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SHOOTING GAZETTE - FEBRARY
Hounds quickly killed a fox in the bracken bed. I thought that they had 'chopped' it (caught it sleeping), but a close inspection of the corpse showed that its backend had been smashed by a misplaced bullet and the poor thing was dragging itself along by its forelegs. It must have welcomed its quick end. In arguments pro and con hunting, there is a shadowy figure who always appears at some stage - this is the 'Expert-Marksman-with-a-high-powered-rifle' who is always put forward as the glorious alternative to hunting with hounds. There is no doubt that a well-placed bullet will 'terminate with extreme prejudice' the life of any fox. A misplaced round will merely 'compromise the welfare' (I love using these weasel phrases) of the animal by awarding it a lingering and painful death, unless the hounds come along to make its quietus. In my discussions with Urban Person 'The Marksman' is often called into the discussion. The Urbs seem to think that a rifle is like a wheelbarrow - you only have to pick it up to know exactly how to use it. Readers of this magazine will know that that ain't necessarily so. A deer rifle is an awesome machine, but it is only as good as the man who fires it. There are some natural marksmen. There are others who will never be able to place a round fair and square for as long as they have a fundamental orifice. At various stages in between are those who are competent, provided that they practice regularly. I met a man once who told me that every deer he shot at dropped where it stood. He never missed. This is such barefaced bull shit, that I did not consider it worthy of discussion, but it brought to mind the old adage that - "the only man who never misses, is the man who never shoots." Long years ago I qualified as a 'Marksman' on both the rifle and that lovely weapon - the Bren Gun, but I know that I need to polish my skills regularly on the range. I am fortunate in having an old quarry, where I can bang away in complete safety. The other day there arrived a letter from my old friend Dougal, the Sage of Glen Bhollach. It was written in that beautiful copper plate hand that was drummed into boys of his generation, when the 'Tawse' (a leather strap) was an accepted Aid to Education - just imagine the fuss there would be today. It seems that there is a lonely steading way up the Glen, which has recently been purchased by a young couple from England, who are intent on seeking the 'Good Life' away from the hurley-burley of the City. They may have escaped that, but they do not escape Dougal, who allows nothing in the glen to escape his eagle eye. He pays regular visits to the Incomers to proffer worthy advice and comfort. The Incomers think him a perfect bloody nuisance. They are repairing the croft with their own hands and when the weather and the midges allow (strange how no one had told them about the West Highland Midge) they do their chores in the 'altogether as nature intended'. One highland day of unusual perfection, they were about their business. He was working on rooftree wearing a pair of shorts to protect his altogether from the slates. The She'un was taking an opportunity to lie naked in the yard thus allowing the sun to reach the parts that it did not usually reach. From his elevated position the man had a clear view down the track and was not much pleased when the view came to include Dougal, hirpling up the track with his ancient collies "Look up, Shirl" said the He'un -"that bloody old nuisance is on the way; better put something on." Shirl was not inclined to leave her place in the sun, so she reached out for a handy slate, which neatly covered her… her… her … well which neatly covered the part that most needed covering. It was not long before Dougal appeared leaning over the gate and taking in the scene. If he was surprised he did not show it - he merely put a fresh match to his pipe. At last he said: "Well now, it's a wonderful thing is progress." "How do you mean?" said Reg - "Ouch!" He had hit his thumb. "Well" Dougal pushed back the peak of his cap and scratched his head with his pipe stem - "Well, when I was a young man, they were mostly always thatched."

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SHOOTING GAZETTE - MARCH
Nature seems to have gone a bit topsy turvey this year. Back in December and just at the dimpsey, I watched 3 hares in my front field going through all the ritual that you expect to see in March. I am not sure what the gestation period of a Brown Hare is, but I hope that the doe does not drop her leveret in March. March can be a very kittle month up here with spring sunshine one day and a blizzard the next. Hares are most interesting animals and I like watching them. I also like eating them. I get a lot of hares given to me and I am always amazed at the number of country people who refuse to eat this delicious meat. When I question people about this, they usually look a bit shifty and will seldom produce a coherent answer. I have my own theory about this. In folklore, the hare was regarded as a witch's familiar and I suspect that this belief is still embedded deep in the rural psyche, although I have never succeeded in persuading anyone to articulate this belief. I will tell you a story. Back in the C.19th the Bilsdale hounds, which hunt a corner of the N.York moors, were harriers, foxes being scarce in that airt. At that time in Bilsdale there lived a notorious witch called 'Black Agnes'. One day the Bilsdale had a great hunt on a hare and had seemingly lost her, when a follower came bustling up to tell the huntsman that the hunted, and very tired, hare had been seen crawling under the door of Black Agnes's barn. The followers went into a huddle and decide that that was that and best call it a day. The huntsman, a redoubtable chap who feared neither God nor Man, said Nay, his hounds had hunted the 'ard hare' (they were always 'ard hares' in Yorkshire) fair and square and no damned old witch was going to rob them of their just reward. Leaping off his horse he strode across the yard and threw open the barn doors. Of the hare there was no sign, but laid on a truss of hay and breathing her last, was Black Agnes herself. So, think on, as they say in Yorkshire. One of the interesting things about Northumberland is the number of old Saxon families who managed to hang onto their property, even unto the present day. Most of them were, are, ardent Papists. It would seem that both Norman William and Henry V111 made a conscious decision to leave their persons and property alone because they had the experience and expertise in keeping the Scots in order and preventing them from 'shaking loose the Border'. One of these families lived in a big house not far from me. I think that the Kaiser's War did for them. Like many Border families they were great sportsman and great gamblers. They lived high up there, where the pig is fat, to the extent that by the end of C.19th the family piggy bank was beginning to rattle a bit. The family, by this time was reduced to two Bachelor brothers. They were great coursers and had an old Keeper who was an absolute wizard with Greyhounds. They had a very good bitch that produced a litter amongst which were two black brothers who were alike as peas in a pod. They were named Pirate and Pilate and only the keeper could tell them apart. The brothers thought about this and decreed that apart from the keeper's, no human eye was ever to see Pirate and Pilate together. They were both good dogs and Pirate (or was it Pilate?) qualified for the Waterloo Cup. In those days it was normal for the dog and its handler to travel to Altcar by train, but the Brothers dug deep in the old oak chest and bought a motor van so that Pirate could travel in comfort and privacy. They also scraped together every penny they could and backed the dog to win. Pirate went through the opposition like the proverbial hot knife, but he had a very hard and weary course to win the semi final. The Brothers' friends shook their heads and sucked their teeth and the dog drifted out in the betting to very long odds and yet the brothers kept stuffing money into the Bookies' satchels. And what an amazing recovery Pirate made. Next day he was on his toes and apparently fresh as a daisy. "What a dog!" said the Fancy as Pirate cruised through the final - "D'yer know, yer'd never think that dog had run at all," which is more or less what the Bookies said as they ladled great wedges of cash into the Brothers' ready pockets. Pirate, the Keeper and the motor van slipped quietly away home. And there, My Dears, the story ends - make of it what you will.

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SHOOTING GAZETTE - APRIL
I love travelling by trains, always provided that they are comfortable and well run. I have high standards because they were set in stone in the days when the GWR meant - "God's Wonderful Railway'' and the station master wore a gold braided kepi, unless he knew my Grandmother was on the train, in which case he wore his top hat. It was because of her; bless her, that I developed a taste for travelling first class: "The Boy must be aware of his station in life." She said totally without irony. I have striven to fulfil her expectations ever since. One of the great thrills of my childhood was returning to my Cornish home. 10.30 and Platform 1 of Paddington station meant the 'Cornish Riviera Express' - gleaming bodywork and polished brass. My first job was to inspect the engine - usually a Castle Class, or, if I was truly lucky, one of the great 'Kings' - pride of the Swindon works. I remember the drivers as wiry little hawk faced men, who reminded me of hunt servants and indeed there were many parallels with the skills involved in nursing a temperamental steam engine to those required in hunting a pack of hounds. The 'top link' drivers who drove the great expresses were the aristocracy of the days of steam and they knew it. Oh the thrill! if one of these god-like creatures deigned to notice a small open mouthed boy standing on the platform. I knew then that I wanted to be an engine driver and after a fashion, I achieved my dream. Below my Cornish home there ran a branch line, which followed the twists and turns of the Fowey River from Lostwithiel, on the main line, to the Port of Fowey. This line was serviced by a single coach train pulled (and / or) pushed by one of those splendid little GWR Pannier tank engines. This was MY railway. One of my Grandmother's kitchen maids was 'walking out' with the fireman and if there were no inspectors about, I would be hoisted up onto the footplate at Golant (the only station on the line) and left there for the day. I used to be given a bundle of cotton waste and be allowed to work the regulator and, with a bunk up from the muscular fireman, I could reach the whistle. I knew all about air brakes and cut off valves and how to open the firebox door and what the fire should look like. Part of my fee was eggs pinched from the farm (this was in the days of food rationing) and when we were tucked away on a siding at Fowey, the eggs would be fried on a long handled shovel and slapped between 2 hunks of bread. This would be washed down with stewed, milkless tea (milk would curdle) from a billycan and what do'ee want better'n that? Those sunny days of childhood faded, as they do and as did the age of steam and my memories of it - until last Christmas, when I received a CD-Rom entitled - "Learn to Drive a Steam Locomotive" with full sound effects. Now, once again, I can ease up the regulator and work the cut off as I puff happily from Settle to Carlisle - and back. Railways played a large part in Field Sports. They opened access to the Northern grouse moors. Some of the bigger hunts had their own trains that sat in sidings handy by the Kennels, with hound van, horseboxes and carriag es. What about the Engines? An old friend told me that in the 1920s you could hire and tank engine and crew for the day for the princely sum of £2 10 shillings (£2.50). Sending and receiving hounds by rail was common up into the 1960s. The railways also had commodious horseboxes that could be put on the back of any passenger train. I know, or knew, several families who allowed the railway to come through their land on the understanding that a halt was constructed on the property and they had the right to stop any train there for their personal convenience. I think that B.R did away with all that. My old friend Capt. Browne's family kept a private carriage at the local station. Every summer of his childhood he used to be put onboard with a nanny, 2 nursery maids and 2 footmen. The carriage was then shunted to the mainline, put on the back of various express trains until he arrived at Par Station in deepest Cornwall where his aunt lived. That's the way to do it I will finish as I started with the Cornish Riviera Express. It was once delayed for 15 minutes outside Totnes, because a red-faced man with a pack of hounds was digging out a fox on a railway embankment. Isn't that just terrible?

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SHOOTING GAZETTE - MAY
Once upon a time, there was born unto a very well bred, working, German Wire Haired Pointer (GWP) bitch a litter of mpeccable pedigree. One of the dog puppies was named Dexter. This is a fine old Foxhound name and quite good enough for a GWP. The Belvoir Dexter 1895 was one of the most famous stallion hounds of his day; although I have heard it said that had he indeed sired all the litters that the Foxhound Kennel Studbook credit him with, he would have been on the job so often that he would never have had time to go hunting. Mind you - now that I come to think of it, there are certain Masters of Foxhounds…Just to please Mr Barnes, we will say that they are all Old Etonians. I know that Mr Barnes harbours dark feelings about Old Etonians. Our Dexter had an unsettled childhood, in that his original purchaser died. With help from the breeder and the GWP Rescue organisation, a new home was found, with sheep, ponies, chickens and a very senior cat- ideal, you might think. Dexter was frightened of the sheep (good). He liked to point the chickens (no harm in that). The problem arose as so many problems do, with the cat. Dexter loved to retrieve the cat. He would chase it, catch it and carry it proudly back to the house. The cat suffered no physical harm in Dexter's soft gundog mouth, but its psychological nose was firmly out of joint. The cat ran the establishment, so it was back to the breeder and back on the books of the 'Rescue' (this is beginning to sound like 'Little Orphan Annie.') By this time he was 16 months old and, as the breeder said pretty much a 'blank cheque' - his training was negligible but so were his bad habits. This is where serendipity came into play. It so happened that I rang up Norman, the Head Ranger Elect of Grizedale Forest. That Great and Good Man, John Cubby retired in April. I know and he knows that he can have no better successor than Norman. My position was thus: Tag my GWP deer dog is getting old. I knew that Norman used GWPs in his work. Norman knew me and of course he knew the lady who ran the Rescue Centre. She knew Mr Bandfield the Breeder and also knew all about Dexter. Thus was the circle squared. The Captain and I drove 200 miles south on the M6, whilst Mr Bandfield dro romantic ve the same distance North and Dexter came home with us to his 4th and, I hope, last home. He is a beautiful and charming dog, wild as a fitch-ferret, but nothing that some firm but gentle tutelage cannot put right. He and Tag share a kennel, which is nice for the old bitch. She has been lonely since her long time companion, Oz the old Kelpie, was put down. I worried about having another dog, in case it became a roamer (a wandering lecher is always a bloody nuisance - however many legs it has got). I understand that, in the Royal Navy, a male ship's cat always has the magazine to its main armament removed and becomes (in naval parlance) an 'Uncle Cat'. Dexter is an 'Uncle Dog', so that is one less thing to worry about. Castration was a sensible and practical thing to have done, but it was a pity, because he will grow into a sensationally good looking dog. He is the dark blue mottle that I prefer and he seems to be made of springs - "very Tiggerish" my Mother says. His stride is enormous. He has a flying shoulder and galloping hind legs. His dam is reputed to have coursed and killed a fox on her own.

A day's hunting is seldom without incident. We were travelling home in the dark - the Captain was driving, I was snoring and Pip curled up in my lap. Suddenly there was an almighty crash from the trailer behind and a nasty grinding sound:"What's happened?" I cried"I don't know," said the imperturbable Captain - " but there's a wheel just rolling past my window."

Another letter from Dougal, the Sage of Glen Bhollach - It seems that they have a new Minister at the Kirk, a somewhat worldly man, who was much bothered by a certain widow woman, a comely lady, who kept bothering him to tell her more of the 'Hereafter'. Eventually he agreed. He picked her up in his wee car and drove for many lonely miles up the glen to a pleasant spot beside the loch where once again she begged him to tell her more of the 'hereafter':"It's vurry simple" he said - "If you're here after, what I'm here after, we're both here after the same. If ye're no here after what I'm here after,
ye'll be here after I'm hame,"

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SHOOTING GAZETTE - JUNE
At the time of writing Our Brave Lads are off into the desert once again and once again the MOD has screwed up. They have sent them off with no loo paper; boots that melt, tanks that clog up with sand and rifles that do likewise. I listened to a female PRO on the wireless this morning and she said that the 'SA whatnot' is the finest rifle in the world always provided that it was kept clean and well oiled. I tried the 'SA whatnot' on a military range not long ago. It felt heavy and after one round it jammed. This was in darkest Northumberland with not a grain of sand in sight. The instructor told me that it would now have to be stripped down and cleaned and that that was a bitch of a job with lots of fiddly little bits and pieces, which could easily get lost in the heat of the moment. Now it seems to me that what you want in the heat of the moment (in the heat of the sandy desert) with lots of bearded towel heads bearing down on you, is a rifle that you know is basically squaddy proof and which will keep firing till the last moment and the last round, when you fix bayonets. I was trained long ago on the old Lee Enfield - a sweet rifle with a minimum of moving parts and a maximum of simplicity and I remember being told that oil and sand were an unhealthy mixture and that a rifle should be 'clean, dry and lightly oiled.' It is my opinion that the 'SA whatnot' is a bummer and what the average squaddy wants is a thoroughly reliable 'spray and pray' weapon, for which category the 'Kalashnikov' is hard to beat. It is idiot proof and fires an oscillating 'boat tail' round that will take a limb off or kill with shock. I have high hopes for my new GWP. He saw his first deer the other day. I was walking him round the big Quarry Field when a doe popped out of the wood and ran the full length of the wood fence in front of us. Dexter's ears shot up. I bade him 'sit' and (much to my surprise) he did. But when we reached the spot where the deer popped out, he hit off the line and hunted it the length of the wood, speaking the while. It was a good job I had him on a lead, otherwise I think I would be seeking him yet. As it was, I had hell's delight in holding him (he is humungously strong). I do not think that there will be much trouble teaching him to blood trail. Once a year the Ullswater, one of the famous Lakeland packs, comes and spends a weekend with my hunt - the Border, hunting Saturday and Sunday; People come from all over Britain for this 'fest'. The Ullswater stride their craggy fells in huge tackety boots, the Border, with their more rolling hills, prefer their quads. It is a wild spot where we met, so the foxes are little disturbed and there were plenty afoot in the warm March sunshine. I left the road, which is really only a cart track and where the westbound traffic had come head to head with the Eastbound and I thought them best left to use their initiative. I chugged up to the cairn, where I could sit in the sun and glass the surrounds. I was certain sure there would be a fox in the thick rusher-bed at the Burn Head. There was and he waited not upon the order of his going, with the combined pack, screaming on his brush. Several times during the day, people remarked how well the two lots of hounds hunted together, but then their breeding and type are very similar. There was a lot of local hunting in the morning with catchy scent, but hounds caught 3 foxes. It was cooler in the afternoon with a hint of frost coming in. They put a fox off at the top of the Hope (a 'hope' is a blind valley) and after some uncertainty where he ran the road, hounds settled to the scent and began to fly. But a hunted fox seldom runs in straight line, he runs in a big curve and if you have a little fox sense, you can work out the curve and bisect it. The track I took is little more than a sheep trod. It is all potholes and bog holes, but I bumped and cursed my way along it and ahha! Tiny distant figures flying along the skyline. I turned off on another track that is all bog holes and pot holes and came down to the Dunhope Burn Head and crossed by the stell. Uphill on sound white grass now and out onto the fine vantage point of the Bell Hill - just in time to hear hounds catch their fox in the wood below

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SHOOTING GAZETTE JULY 2003
I am an absolute sucker for new gadgets, widgets and knives with reciprocating sprockets. I buy them, put them carefully in a drawer until the season of their usefulness, by which time I have forgotten what there are, where they are and have bent my thumb on the sprocket. So when I saw an advertisement for a revolutionary scope sight, I read the details with some enthusiasm; then again with less enthusiasm; then once again with a growing sense of incomprehension. Let me try it on you and see how you get on - no names; no pack drill, but we will call it the Mighty Mouse (MM for short). The MM, it says, is very simple to operate (dread words) being an analogue calculator on the principle of a slide rule - remember this as you creep up on your buck - this enables the stalker to obtain a swift calculation of the range and elevation for the shot. The target is measured with a reticle aligning the estimated size directly to this measurement. I hope you are paying attention at the back - there may be questions. You then read the range on an index mark. A quick, simple (?) calculation of the necessary sight correction compensates for the bullet drop and or windage. Thus the stalker is enabled to make the equivalent scope adjustment simply by reading equivalents directly opposite the directly opposite bullet drop /wind drift figure - watch out for that dead branch!! The set of fixed references within the scope can compare the size or a portion (?) of the intended quarry to a series of precisely sized dots and spacing. Thus by estimating the size of the target and noting the number of mils that equal that size the stalker can determine the range to the target by applying a formula (size of target in yards multiplied by 1,000, divided by size of target in mils, which equals the range of the target in yards - Barnes your eyes are closed; pay attention, Boy - This is achieved by the use of a conventional hand held electric calculator and No, Lawlor, you cannot have a man to carry your calculator. You may refer to the Website for the various problems and their solutions associated with the use of an electronic calculator, so on second thoughts you may be allowed a ghillie to carry your lap-top, as well as the vinyl slide calibrated for yards on one side and metre, which your man can carry along with the detailed instruction manual. Another essential aid is the Angle Cosine Indicator, which will correct target distortion at extreme angles. Finally, the advert says, the rest is up to the shooter's own marksmanship skills - well I never did - I wonder why we did not think of that at the beginning? Now for the Buck! What do you mean - the bugger's long gone? Well why didn't you throw the bloody lap top at it? Call yourself a Stalker? We were all very sorry when Old John lost his favourite Border Terrier. His terriers come from an ancient and justly famous line. It was meet, right and our bounden duty to hold a wake for the good old dog, down at the Squire and Strumpet. We were also very sorry when we heard that John had fallen and broken a leg, whilst wobbling his way home across the fell. It was quite natural for the neighbours to rally round and see what they could do to help the old man. Thus Betty called in to see what she might do? "Weel" said old John, who was propped up in a chair with his plastered leg on a stool - "There's a bag of tatties in the back kitchen. Ye could put a few of them in a pot to boil." It was not long before Betty returned to say that there was nowt in the back kitchen, forebye the mortal remains of and auld terrier. "Damn it tae hell!" said John - "I doot but I buried the tatties in the garden, instead of t'ard dog."

Hunt Committee meetings can be hell. They are divided between those who eat a large tea before they come and those who don't and are there fore more than a little sharp set come mid evening. At least with the General as Chairman we know they will be short - a) because he is stone deaf and b) because he dines at 8 pm precisely. Thus, even if Mr Bramble, who had a humongous tea at 6pm and if therefore happy to ramble on until the small hours, is in full flow about the state of the kennels roof, that at 1945 hrs precisely the General, who has heard nothing, which does not matter because he has heard it all before, will pull out his watch and say:"Good Heavens! Is that the time? Any-other-business?right -then-I-declare- this-meeting-closed." He will then tuck the minute book firmly under his arm and march out to his waiting motor, before anyone can say "Soufflé!"

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SHOOTING GAZETTE - AUGUST
The further up the Dale you go, the smaller and rougher the farms get. Tucked away at the Dale End, on the cusp of the known world, lay the tiny holding farmed by Ernie and Mabel. They had enough 'gaits' out on the Common for a small flock of Blackies. They had a few pigs and a couple of house cows and Mabel sold eggs to a regular and discrimating clientele. Like many of the Dale farmers, Ernie had a second job. To help maintain their modest needs, Ernie carried a shovel for the County Council. He seemed to spend most of his time leaning on the shovel and wherever you saw Ernie leaning you could be sure that hounds were somewhere in the neighbourhood. When the time was right, Ernie would lead one of the cows down the Dale, to where a larger and richer neighbour owned a milking herd and a bull. All this was some time ago. The old couple have long since been 'gathered'. The old house is a holiday cottage. Bracken and rabbits have taken over the hard won acres. But back then, whenever it was, Ernie came back from the Mart in a high state of excitement. It seemed that 'They' had come up with this great scheme called 'A.I.' Ernie was not quite sure what it was, but it seemed that he would no longer have to trudge down the Dale with the cows. All he had to do was to ring 'Them' up and they would send out a man in a van. All he needed was a bucket of hot water, some soap and a towel. He did the rest." By" said Mabel - "It's grand is that. Whatever will they think of next?" Came the day and Ernie left for work:" Now don't forget, Lass - T'AI man's coming the day, so don't forget t' towel, t' soap and t' bucket of hot water." Mabel was baking when the van drew up and out got a smart little man in a clean brown smock, who doffed his cap to Mabel. Mabel was most impressed:" Well young man, here's your bucket of hot water, here's your towel, cow's in steading yonder, there's a peg by t' door where tha can 'ang tha's trousers and I'll have a nice cup o' tea and a slice of cake ready for tha' when tha's finished."

I have dealt with the Forestry Commission for some 40 years. In the beginning, I was dealing with Forest Officers of the old school who had been taught to think and plant in rectangles, so that it was very easy to trip over the sharp edges. Even so I cannot remember having serious problems with any of them. They just liked the importance of their positions to be recognised. In some ways the modern foresters are easier to deal with except for the fact that they are now terrified of bureaucracy and of not having their arses well covered by paper work. I suppose one cannot blame them, especially now that they have the egregious Elliot Morley in charge. I have no doubt that he is the prime mover behind the FC ban on Staghunting. I have to say that a lot of the FC Rangers I know are not supporters of Staghunting. They blame the long open season on Red stags on hunting pressure. I have often had to point out that stags are not hunted during the Rut and that only hinds are hunted in the winter months. They were not aware of this and I have had to point out that I saw little merit in shooting rutting stags, except as a method of keeping up the cull figures. It would be better to extend the hind /doe season if the numbers control game is really to be played, but no one can see this happening. I have been a contract stalker for the FC for some 10 years. In the beginning the arrangements used to be made with a telephone call and a handshake, now the pile of paper seems to increase year on year. Even to stick your nose into a FE plantation now requires a DMQ 2. I am not against this (especially as I have one) but it is just more paperwork. In my early stalking days, I had little truck with certificates and paperwork, so I am very grateful to the senior and farsighted stalker, who bullied me into qualifying. He told me - and I am sure that he is right - that it was only a matter of time before the Home Office / ACPO would insist on a DMQ 2 if you want 'Deer Stalking' on your FAC. I strongly advise those don't to get on with it.

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SHOOTING GAZETTE - NOV
At last, at last! I was summoned to the CLA Gamefair, at very short notice, to take part in a seminar. The Capt and I drove down very early to avoid the ghastly bottleneck of Harrogate. You may wonder at an impoverished scribbler like me having a driver, but it has become a necessity because I suffer from a complaint called 'Sleep Apnoea'. This means that I am liable to fall asleep at any time and any place. I do it over the breakfast table, over the computer and at 50 mph (my favourite speed) on a main road, on a quad in the middle of the Fell, and in bed where I put in a sound 8 hours, which you might think would be enough for anyone, but the problem is that it is the wrong kind of sleep. I snore, or rather, according to Mrs James, SNORE and this means that I do not take in enough oxygen. Now falling asleep in the soup is one thing, doing it on the A1(M) is quite another story and one that I do not wish to be told. So in the country, the Capt drives me. In London, I am driven by the excellent Guardsman Dewhurst, whose services I heartily recommend and who may be contacted on 07990 625 144. His skill and discretion are both above reproach. But back to the Gamefair - mindful of the parlous whisky free state of the Shooting Gazette stand at the Scottish Gamefair - I approached the impressive stand at Harewood without too much hope. Joy cometh in the morning! There was the great Mr Barnes himself, looking younger than ever and now that I have had the pleasure of meeting Mrs Barnes, I can understand why. The whisky simply flew out of bottles and they were the most generous of hosts, especially as they were worried about their terrier, who had gone AWOL. I understand their worry. Dogknapping is rife throughout the countryside and is a vicious, extremely nasty and well-organised crime. The Police do not seem to want to know. The trouble is that they do know, only too well, who the perpetrators are, but they come from a class of persons, who seem to be able to exist quite happily outwith the Law and with whom the Police are reluctant to become embrangled. They are certainly not the sort of people whom you would wish to have your beloved dogs in their power. So I beg of you to be very careful of your dogs. All dogs are at risk, but terriers and lurchers are more at risk than most - so cave canem. November, for me, means the Opening Meet. We shall meet again this year despite all the knavish tricks of our enemies and, to my mind, shall continue to do so in the future. If this foul and corrupt government thinks that several million country people are going to lie down and meekly bare their collective throats to the knife then it has another think coming. The proposed ban is un-passable in Parliamentary terms and would, as the Police freely admit, be unenforceable. They know that civil disobedience would result from any attempted ban. Hear the words of Ms Canning, Chief Constable of N.Yorkshire; she has been warned that Yorkshire persons would be determined to carry on hunting. She fully accepted her responsibility to enforce the law, but pointed out that it would require a huge growth in police resources and she doubted that council taxpayers would be prepared to pay the extra money to provide them. In this context it is interesting to note that whilst the Scottish Parliament has banned (well, sort of) hunting, it has not dared to ask its taxpayers for more money to enforce the ban. Mr McWhirter, Chief Constable of Suffolk, points that to be effective, legislation needs to be enforceable. Not only would there be the problems involved in arresting 70, or 100 people, but the police (via the taxpayer) would be responsible for accommodating horses and hounds ("to the required welfare standards") for the duration of the court case. Summonsing offenders has been suggested as a solution, but the logistics involved make this virtually impossible. Videoing offenders has also been suggested, but clear identification is necessary for conviction. He goes on to point out that in addition to the resources that might be needed for hunting. More will be needed to police the intended attempts to ban shooting:" Several hundred shoots were disrupted last year, if you thought that hunt demos were dangerous, think about the possibilities when a protestor walks in front of the guns." Yes, I am thinking and especially about old Colonel Potleigh whose bladder and temper are about as dodgy as his safety catch. Some interesting points there from the police, which supply ideas for civil disobedience. Send the police a meet card, carry on as usual, but all ladies should wear veils and all the men should wear cammo paint. I have been told that gaol is no worse than Eton.

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SHOOTING GAZETTE - DECEMBER
I have been doing a bit of figuring and I have just enough fingers to work out that this column will mark 9 years of hacking away at the rock face in Bwana Barnes's quarry. I was going to add the usual rider of 'and never a cross word' - but that would not be quite true. In the early days when we were 'shaking down', there were a few cross words, when the Boss was having problems with his accounting system and I was feeling a bit touchy because Lawlor (spoke to him the other day) and I both wrote for the same Irish magazine, which was long on promises and short on payment - remember that little pixie of an Editor, Lawlor? We scaoiled his bobleen for him, but that is a tale best told by Lawlor. He will translate the Irish for you too. Anyway, Mr Barnes and I had a disagreement, which he finished with the immortal words:" You really are an arrogant bastard!" and of course he was, and is, quite right. I was and am an arrogant bastard. However since that cathartic occasion, we have, I hope, been on the best of terms. I am proud to write for the Shooting Gazette, which is far and away the best of its Ilk and I hope that I shall be allowed to go on doing so. December again! My how the years go round and I hope that by the time you read this, I will have completed my quist. The problem is that I am immensely greedy and not a little randy and somewhere in between the two lay a little plumbing problem that needed fixing. So I went to see the eminent Prof who looks after the parts that lesser doctors cannot reach. He does not sugar his words:" You're too fat, James - what are you - 20 stone?"" Near enough," I said - in fact, he was half a stone light and no, this is an imperial zone - you want metric you do it yourself." Come back when you are 18 stone and I will get my scalpel sharpened." Since then, Mrs James (aka 'The Dragon Lady') has kept me on a very short chain and I have just waved at 19 st 7lbs as I passed it. So I am hoping that by Christmas, normal service, in all departments, will have been resumed. I am also having trouble with my right shoulder. Four years ago I had a quad 'cowp' (roll over) with me and I have not been right since. This means that I have to sling my rifle on my left shoulder, which I find awkward. So I have just bought a 'tac' sling. The rifle is slung across the body and can be brought to the firing position without removing the sling from the shoulder. That, at least, is the theory, but as I only got it yesterday, I have not yet had time to try it out on the range. I am fortunate in having an old quarry at the bottom of the farm, that nicely takes a 100-yard range and there I have a pallet for paper targets and a steel buck. I still need one more buck (this being early October) to complete my cull. This has been a wonderful year for deer. The Captain and I went to the forest the other day and counted 16 does all with well-grown twins and all in good nick. I am more and more convinced that the doe season should be extended, especially in these wintry 'airts'. My stalking patch is 'high out' and can be cut off by drifts for weeks at a time if it comes a storm. We have not had a bad storm for several years now and I reckon that we can do without them. At one time it was quite common for some of the hill steadings to be isolated for long periods. In spite of council tax, many of them remain without 'main services', although the great improvement in diesel generators means that the inhabitants of these 'out-bye' places no longer have to turn the telly off if they wish to switch on the electric kettle. 'Tigger', my GWP rescue, dog is coming on in leaps and bounds - he does everything in leaps and bounds, hence his name. He is one of the best movers I have ever seen and flies barbed wire fences and five bar gates with consummate ease. He is the most charming dog and we have laid blood trails for him, which he follows with huge enthusiasm. He is now ready for the real thing - when I manage to shoot it. It may be October, but this is my only chance to wish you all a very Happy Christmas and 'Waidmannsheil'.

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