Life lessons from a deer stalker

In some ways talking to people exclusively about one subject is a liberating experience. We have all been to parties where hipsters spout off about the latest pop-up restaurants in Dalston, or world traveller types insist on telling you at length about their encounters with pygmies (I like to think they have secretly eaten one) all of which leaves you feeling inadequate and open to drinking too much as an escape from the conversation.

The greatest difference I have found between the countryside and the city is even though the countryside contains far fewer people, your friends and acquaintances fall into strictly defined categories. There are the people you bond with over machinery, hay making, whist down the pub, or traditional country pursuits like shooting and fishing, but the essentially solitary nature of the work means there is hardly any crossover. Instead, in a city like London, where there are a thousand different professions, a common appreciation of the rituals of office life acts like a social glue that binds everyone together in shared frustration. 

By contrast I spent a happy evening chatting to Bob. Bob is a self-confessed stalker but you would only be in danger if you were a deer, a fox or rabbit. He is a crack shot, one of the best in Devon, and knows an awful lot about guns. This is what we always talk about when leaning on the fence as the sun goes down on the valley. I secretly covet his superb collection of custom-made rifles, with their Second World War-era Mauser bolt actions and Swarovski scopes.

The evening had gone just like any other. I watched in awe as Bob unleashed a fusillade of near constant shots into the vegetation targeting the critters that had been devastating my mum's peas. He never misses and we had just finished paunching the 18 rabbits he had bagged that evening when, much to my surprise, he asked me about my own relationship, and not with firearms: 

"It finished just after Christmas rather messily," I said.

 "I am sorry to hear that. I have always found women to be such strange creatures," (presumably because they aren't really into shooting deer, I thought) "They never seem happy to let you go off on your own and do things." It is always awkward when someone bears part of their soul to you over a basin full of rabbit guts, so I asked whether what sort of .22 ammunition he likes to use in order to bring us back to safer ground.

Thinking about it later, though, it seemed the most profound statement about the human condition I had heard in a long long time...

"Miss Potter, you say?" 

Close encounters of the herd kind

Some friends from the Southeast down on a visit recently asked me whether I had any regrets about dropping journalism, and a busy life in London, in exchange for chasing after cattle and mending fences in the blazing (for Devon) midday heat. As we sat under umbrellas on the front lawn drinking chilled Meantime Lager enjoying a pleasant salad Nicoise lunch the obvious answer was no. The answer to that question is still no, though we are all prone to self doubt occasionally. 

I thought of that conversation after a particularly close encounter with an angry Limousin bullock the other day. In fact four thoughts, in consecutive order, in the form of rhetorical questions flashed through my mind as I stared at a seething mountain of angry steak:

1) Was investment writing really so tedious? Yes it was. 

2) Can I sprint 400m to the nearest gate in wellies? No. 

3) Why did I choose a red T-shirt this morning? Oh dear.

4) I can't see any, so it must have been done? I hope. 

It is somewhat irrational to think of your career at moments of extreme peril, but I suppose there is never really an ideal time to question the choices you have taken in life, particularly if a mad bullock decides that going through you is the shortest route to the exit.  What had happened was that a cow belonging to my neighbour Martin had decided that my land was the equivalent of paradise and had trashed three of my fences in a quasi-jihadist frenzy in order to reach it. It chased my placid, sweet-natured Aberdeen Angus cattle around the field and smashed up all of the electric fencing. In short, it was wild, well, at the very least livid. 

I'd like to say that I wrestled it to the ground like they showed us at Bicton college. The technique is to stick your fingers in its nose in order to trigger a pacifying response, then twist it the ground. However, when the opportunity to try this out presented itself, I chickened out and legged it instead. Martin eventually came around with a team to herd it back to its doubtless worried family. 

This illustrates a serious farming point, and a lesson well learned: don't be conditioned by the behaviour of your own animals when dealing with other people's. 

Temperament is difficult to explain, but you know it when you see it. Angus cattle have been bred specifically for easy handling as it saves time and allows the cows to be left outside more. Limousin are selected for size, and not much else, which means they have a tendency to run amok if given the chance. This obviously reflects their tempestuous Gallic heritage. It is like having a particularly moody French girlfriend, with the one positive that you have the option of barbecuing her at some point. 

Anyway, I survived long enough to write this entry, but next time I won't walk the lower ten acres without my trusty stick.