I've always loved deer. As a child, passionate about wildlife, I used to stalk them, creeping through the woods early in the morning, moving as lightly as I could, my eyes scanning the undergrowth for any sign of movement. There was quite a large herd in the park: they were Fallow, the darker kind that have brown and grey coats all year round, and presumably the descendants of those animals posed delightfully in the foreground of old engravings of the house. Over the course of two or three years, I got to know them well, their habits and favourite places. No two bucks had identical antlers, so I could recognise some individuals and give them names, usually culled from whatever literature I was keen on at the time: one was called Aiken, I seem to remember, and another, very distinctive with a deformed antler, Shenandoah. Sometimes I had Perdy with me, and had to keep her on a lead because she loved chasing them, and was quite capable of vanishing for hours in pursuit: but mostly I went out at dawn, on my own. The woods, which only cover about a dozen acres, were magical at that hour, wreathed in golden mist, birds singing, dew on the ground: it seemed as if I were the only person in the world, and the deer, slipping through the greenery like wraiths, were creatures of fantasy and enchantment.
Of course to the adults they were a pest. One winter I was horrified to learn that someone was coming to cull them. He was, so I was told, a 'real cowboy' from the USA. I could not bear the thought of anyone, even such a glamorous figure, killing 'my' deer: I came, after all, from the generation that had watched Bambi at a very impressionable age. The thought of offering my services (I don't suppose even at the age of ten or eleven that anyone knew more about the habits of the Orwell deer than I did) didn't occur to me: it would have been the worst sort of betrayal. I took real satisfaction from the fact that this supposed 'expert' had absolutely no success during the week or so that he was trying to shoot my friends.
Inevitably, as I grew older, my interest waned: pop music and other distractions took over, and besides I began to feel it was rather a strange thing for a teenage girl to do. Occasionally I'd see them while walking the dog, or one would be caught up in the football nets, a regular occurrence unfortunately. It was still a thrill to encounter them, though I never went seeking them deliberately. Long after I left home, my father told me that there was a white buck now with the herd: he saw it several times, and I really wished that I had done too. Apparently they are quite common amongst Fallow deer, and the originals of all those 'White Hart' pubs. Alas, that one met a dismal end in a football net, strangling itself in its panic before anyone had the chance to cut it free, and Dad was quite upset about it. But my favourite memory of the Orwell deer is quite recent: coming back to my parents from my sister's house at midnight, we drove up to the main gates of the big house, and saw, there on the lawn in front of the grand north entrance, perhaps a dozen or more quietly grazing deer, lit amber and gold in the rich glow of the floodlights, as beautiful and magical as their ancestors had been, when I was a child.
There are many deer here too, but they're Roe, not Fallow, and have quite different habits: they appear singly, or in small groups, rather than in a herd of a dozen or more, and they're small and very shy. A couple of times, though, we've actually seen them close to the house. Last winter one took up residence in our garden for a few days, feeding off the fallen apples which were a good source of nourishment in snowy weather. They might have fermented while on the ground, which would explain why the deer had considerable difficulty jumping the fence when I came out to have a closer look!
Once more I have a dog who loves to chase them: in her salad days, Rowan would roar off after them like a greyhound in pursuit of a hare, and follow flat out for half a mile or more: I remember seeing her once, from the long Abbotswood field, right across the valley and almost at the pig farm the other side. What she thought she'd do if she actually caught one, I have no idea! Of course she never had a hope: the buck or doe would go leaping like a gazelle over the grass, switching to a higher gear if the labouring Rowan seemed to be getting too close. Even now, an (almost) staid lady of nearly eight, she'll still give it a go, but stops after fifty yards or so, much to my relief: nothing is more humiliating, or futile, than standing in the middle of a field bellowing the name of a dog which has vanished five minutes ago, and you've no idea where they've got to.
Last year, Phil planted a wide strip of wheat all the way round the edge of the Far Ridge, as we call the belt of trees, last remnants of the original Abbot's Wood, which covers the steep ground between the upper plateau and the gentler slopes of the valley. I assume it was for fodder, as there wasn't very much of it. Or maybe he had another motive, for the grain proved irresistible to the local deer, and while they were feasting on it, they weren't molesting his brussels sprouts or carrots. Almost every evening, when I walked that way with Rowan, I would see at least one, standing in the middle of the wheat, munching. There was a buck - I knew it was always the same one because his antlers were slightly asymmetrical - and several females, including some young ones. They caused tremendous damage, trampling the crop down in many places, and eating much of it. In the evening sunlight, though, they were a lovely sight with their rich red summer coats, springing away from us with those huge leaps into the safety of the trees. It was noticeable that before their flight, it was the dog they watched, not me: quite sensible, given that it was always the dog that chased them!
Just like that long ago time, a man arrived with permission to shoot them. I encountered him and his companion a couple of times, and didn't like the look of him much: nor did one of my friends, who also met him. It certainly casts a blight on your evening walks when you know there's a character roaming your route armed with a high-powered rifle. He also had a Range Rover with an array of headlights on the roof, which made me instantly suspicious: it's illegal to shoot deer after dark, a practice known as 'lamping' and most often practised by poachers. And although he claimed to have permission to shoot on Bernie's land as well, when I asked Bernie's son, he said he didn't. Anyway, he didn't have any luck: the fact that I was walking with my dog around the fields and (deliberately) scaring the deer away might have had something to do with it. Lack of skill might also have played its part: if I'd gone out every evening with a rifle, even taking the dog, I'd have bagged at least one deer every night. Standing on top of a huge 4 x 4 on the edge of the field and waiting for them to come to you is not the way to do it. He hasn't been back this year, and I'm glad. The buck is still able to enjoy the grain and the discarded carrots and parsnips, and there are two does, one with a single fawn, one with twins. I see one or more of them almost every day at this time of year, and always with a smile. Nearly fifty years after those golden mornings in the Orwell woods, I am still delighted by their grace and beauty, and it's still a pleasure to meet my 'daily deer'.
Of course to the adults they were a pest. One winter I was horrified to learn that someone was coming to cull them. He was, so I was told, a 'real cowboy' from the USA. I could not bear the thought of anyone, even such a glamorous figure, killing 'my' deer: I came, after all, from the generation that had watched Bambi at a very impressionable age. The thought of offering my services (I don't suppose even at the age of ten or eleven that anyone knew more about the habits of the Orwell deer than I did) didn't occur to me: it would have been the worst sort of betrayal. I took real satisfaction from the fact that this supposed 'expert' had absolutely no success during the week or so that he was trying to shoot my friends.
Inevitably, as I grew older, my interest waned: pop music and other distractions took over, and besides I began to feel it was rather a strange thing for a teenage girl to do. Occasionally I'd see them while walking the dog, or one would be caught up in the football nets, a regular occurrence unfortunately. It was still a thrill to encounter them, though I never went seeking them deliberately. Long after I left home, my father told me that there was a white buck now with the herd: he saw it several times, and I really wished that I had done too. Apparently they are quite common amongst Fallow deer, and the originals of all those 'White Hart' pubs. Alas, that one met a dismal end in a football net, strangling itself in its panic before anyone had the chance to cut it free, and Dad was quite upset about it. But my favourite memory of the Orwell deer is quite recent: coming back to my parents from my sister's house at midnight, we drove up to the main gates of the big house, and saw, there on the lawn in front of the grand north entrance, perhaps a dozen or more quietly grazing deer, lit amber and gold in the rich glow of the floodlights, as beautiful and magical as their ancestors had been, when I was a child.
There are many deer here too, but they're Roe, not Fallow, and have quite different habits: they appear singly, or in small groups, rather than in a herd of a dozen or more, and they're small and very shy. A couple of times, though, we've actually seen them close to the house. Last winter one took up residence in our garden for a few days, feeding off the fallen apples which were a good source of nourishment in snowy weather. They might have fermented while on the ground, which would explain why the deer had considerable difficulty jumping the fence when I came out to have a closer look!
Once more I have a dog who loves to chase them: in her salad days, Rowan would roar off after them like a greyhound in pursuit of a hare, and follow flat out for half a mile or more: I remember seeing her once, from the long Abbotswood field, right across the valley and almost at the pig farm the other side. What she thought she'd do if she actually caught one, I have no idea! Of course she never had a hope: the buck or doe would go leaping like a gazelle over the grass, switching to a higher gear if the labouring Rowan seemed to be getting too close. Even now, an (almost) staid lady of nearly eight, she'll still give it a go, but stops after fifty yards or so, much to my relief: nothing is more humiliating, or futile, than standing in the middle of a field bellowing the name of a dog which has vanished five minutes ago, and you've no idea where they've got to.
Last year, Phil planted a wide strip of wheat all the way round the edge of the Far Ridge, as we call the belt of trees, last remnants of the original Abbot's Wood, which covers the steep ground between the upper plateau and the gentler slopes of the valley. I assume it was for fodder, as there wasn't very much of it. Or maybe he had another motive, for the grain proved irresistible to the local deer, and while they were feasting on it, they weren't molesting his brussels sprouts or carrots. Almost every evening, when I walked that way with Rowan, I would see at least one, standing in the middle of the wheat, munching. There was a buck - I knew it was always the same one because his antlers were slightly asymmetrical - and several females, including some young ones. They caused tremendous damage, trampling the crop down in many places, and eating much of it. In the evening sunlight, though, they were a lovely sight with their rich red summer coats, springing away from us with those huge leaps into the safety of the trees. It was noticeable that before their flight, it was the dog they watched, not me: quite sensible, given that it was always the dog that chased them!
Just like that long ago time, a man arrived with permission to shoot them. I encountered him and his companion a couple of times, and didn't like the look of him much: nor did one of my friends, who also met him. It certainly casts a blight on your evening walks when you know there's a character roaming your route armed with a high-powered rifle. He also had a Range Rover with an array of headlights on the roof, which made me instantly suspicious: it's illegal to shoot deer after dark, a practice known as 'lamping' and most often practised by poachers. And although he claimed to have permission to shoot on Bernie's land as well, when I asked Bernie's son, he said he didn't. Anyway, he didn't have any luck: the fact that I was walking with my dog around the fields and (deliberately) scaring the deer away might have had something to do with it. Lack of skill might also have played its part: if I'd gone out every evening with a rifle, even taking the dog, I'd have bagged at least one deer every night. Standing on top of a huge 4 x 4 on the edge of the field and waiting for them to come to you is not the way to do it. He hasn't been back this year, and I'm glad. The buck is still able to enjoy the grain and the discarded carrots and parsnips, and there are two does, one with a single fawn, one with twins. I see one or more of them almost every day at this time of year, and always with a smile. Nearly fifty years after those golden mornings in the Orwell woods, I am still delighted by their grace and beauty, and it's still a pleasure to meet my 'daily deer'.
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