We had received a plea from the kitchen for "a nice bit of roe" with which to feed friends from the south who were coming to stay.
They are always terribly impressed when we produce a leg of roe or fillet, which let's face it, can be better than the best lamb.
And indeed there is something very satisfactory about being able to go out into the wild, find a beast, stalk it and
kill it, then gralloch, skin and butcher it. Real chest-beating hunter-gatherer stuff. Well yes, it is showing off, but why not?
The beauty of roe deer is that it is always in season. When the bucks are out of season the does are in and vice versa, although by this time of year the does on low ground tend to be pretty pregnant.
And stalking, be it for red deer, roe or sika, is as close as modern man gets to using what is left of his natural instincts.
You might say with some justification that a man or woman and a .243 rifle with telescopic sights has more than an unfair advantage over a roe deer, but they are so sensitive to noise and movement that to get within 120 yards for a clean shot is a serious achievement. (Not much more than 100 years ago they were still driving red deer over crags or into dead end corries, which is effective but rather unsubtle).
My son has taken over the suit of woodland green camouflage these days and swears by it.
I still reserve doubts over whether camouflage makes a lot of difference, except as a conversation piece. Animals are far more bothered about unusual movements than whether you look like a juniper bush or a stand of Scottish Natural Heritage regenerated Scots Pine.
Having found nothing in any of the usual clearings we set off up a shallow, long hill, half crouching, following the course of a burn running through a wide open spread of chest-high grasses and reed.
At the top, near the plateau where the burn rises, is a favourite grazing spot just out on the end of an unkempt stand of Sitka.
The approach over a mile took a very cautious half an hour using the rising ground in front and the meandering banks of the burn as cover.
And there, through the high grass, just to the right of a fallen dyke and remains of a barbed wire fence, were three grazing does.
The wind was blowing across us, reducing the chances that our prey would become aware of our approach. It is usually at this point that my back goes or I am overcome with the need for a pee and start fidgeting. The quarry lifts its head and bolts.
This time we were already in range with enough cover to half stand and use the bipod – two ski poles bolted together – to steady the rifle and, Bang. Down she went, the biggest of the three, rather impressively shot by the son through the neck. We then had to go through the grisly bit, which he had learnt as a keeper; I was sent off to find a long stick from which to sling the beast by her legs and carry to the road.
A week later it was better than delicious. The southern friends said how frightfully clever we were – preen, preen – and we even got sausages out of the fore legs, which we had for Sunday breakfast.
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