’d pulled the trigger.
We crossed the rest of the field, climbed into a bit of woodland, over a gate and into the buck’s field.
This was mowing grass, about 40cm high and there to be cut and turned into fodder if ever the weather eased up enough for it to dry.
We walked up through the field, leaving tracks in the wet grass until we got to where we though it should have been.
I spotted some tracks in the disturbed grass below me and investigated but couldn’t see anything. Disturbingly, one of the tracks headed into the wood but I couldn’t see any sign of blood or pins.
Ian was further up the field and suddenly whistled. I looked up and he gave me the thumbs up, pointing further up the hill.
I walked up the there it was, a little four point buck laying in the grass.
There was an entry wound barely visible in just about the right place.
I rolled it on its back to check for any ticks and noticed some scabs on the inside of its thighs. The scabs looked a couple of days old and were about antler width apart. It looked like this young buck had been thoroughly seen off by an older rival. On the other side there were some what looked like antler marks in the pelt with a bit of missing hair marking the spot where he had been biffed.
There was also and exit wound high in the shoulder.
I took a few photos and then Ian took a few before we carried it up to the edge of the field to gralloch.
In my haste to take the shot and the heat of the moment, I’d forgotten that I was shooting uphill and the bullet had travelled upwards at an angle through the body, taking out the blood vessels at the top of the heart.
The lungs and liver looked fine with not sign of disease and the carcase, minus head, legs and innards was soon inside a plastic bag and inside a roesack.
Ian very kindly shouldered the burden and we set off back, down into the valley, across the stream where I paused to photograph some slot and up through the fields.
Ian left me at the gate at the bottom of the lane as he wanted to drive the Landover down through it to flatten the bracken that was choking it.
I opened the gate for him and waited.
The rain came on again and I suddenly realised that, exactly as he had predicted, there had been a lull in the weather. I’d been too wrapped up in the stalk and the kill to notice.
The noise of an engine and the sight of the Landover’s snorkel above the bracken heralded Ian’s arrival and he drove into the field and turned around going back into the lane as I closed the gate behind him.
Ian was soaked from having walked up through the wet bracken and expressed regret at not being quick thinking enough to send me on ahead of him! Friends eh? they treat you worse than enemies?
Ian loves conditions which challenge the land rover and had great fun driving it back up through the jungle of the lane.
We drove back and it was still only 0700 by the time we arrived. The buck weighed in at 30 kilos and with another went into the back of the land rover ready for the game dealer.

I went back to bed and managed to doze until nine when duty to family and dog called me.
My family were sceptical about my stalking abilities based upon the noise of my early departure and fortunately, a quick review of my camera pictures convinced them.

I was due to leave early the next morning to catch the tide since Portland Bill is a tidal gate and was 40NM away from Teignmouth. That meant that I would have to leave Ian’s about the same time as I had the day before. I went to bed with dire threats from my family ringing in my ears if I disturbed their sleep twice.
By great good luck, my wife woke me about a quarter of an hour too early. The smoke detector was making a regular and persistent peep noise because the battery was running low.
I unclipped it, dressed, grabbed my sailing bag and left. There was fog around Exeter which was a bit worrying since Lyme Bay abounds with lobster pots and the marker buoys seem to have a magnetic attraction to the keels and prop-shafts of passing yachts.
Fortunately, the Teign valley faces East and a slight westerly had cleared all the fog away.
After a quick cup of tea, we got the dinghy onboard and headed off into the sunrise.

We had to average five knots to make Portland Bill around slack water otherwise, we would face fearsome overfalls and strong currents as I had in the past. It really is scary.
Five knots was too fast for fishing, that would have to wait until we’d got round. The further offshore we got, the more the breeze built and by the time we were halfway, we were running on a force 4/5. The wind gradually backed southerly and by lunchtime we were on a pleasant beam reach.
Approaching the Chesil end of the isle of Portland we finally caught the countercurrent that whisked us up towards the race and we stormed around it at eight knots.
The island had been sheltering us from the wind which had backed south easterly and rather than slowing down, we speeded up. The mackerel are quick around there but nine knots is beyond them!
Past Portland Harbour where the next Olympic sailing venue is and on into Weymouth harbour where we tied up and had a beer.

The forecast for the following day was 2-3 southerlies so we decided that we’d leave late at around 1000 and drift down the coast, fishing all the way and maybe popping into Lulworth or Wobarrow for lunch and on to Poole for the night.
Kiri phoned up with tales of a massive haul of Cod taken on the Saturday on his trip so my enthusiasm was fired for some prime fishing.

The best laid plans of mice and men oft gang aglay and thoughts of fishing disappeared that morning as we were forced to put a reef in to stop the boat heading up just half a mile out of harbour.
We had an exhilarating sail down the coast just managing to stay ahead of the weather front and accompanying rain that was hiding the coast behind us in the murk.
After coming round Anvil Point we got some shelter from the land and, even after shaking out the reef were approaching mackerel speed so out went the lines.

A canoeist coming the other way caught our attention since there aren’t really any beaches until you get to Worbarrow and there were two lots of strong overfalls between him and them. He told us he was canoeing around the coast to Blackpool. I hope he makes it.

By the time we got to Dancing ledge, the wind was up again and the lines were in. No Mackerel though.
At the Tilly whin caves we looked behind us at the murk and rain.
Ahead of us shining brightly, the white chalk of the Needles on the Isle of Wight.
Down to our left, beyond Swanage as we came round the headland, Old Harry and the other stacks were just disappearing.
Poole suddenly looked less than inviting and, after a moments debate, we set course for the Needles.
Despite the wind shifting easterly, we managed to make the Fairway buoy a few hours later and just on the tide so that it carried us down through Hurst and onwards.
The Island sheltered us here and there, funnelling the wind through the valleys.
Despite it being Cowes week, there were very few boats on the water.
Cowes itself was busy with junketing sailors but we headed on up past the Folly Inn and had the boat tied up and the springs on before the rain finally caught us up.
Many thanks to Ian and John for making such an unpromising weekend such fun!
There are some pictures if I can ever get them off my wife’s laptop.

Weidmannsheil! You sure spin a good yarn!

Wow, with 30kg your UK roe are a good deal larger than the ones we see here on the Continent!

- mike

Oops! Mybad! That should be pounds not kilos!

I don't want IanF overwhelmed with business from people wanting to hunt giant roebuck.....after all, if a fourpointer cull buck weighs that, what would a fully mature one weight?

Nice one - stick up the pics!

A picture of the buck showing the scabs on the wounds on the inside of his hind legs where he was involved in a fight with another buck.



A picture of the Buck in the grass. The Green Glowing Eyes are (I Hope) an artifact of the camera's mechanics. Either that or it has ingested too much Radon in its diet!


Weymouth Harbour. A lovely English Seaside town which will feature a lot in the future as it is next to the sailing venue for the next Olympics.