I picked my way along the northern flank of the forest track as it heads towards Scrogbank. Two foot deep drifts forming ridges and curves like desert sand dunes. I tunnelled into the sheltered pinewood, ran past the tree fall barricade. Matching a lone walker`s ice fossil footstride. Seeing the memory of his dog`s meandering track in the snow. Slowing, my cough like a fox bark, the white ground gathered new prints: Deer. And further on a roe deer, sharing my window of time, skips over the track a hundred yards ahead, sees me and bolts. Then turns and, from a coppice, stares at me. Invisible now in my bright red jacket, blue hat, because I`ve become motionless as the wind is.
I wonder why, when there are maybe one and a half million deer in this country, more than since the last ice-age, this still feels like an encounter with something rare. They are as graceful as gazelles, shy and secretive. But in the absence of wolves and bears, have no natural predators and are on the brink of massive yearly culling.
This deer`s partner comes up through the wood and stops for half a minute on the logging road, nosing the ground. I see the buds of antlers. Then both melt into the upper forest.
As well as admiring their beauty I harbour an atavistic impulse to stalk these creatures. To bring home fresh venison.
Deer are said to be having a devastating effect on woodland, damaging farmers' crops, causing road accidents. If it is true that around 750,000 of them are to be culled annually, it`s likely that we`ll become very familiar with the taste of their meat in the coming years.
No comments:
Post a Comment