Two horses eye me suspiciously as I trudge up the paddock. They know me well enough, but today, I'm clearly up to something—unusually laden with not just my air rifle and gamebag, but a ridiculous rotary bucket seat slung over my shoulder. I’m slipping and sliding through the mud like a B-list celeb on one of those embarrassing ice-skating shows, and let me tell you, it’s not my finest hour.
Arriving at the gate, I’m greeted by what can only be described as a Gordian Knot. Not ideal. After a quick internal curse and a wrestle with my gear, I manage to haul everything over the gate, clamber over myself, and somehow slither up the small incline like a particularly inelegant snail.
The afternoon sun is doing its best to cheer me up, illuminating the old hut—my humble destination. A couple of cheeky grey squirrels dart across its roof and vanish into the woods. Safe from me for now, as my rifle isn’t armed, and besides, I’m still burdened with enough gear to stage my own production of “Man vs. Nature: The Mud Chronicles.” Eventually, I stumble into the hut, dump my load, and collapse onto the bucket seat. Puffing like a steam engine and swearing I’ll give up the cigars that are surely the culprit for this panting. Once upon a time, I could’ve run sub-three-hour marathons. That’s right, me! Thirty years ago, I was practically a gazelle. Now? More of a wheezing tortoise. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
The bucket seat, by the way, is one of those little gems I picked up from the local car boot sale. Inside the bucket? A crow decoy and a rabbit I shot yesterday. Yes, it's a bit macabre, but in my line of business, it’s all part of the fun.
Today, the team consists of four: me, my decoy (looking far too realistic for comfort), the rabbit (blissfully unaware of its second career), and my Daystate Huntsman Revere airgun in .22, who’s always ready for action. I’ve got that funny tingle in my bones—the one that tells me something good’s about to happen. So, off I trot to the clearing near the hut. The decoy goes into position, looking ever so dapper in its velvet, flocked coat. I stretch out the rabbit, give it a nice dramatic slash from ribcage to groin, and with a flourish that would make a butcher proud, I flick out its innards with my Opinel knife. A bit gruesome, yes, but it does the job. Belly-up, rabbit. Showtime!
Now, back to the hut to settle in for the long haul. I grab my sandwiches from the gamebag, fully expecting a bit of peace and quiet. But no sooner do I take the first bite than I hear it—the loud, unmistakable croak of a crow. First act already? I drop the sandwich, grab the rifle, and slide onto the bucket seat, ready for action. My perch is perfectly placed, giving me a view of the clearing through the cracked door and a lovely line of sight through the porthole I’d so cleverly cut into the side of the hut.
Outside, all hell is breaking loose. Crows, rooks, jackdaws—the whole lot, wheeling and diving like some sort of feathered circus. I wait, patient as a saint, for a sitter, and sure enough, two crows land on the tallest beech. The Revere is zeroed at 35 metres, and these chaps are at 40, give or take. With the angle and all, i don't see the need to dial up and opt for the centre crosshairs—gravity’s bound to help me out here. I line up the shot, aiming at the bird with the least amount of twig-related interference, and fire. For a moment, I think I’ve missed, but then—Thump! Down it goes, wings outstretched in a dramatic spiral to the ground.
I leave it there for now, making a mental note of where it fell. No time to celebrate yet; there’s work to be done. But wouldn’t you know it, disaster strikes. While lining up another bird at a rather awkward angle, I pull the silencer too far back, and the pellet smacks into the edge of the porthole. The ricochet? Straight into the door with a bang that nearly made me jump out of my skin. Could’ve been my eye, you idiot! I take a moment to breathe, still shaking a bit. The birds, understandably, have legged it (or winged it?), disturbed by the racket inside the hut.
About ten minutes later, the action resumes, with another wave of crows swooping overhead, cackling and mocking me. I bide my time, and soon enough, one of them lands in the same tree as its unlucky comrade. This time, there’s no mucking about—a 18-grain pellet takes it cleanly, and the bird drops like a stone. All’s quiet for the moment, so I venture out to retrieve the crows, patting myself on the back for the clean headshots. I decide to have a bit of fun, setting them up as extra decoys in a ridiculous ‘eating rabbit’ tableau. Back to the hut I go.
Now, if it was chaos before, it’s utter pandemonium now. The birds are going absolutely berserk above the woods, screaming blue murder. As I contemplate picking up my sandwich again, the unmistakable sound of magpies grabs my attention. Oh yes, magpies. My favourite. It’s a bit of a Clint Eastwood moment—I’ve got a reputation with these little rascals. They know I’m not to be messed with. There’s one right above me, scuttling about on the roof of the hut! I strain to peer through a porthole and spot a young magpie, perched just ten yards away. Damn. I lift the reticle just below centre, take aim, and fire. Feathers puff out, but the bird doesn’t drop. To make matters worse, I’ve cricked my neck in the process.
As I back away, rubbing my neck and wincing, I hear the magpies behind the hut going absolutely mad. That’s confirmation enough—I must’ve got the bird. Sure enough, the magpie frenzy attracts a fresh wave of crows, curious to know what’s going on. I slide into position, perched by the door, and have my pick of three in the tree. Eeny, meeny, miney, moe—down goes one with a neat neck-shot, and the others flee.
I add another decoy to the scene and, naturally, the birds can’t resist. They’re diving lower and lower through the clearing, getting bolder by the second. One lands, I shoot, it tumbles—but there’s flapping. Not good. A second shot at 25 metres finishes the job swiftly. That’s four now, plus the magpie. But with the sun dropping fast, I know the crows will soon be on their way to roost.
The final bird of the day perches atop the sitty tree, screeching at the chaos below. One shot, clean as you like, but the bird’s caught in the treetop, hanging there like a grisly ornament. Not exactly enticing for his mates. Two more shots, and he finally cartwheels to the ground. That’s enough for today, I reckon.
I leave the six birds and the coney behind a briar patch—dinner for the vixen and her cubs. Job well done, I think, and home I go, hungry for something other than a cold sandwich.
