I have an idea about a legal way of scaring raptors away from vulnerable gamebirds. It is based on the fact that a gamekeeper I know uses radios in his release pens to deter buzzards. He told me that the deterrent effect soon wears off, but in the period during which it still works, talk-based programmes are best. BBC Radio Four’s Today programme scares the hell out of raptors, apparently.

Anyway, my brilliant idea takes up this theme and develops it further. Instead of radios, why not MP3 or CD players? The ideal thing would be to play a ecording of somebody at the RSPB endlessly reciting the text from its latest Birdcrime report. That should do the trick (mind you, it might be rather too effective — is it an offence to bore a raptor to death?)

It’s not that I want to be flippant about a serious subject. And, to be fair to the RSPB, its recent media releases about raptor persecution have been much better at distinguishing between the law-abiding majority of gamekeepers and the small minority who step out of line. That is very welcome. But the tortuous lengths the charity goes to in order to wring media coverage out of the same old story, year after year, are remarkable. Why, even the BBC is beginning to ask a few sensible questions when it receives the annual propaganda handout.

Unhelpful statistics

This year, the RSPB’s “dodgy dossier” showed an 18 per cent decline in overall raptor persecution incidents in the last reporting period — not exactly helpful to the fund-raising efforts, eh? However, this unhelpful fact was not exactly highlighted, being casually dismissed with the line: the number of confirmed incidents was slightly below the average. Yeah, right.

I mentioned this to a senior RSPB official (whom I won’t name, because I didn’t warn him he might be quoted). He retorted that a decline in reported raptor persecution incidents didn’t necessarily mean a decline in raptor persecution. Have you got that? Pressed further, he explained that raptor crime was diffi cult to detect, and that the recorded figures were such a small proportion of the underlying reality that you couldn’t put much reliance on movements from one year to the next.

I’ll say. But consider this: if there had been an 18 per cent year-onyear rise in the number of raptor persecution incidents, do you think the RSPB would have exercised the same caution? Of course not. It would have screamed blue murder and milked it for every last drop of publicity.

A sense of faint desperation is evident in other parts of the RSPB’s handout. For example, we learn that North Yorkshire tops the national league of raptor poisoning, with a shameful 54 recorded incidents — ooh-er! Except, only a minority of those 54 incidents involved poison. Plus, only 10 of them were actually confi rmed anyway, and, in any case, the total figure was higher three years ago. In fact, overall poisoning incidents — at a total of 128 nationally — were considerably below their 2006 peak of 192.

But, back to North Yorkshire, where it seems you cannot walk your dog without being hit on the head by all the raptors that are falling out of the sky. Indeed, there are hardly any left, according to some lobbyists. Somehow, raptors observe a strict no-fly zone when they reach the county boundary. You can scan the sky for days without seeing a single bird with a hooked beak, apparently.

Mind you, illegal poisoning is no joke. Regular readers will know my strong opposition to this nefarious practice. And it seems that walking a dog in North Yorkshire really is a dangerous business. I say this because the detailed breakdown of the RSPB’s fi gures lists the case of a dog that was poisoned in the Yorkshire Dales after feeding on poisoned bait. That’s terrible, of course, but should it really have been listed as a “confirmed” raptor persecution incident when no raptor was actually killed?

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It was good to be back in highland Perthshire for our annual hindstalking foray. This year an old friend, Giles, was with us, hoping to get his first deer. The weather forecast was atrocious for our first day on the hill, with stern Met Offi ce warnings about torrential “rain events” and winds gusting at 80mph over the summits. In the event, conditions were nowhere near as bad as predicted. I sometimes wonder if the Met Office these days overplays its warnings if there is the faintest chance of severe weather causing disruption. Anyway, after a few shots at the target we set off for Dalnamein, under the good care of a bright young stalker, Benjamin. It must be a bit of a challenge for a youngster to be in sole charge of three old codgers aged 50-plus, as well as a full-bore rifle, a Land Rover, a Polaris six-wheeler and a gillie. Yet Benjamin was undaunted, exuding an air of calm professionalism as he explained his strategy for the day and how it might be affected by the weather.

As it turned out, the overnight rain had transformed the burns into a network of raging torrents, and the impossibility of wading across these watery barriers did indeed cause Benjamin to alter his original plans. The mist was an added complication. The one type of weather that makes stalking virtually impossible is thick hill fog; the beasts seem to be able to see through the murk as though operating by radar, whereas we humans have no such ability. All too often, the result is that the stalking party wanders around constantly bumping into deer, which are only spotted as they are in the act of departing.

Luckily, large parts of the forest were below the general cloud line, and the lower, drifting veils of mist were only patchy. Benjamin had matters well in hand and, after a lot of spying in rather poor light, we managed to find plenty of deer to keep us occupied.

A tricky stalk

Giles certainly had to work for his chance: he ended up having to do a lot of crawling. Meanwhile Martin and I sat back in the heather, drinking coffee and exchanging helpful observations as Benjamin and Giles wormed their way through the rain-drenched grass and sopping wetmoss. The first couple of stalks failed due to swirling wind and awkward ground — but the third attempt saw Giles being guided on to a welljudged firing point at a range of 150 yards.

From our own position in a hollow some distance away, Martin and I heard the shot — but no corresponding thump. Any uncertainty was eradicated, however, as soon as we saw a thumbs-up from Benjamin. We found the beast, a yeld hind, lying stone dead. Giles was delighted, as were the rest of us.

Indecisive hinds

Debbie, who normally looks after the ponies but was piloting the Polaris on this occasion, was called up on the radio. She soon appeared, emerging from the mist in her vehicle. As she helped to heave the beast into the back, Martin remarked that you wouldn’t find many women willing to look at a dead deer, let alone load one.

Then we were off again, and it was my turn with the rifle. We had spotted a group of hinds standing, in apparent indecision, on a heathery knoll. After a good technical stalk, we crawled in behind a slight rise and were relieved to find them still in the same place. Though they hadn’t detected us, they seemed to be about to move off. After a rapid target indication from Benjamin, I snapped off a shot. The chosen beast instantly sprang out of sight. When the time came to move forward I confess I was beginning to have a few misgivings, and kept a round up the spout just in case. In fact, the hind was lying dead just 60 yards from the strike, in a peat hag. A second yeld hind to mark an excellent day out on the hill.

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There we were, Gerry and I, sitting on a stubble field in Perthshire, awaiting the evening influx of hungry duck. The fowl arrived on schedule; as the light faded to the point where shooting against a cloudy sky is eminently feasible, but you cannot see your own feet against the ground, three pinkfooted geese swept in.

I was using my lightweight 12-bore and paper-cased Eley Impax cartridges — a bare ounce of lead No.6 shot (remember, this was Scotland, where it is perfectly lawful to use lead shot on wildfowl over dry land). The geese came in close. I fired the right barrel, and when a goose crumpled instantly, I forgot the other barrel. Anyway, what the event proved is that, at 20 yards, an ounce of lead No.6 shot through an improved cylinder barrel will kill a goose very efficiently.

This isn’t to say that I would do such a thing as a matter of routine — I love my long-chambered 8-bore, and it is rare to get that close to a wild goose anyway. I am not for a moment advocating shooting geese with ordinary game loads under anything but exceptional circumstances.

A couple of nights later, Gerry and I were sitting out on another field of grass this time. There was a particular flightline that is often used by wildfowl to cut inland, across a wide bend in the river.

Once again, we connected with a few duck as the dusk fell. Then, as it got darker, a single, silent bird fl oated at an angle across my front, descending rapidly on cupped wings. I didn’t shoot, even though it was in easy range, because I wasn’t entirely sure what it was. But Gerry was some distance away from my position, at a different angle, and could see the bird against a faintafterglow. It went straight at him, as if drawn on a piece of string. There was a flash and a bang, followed by a thump. A few minutes later, I heard Gerry’s dog retrieving the fallen quarry.

A remarkable achievement

When we packed up half-an-hour later, I wandered over to Gerry’s position, and there, in the light of my head torch, was a pinkfoot lying among his duck. Naturally, I instantly claimed that I had deliberately left it for him to have a crack at.

However, the true nature of Gerry’s achievement only became clear when I realised that he had been using a tiny 28-bore that night. In short, he had neatly felled a goose with just half an ounce of No.6 shot — well and truly eclipsing my performance from two nights earlier.

Again, I must emphasise that shooting geese with light loads is not generally recommended. In this case, Gerry was in the right place and at the right range — and he is an expert Shot, to boot. It was a very rare opportunity, and he made the most of it.

Preserved for decades

The gun Gerry was using that night was a lovely piece by W. W. Greener, a hammergun with nitro-proofed steel barrels. It was manufactured in 1916, just before the company switched to full-time military production for the War effort. It had never been used much by its original purchaser, and had then been stored away for decades before Gerry secured it for his extensive collection of Greener guns. Apparently it was found stored in the original manufacturer’s cardboard box and grease paper.

Shooting wildfowl with very small calibres is something that should only be done in exceptional circumstances, by people who can shoot with the requisite accuracy. But the fact is, if a shot is placed accurately, even the largest quarry can be killed cleanly. It is worth remembering that one of the greatest of the old elephant hunters, “Karamojo” Bell, favoured a .257 Rigby for felling the mighty pachyderms. Many would consider that calibre suitable for deer-sized quarry at most, but Bell made a study of elephant anatomy, got in close, and was supremely skilled in placing his shots.

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