One of the joys living in rural Northumberland is the night sky. We still have a velvety-black firmament up here. Visitors from the overcrowded, overbuilt South are often amazed at the sheer number of stars that we can see on a cold, frosty night. The sad fact is that in too much of the UK, light pollution is so widespread that there is seldom any real point in looking heavenwards; too often, all you can see are a few bright points between clouds suffused with the orange glow of reflected fluorescent lighting. I wonder how many of today’s urban children have seen the Milky Way in all its glory?

In recent years, light pollution has come to be widely recognised, and ever greater efforts are being made to cut down on intrusive or extraneous lighting. In the countryside, some of the worst offenders are farms. Agricultural operations involving the movement of machinery or livestock in farmyards during the hours of darkness have an obvious need for good outdoor lighting. Too often, however, some of these floodlights are left on when they are not actually needed. Fortunately, modern planning regulations stipulate that external lighting must be directed downwards and shielded — but many older farmyards still seem to be ablaze with baleful yellow light, visible for miles. This is curious, given the average farmer’s well-known aversion to spending money.

Even worse are street lights and lit-up parking spaces. There are some of those horrible illuminated bollards outside my offi ce, which is located in a converted farm building in a rural area. They make the car park look like a runway at an airport. Cars have headlights — so why do we need all these yellow beacons in order to park? As for walking to your car, what is wrong with using a torch, for heaven’s sake?

If you have ever flown over the UK at night in an aircraft, you will note how the most virulent form of light pollution is created by highway lighting. Floodlit football stadia and the like are visible from gigantic distances, but they are few and far between, and their powerful floodlights are only on for a few hours at a time. Street lights and highway lights, on the other hand, are everywhere, spreading across the dark land like glowing yellow veins.

Increasingly, however, local councils and highway authorities are turning these lights off during non-peak traffic hours. The great switch-off has been stimulated by financial constraints and the need to meet energy targets. This is good news, I reckon. But a lot of people don’t agree with me.

Some self-appointed safety organisations have criticised the blackout, as have motoring groups. The Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents has said that the public is in favour of street lighting as a means of improving road safety. Well, that might well be the perception (though perhaps not the reality), but it needs to be balanced against the fact that light pollution is a real problem in this country, and we should be doing everything we can to minimise it, just as we do with any other form of contamination.

I accept that light pollution can, in a strictly limited sense, be useful in certain situations. I recall fl ighting duck, as a boy, on some land near Milton Keynes. We enjoyed extra shooting time because of the afterglow from the lights around a local sewerage facility. And I can think of certain estuaries where the lights from various local factories perform a similar function.

Yet, as a general rule, wildfowlers like to go about their business in an elemental landscape, where nature is not too badly sullied by the more insensitive works of man. And surely the same goes for other fieldsports, too? Are we really so divorced from the natural world that we require the sun to shine at night as well as during the day?

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So, badgers are too numerous to cull. Have I got that right? Many of the people who are opposed to badger culling are motivated, at least in part, by a belief that these are rare animals. I heard one opponent say, on the radio, “I’ve never seen one.” Yet, when the latest survey figures show that there are actually far more badgers than previously thought, the cull gets cancelled (for this year, anyway).

It seems to be a one-way bet, doesn’t it? If there aren’t many badgers, you cannot be allowed to cull them because you would be reducing their population too much. Yet, on the other hand, if there are shedloads of badgers, you cannot be allowed to cull them because, er, you won’t be able to kill enough to make the cull worthwhile…

One thing I want to know is this: how did Natural England and DEFRA get so far down the culling route before they realised that there were “too many” badgers in the pilot cull areas? Can’t they count big, bumbling, black-and-white critters? Or was there a sudden population explosion in the weeks leading up to the planned cull?

The weasels at Whitehall

Moreover, given that the last-minute decision to postpone the cull was leaked to the media ahead of any offi cial announcement, you do have to wonder whether there are a few less-than-impartial civil servants lurking about in DEFRA. Perhaps the folk in question, who spend their working lives trundling up and down a vast network of gloomy corridors within Whitehall, have a natural affi nity with giant weasels.

We should also note the jubilant reaction of certain conservation charities, including some Wildlife Trusts. These bodies owe their lucrative charitable status to their registered charitable objects, as approved by the Charity Commission. In this context, conservation is not the same as animal welfare, let alone animal rights. The conservation status of the badger is not the slightest bit endangered. There are loads of them — even more than previously thought. So what, exactly, are Wildlife Trusts celebrating? The fact that hordes of diseased badgers are going to be left to die in agony?

Heavy punishment for a mistake

Which brings me on to the subject of animal welfare. I see that the RSPCA recently prosecuted a woman from Bournemouth who gave her cat paracetamol. The woman fed her pet a tablet of the painkiller after seeing it limping. When it got worse, her daughter called the RSPCA for advice. Unfortunately, the cat died. The owner was then prosecuted for causing it unnecessary suffering. She was successfully convicted under the 2006 Animal Welfare Act and ordered to pay £280 in costs.

It emerges that cats cannot metabolise paracetamol. Did you know that? Well, you should, because not knowing this sort of thing means you may be a potential animal abuser in the eyes of the RSPCA.

This seems just a trifle harsh, doesn’t it? It must be blindingly obvious that the woman thought she was doing the right thing. She was trying to alleviate an animal’s suffering. Okay, she got it wrong — but should she really be prosecuted for that? Should we not even try to help injured animals in case we make a mistake and the RSPCA finds out?

Presumably, if the woman had simply shot the injured cat, killing it cleanly and thereby putting it out of its misery, the RSPCA wouldn’t have had a case to pursue. After all, the charity itself kills thousands of cats and dogs every year (some of them perfectly healthy, too).

In a recent column (24 October), I explored the state’s apparent desire to keep a monopoly over the use of lawful force. Does the RSPCA, in a similar vein, see it itself being the sole arbiter of all matters concerning the lives of animals? Is that what all the hoo-ha — whether focused on sick badgers or sick cats — is really about?

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My goodness”, said Jason, as a red droplet fell from his brow and plopped on to his binoculars. “I am actually sweating blood.” And he was, too.

Well, sort of. He was certainly dripping with perspiration, and it had mixed with the smears of dried blood on his face. The fact that the blood in question had originally belonged to a red deer hind — Jason’s first — is a mere detail. By then, we had been on the hill for most of the day and were beyond caring about details.

The three of us — Martin, Jason and I — had found the going hard right from the start. After following Ben, our stalker, up the steep side of Glen Tilt, we were blowing like steam locomotives. When we stopped for a breather, I noticed that Jason’s face had gone the colour of sloe gin. I don’t suppose my own face was much better. I know Martin’s wasn’t. Indeed, the three of us probably looked like an illustration from a medical textbook.

Introducing someone to the sport

“I don’t suppose we’re the least fit people you’ve ever had out on the hill, are we?” asked Martin, when he regained the power of speech. There was a significant pause while Ben apparently racked his brain to remember anybody worse than us. Thankfully, he did come up with an example. Or perhaps he was merely being diplomatic.

As usual, the first hour or so proved to be the worst. Once we were over the steep stuff above the river, we found ourselves on an undulating plateau of hummocky ground, intersected by steep ravines roaring with waterfalls and dotted with isolated aspen and rowan trees. The view across the Atholl hills was spectacular, a tonic for the spirits, as always. Glen Tilt on a glowing autumn day is an unforgettable sight. Martin and I have been going there during the same week for about a dozen years, and each time we try to introduce a newcomer to the glorious experience. This year, it was Jason’s turn.

The weather may have been co-operating with our plans, but the deer were not. Being immediately after the rut, there were a lot of stags still around, and the hinds were very jittery. Even when they tried to settle, a stag would invariably chivvy them on. Time after time, we found our path blocked by outlying stags. The result was that, though we could hear stags roaring everywhere, getting within range of any hinds was proving very awkward. Repeatedly, Ben and Jason would leave us hidden in a hollow while they made their final approach, only to come back, shrugging, 20 minutes later. Jason’s first go at hindstalking was certainly no stroll in the park.

An amazing retrieval

Eventually Ben managed to get Jason into position. We heard the shot and a thump. But it took another shot to fi nish the job, and by then the hind was at the very bottom of a steep cleft in the mountain face, down beside a narrow torrent of white water. There was no way the ponies could get within 200 yards of the place. What to do?

Jason’s first hind was not to be wasted. To our astonishment, Ben insisted on extracting the carcase. Having gralloched the beast, he hoisted it on to his shoulders. Then — incredibly — he somehow managed to climb straight up the side of the ravine, before traversing around the steep hill to a place the ponies could reach. It made me dizzy just watching him. It was a remarkable feat, well beyond the call of duty.

I suppose every deerstalker remembers their first beast. I am certain Jason will remember his. Not only because he “sweated blood” to get up the hill in the first place, but also because of Ben’s extraordinary retrieval of the hind. Memories are made of such stuff.

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