Make Your Quarry Pay! One Way To Derive An Income From Hunting.

Dear Fellow Hunters,

Following some of the posts in my thread The Hunters Chronicles, a fair number of folks have got in touch and asked for some pointers regarding how I process my kills. Here's a little pictorial guide to how I go about it. Some have also professed to being unaware that there is a market for these skins. A quick search of rabbit or squirrel skins on eBay will show you that Dog trainers and Fly Fishermen are willing to pay good money for a well treated pelt. Nearly £10 a pop for squirrels it seems and around £6-£8 for a rabbit.

That'll get you some pellets!

Now for the juicy bit.

1) Crack open the skull. I use my Mora knife and a 'Bam Bam' on my log stump.

2) Extract the pellet! (can be seen at base of skull in the middle of the brain)

3) I find it best to use my finger and really get in there, but one way or the other, scoop out the good stuff and put onto your hide. This hide will have been dryed either through salting, or as I choose, by pinning to a board and placing behind the woodburner for a few days. When nice and 'crackly' it's ready for the meat and membrane to be gently scraped off with my old axe head which exposes a soft layer of the 'endermis'? (Inside part of epidermis). Doing this also aids absorbtion by the skin of your chosen tanning agent, in this case the lecithins and other chemicals of the brains.

Here's one pre-dryed and scraped.

4) I rub the brains in fully until there is only a sticky sheen that remains.

5) As I'm not interested in the painfully thin outer edges of the rabbit skin, I trim these off. This step is optional.

6) The next skin is then stretched and pinned by working from the extremes and round. So I'll start at the top right for instance, the bottom left, then bottom right to top left and the same for the sides until the result looks like the following.

7) And so the cycle continues with the next two ready to be dried.

That method is called 'Brain Tanning'. I do not wish to expose myself or my family to the alum found in proprietary compounds so I chose to use natural methods only. Egg whites can be substituted for brains, which is good as I have chickens and as the weather warms up the flies soon inhabit the heads making for a most unpleasant experience.

I leave the brain tanned pelt hanging for a day or so to allow for absorption then proceed to work the skin over the back of a chair. This also helps work in the brains and also to stretch the hide and break the collagen bonds. If it doesn't or you are happy with the result, the next step is to 'lock in' the tanning agent and preserve your work. I do this by smoking the skins.

The properties of the smoke preserve and slightly waterproof the skin as well react with the brains. If you choose to work it more after this stage you should end up with a 'buckskin' feeling pelt.

I have had the best result with the thicker squirrel skins, but the rabbits have been very good too. To really water proof I then apply a light coating of Dubbin.

Pelts worked to this standard should fetch alot more than £10. Those pelts I've seen on eBay have only been dried. and possibly scraped. I'm up to twenty skins now with the intention of making winter clothing from them but I will soon start selling my surplus to fund my hungry Air Arms 'twins'.

All the best guys!

Man – Ultimate Predator, and Amateur Vegetable.

When Mankind first walked this Earth, we are told that it was, and in those rare remaining pockets still is, an inhospitable and dangerous jungle shared with a myriad of other beasts. Some of these beasts also possessing a predatory instinct.

As evidenced by our species present and perceived dominance of nature and it's creations, no other beast possessed nor embraced this instinct to quite the same degree as Man. So powerfully was it adopted and so diligently was it honed, the it pervaded not only Man's body and his actions, but his mind also.

I call it the ego. It is no surprise therefore, that the ego is most conspicuously present in the male. It is, of course, also present in the female, but I believe that it is most firmly embedded in the masculine mind due, in part, to his Hunter role.

The ego, with it's insatiable appetite for more, compelled Man to vanquish all those who would dare threaten him. Their predatory prowess, perceived as a challenge and an affront to his own. The conquering of them, to this day, held as a symbol of achievement and source of great pride. The trophy will be preserved and displayed high for all to see, in service of the ego of its slayer.

It has now gotten to the point where the number of worthy prizes has become so few as to be negligible, the animals who once commanded our fear and respect, now require man's assistance to survive, threatened not only directly, but indirectly also by the march of human 'progress'.

It is not just our fellow beasts that are subjected to the suffering inflicted by the endless desires of man's ego, but his fellow men too.

“If I can surmount and tame all of natures other creations, then what else left is there but to annihilate and conquer her greatest predatory creation?” The Ego says.

Regardless that it is my own kind, I shall instead brand and label him as different from I and justify my actions through his past perceived/alleged infractions or even his potential future actions. Call him 'Barbarian' not 'Citizen', assign I and him a flag or symbol to which each will identify and thus enable the senseless slaughter without the limitation of morals nor conscience, and let the 'hunt' begin.

In a seemingly past life now, I willingly signed up to and subscribed to this madness with the blessing of society, my family and peers. I was indoctrinated, taught and trained in the many different ways to track, stalk, observe, conceal myself from, and ultimately hunt and kill my fellow human being.

It was thrilling. It was awful. On the one hand a beautiful display of individual yet united beings acting and moving in an aligned and co-ordinated machine to achieve the common objective. Improvising, adapting, overcoming as the mantra said. But to step back was to witness sheer insanity at its most sickening levels. Such consumption of resources, so much destruction and loss.

At the end of it came trophies. Prizes. We called them medals.

These words are not condemnation nor of judgement, rather, they are the facts as I perceive them.

I believe it is fair, in light of the very few living creatures that prey on mankind this day, to say Man is one of the ultimate predators.

When he chooses to be.

To my belief, it is the very stalking, seeking, challenge and even the numerous failures, that endows the hunters prize with value and merit. Yet as good as man became at this, he also sought quicker, more efficient means, and ultimately negated his valued role and status completely.

Where, I ask, is the worth, the value, the achievement, the prize in the cling film wrapped chicken you picked from the supermarket shelf? In an almost complete U turn of values and morals, our young hunters of today, if not practising and training to kill their fellow man, face condemnation even incarceration for daring to venture out into the wilderness and practice that which runs in their blood, the instinct of the ancestors. Frustrated by this urge I sympathise why many choose instead to drown out the ego, its mental monologue and torturous judgements with booze and other substances. This is effectively encouraged and condoned by the same society that proclaims to possess high moral standards and says it dislikes such behaviour! Is it really a wonder as to why the poor wretch can find no solace?!

In the rollercoaster that was my early teens I quickly identified that the mainstream society in which I dwelt has lost almost all of the old rights of passage for the male. Females still had the trauma and challenge of menstruation with the acceptance, acknowledgement and identity at the end of it that yes, they were now a woman. But what was there for the boy who so desperately wanted society to agree and tell him that finally yes, he was a man? I believe my ego found it in the Army. But I believe it needn't be so for everyone.

On TheHuntingLife forum I read countless requests from youngsters to be taken out by an 'old timer' and shown the ways and means of hunting. Why?! Because he is invariably lacking the father/grand father who did so for generations before. Who educated the son in the ways and means of being a hunter and providing for a family. A true man. This is perpetuated down the line by the current trends. These trends need bucking.

With young men being mentored and tutored properly by seasoned hunting veterans. If children can be brought up to understand and appreciate the fragility and sanctity of life through the education and application of hunting tools. Incidents of disrespectful behaviour, mutilated animals and all the other manifestations and backlashes of the frustrated youth and fledgling ego will, I firmly believe, decrease as the energy is channelled, perspective gained, and respect is inevitably earned and learned.

The alternative is dire. Continue to sit back, read the propaganda in the papers and let the GP's 'diagnose' and pump the youth full of chemical cocktails to suppress the life within, breeding the next generation of vegetables ready to clock on/off, and slump miserably in front of the TV to drink themselves into a stupor until finally they kill either themselves or somebody else.

That scenario is perhaps a bit over simplified but for the most part, not far from the truth.

When once we believed the cities held promise and hope, I believe now it is to be found in the countryside. I hold firm the belief that if the next generation can be tempted out from the urban jungle and into the true wilderness, our society and species may yet stand a small chance of averting the many reported crises that supposedly await us.

I hope to that spirit in the sky that before long, with great joy and relief;

I'll see you in the fields.

The Hunter's Chronicles - Friday 18th May 2012

It was time. And for this outing, there were two. We left with the words of my beloved ringing in our ears "bring us back a nice big rabbit!". Yes M'aam!.

My buddy, Mawders, being without his Superten, had brought with him a borrowed S410 carbine. It was woefully off zero (stubbornly shooting to the left despite numerous turns of the turret) and I was left underwhelmed by not only its performance but, strangely, the depth of the carving allowed for the palm in the stock. So shallow did it feel that for an instant I thought it to be a lefty stock. Forgivable after being used to the deep moulded feel of the TX200's woodwork.
Here was an occasion for a true PCP hunting carbine to step up to the mark. The deservedly renowned and much lauded S200. I left Mawders to get himself familiarised as I returned to camp to pick up the TX200 and return the disgraced S410. Upon my return,he told me of his positive first impression and awe at it's consistency and accuracy at 30 yards.

As we embarked on our 'mooch' pattern, a duvet of cloud rolled over the sky and soon a haze of 'dusty' rain was falling. Thankfully this did not persist, though at times it did sporadically return, keeping the ground moist enough to soak through the clothes should you crawl or lie prone upon it.

This outing kicked off much earlier than our two previous trips and was the better for it I feel. We settled on a spot where rabbits had been consistently seen and lay in wait.





Our position lay in a thistle ridden and shallow dip. Despite the odd 'tickle' in the nether regions which promoted alertness, the site afforded us good cover and soon the Mawders/S200 combination was presented with a challenge.

Both rose admirably to the occasion. As the large doe hopped from her hiding place in the hedge row, I barely had time to mutter "30 yards, dead on" before a 'phut - SMACK' was heard. She pulled off a flip of which any gymnast would be proud, only to land it, legs stiff and twitching towards the sky. There was no doubt in my mind that she was dead upon the pellets impact. We left her undisturbed for a time, keen not to dissuade any other candidates from exiting the safety of their hedgebank. Eventually, I handed Mawders the knife and he collected his prize.







The .22 had not been kind. It had ploughed through skin, bone, brain, then further on to bone and skin as it exited the other side, leaving a very bloody kill in its wake and irony to the expression 'a clean kill'
She lay in a surprisingly large pool of her own blood.
When Mawders opened her up, there were four large developed fetus, bonus! Or as Mawders rightly put it: "One pellet, five rabbits!"



Disemboweled, she was offered as a teaser to the Crows, but there were no takers from the corvid kingdom and as the temperature dropped and the limbs started to seize we moved on to see what other opportunities were aboard.

The usual suspects were in the usual places, and once again evaded execution. We repeated the mooching pattern and returned to our favoured position as the light was fading.

Having got soaked through crawling with admirable dedication towards a group of rabbits earlier, neither Mawders nor myself fancied lying once more upon the soaking earth. We elected instead to park our bums in the hedgebank on gunslips.

50-60 yards away a large rabbit leapt out and loped along towards our position. He was front on and presented a narrow target, but I was confident where I placed the crosshairs. I fired. Miss. The pellet slapped into the ground, I think in front of him leading me to question whether the scope was still zeroed. He must've moved to within 40 yards! Poor shooting then.

A short while later other rabbits appeared but were either too nervous to allow stalking and/or far out of range to not bother to attempt.

Light was dwindling along with my hopes. I strained my eyes to make out shapes through the Simmons 50mm lens...Ahaha! The unmistakable shape of a rabbit manifested in my sight picture, it seemed ready to pounce into the nettle patch, but I took my time. Guesstimating the range to be in the high 40's low 50's (yards) I adjusted the scope to 9x mag and lifted the crosshairs to the top of his cranium. I held my position, took up first pressure, fired and followed through.







The shot struck just in and below the eye. Instant death. Range turned out to be 47 yards. The TX200 proved itself to be equal to its PCP stable mate despite the smaller calibre.



The Brothers in Air Arms...



The trips bounty.

Balance

The Wise Hunter knows his continued existence depends not only in the taking and destruction of life, but the nurturing and giving of it also.

The Hunter's Chronicles - Wednesday 16th May 2012

A brief return to the neglected woodland, possibly the last too as the weekenders have decided to move in full time. Nice to have neighbours and in honesty my pigeon roost shooting techniques don't seem to be yielding many juicy breasts. I'll find somewhere else to pop em off.

My pigeon hunting techniques are so poor in fact...I came home with a squirrel! I opted to explore a bit and try out a new vantage point. This had an excellent kill zone, the slope put me midway up the trees, with a panoramic view of the woodland floor out to a perfect 40 yards. I was presented with a couple of chances, but threading the pellet through the newly grown foliage was seemingly impossible. The shots I did get off must have ricocheted or impacted into branches, or I fluffed them all.

As my right leg had fallen soundly asleep, and I feared I would soon follow, I went for an "ahhh, ohhh, owwww JEEZZZUS CHRIST" wander...
A tail dangled from the fence. It was attached to a small female squizzer. As I eyed her up in the glass, she gave me a wink. I was most excited and blew an RWS Superfield in her direction...

The RWS Superfield entered beside the right eye, only just visible in the picture above. She fell back and dangled from the wire, slumping into the carpet of Ramsons.

I was amazed when I performed the autopsy to find a .177 in the left shoulder blade! Evidently the pellet had travelled through the skull, down the neck and expended itself between the muscle and skin. 10.87ft/lbs at 40 yards. Astounding.

My first thought was "Wow, maybe JFK was killed by a 'magic bullet'!"

I'm keen to chuck her in my 'oven' and see what she's like with some Patak's Rogan Josh curry paste!

Only a short one this time friends!

Oven Cooking Your Kill Without an Oven!

Had rather a brainwave today.

I realised that by simply raising what I wished to cook off the bottom of a pan, i could create an oven effect. So i borrowed the steamer tray that goes in the pressure cooker and flipped it over. Voila!

Don't laugh, that's pretty clever for me!

The meal!

The Hunter's Chronicles - Sunday 13th May 2012

Due to a low battery warning in our carbon monoxide alarm, I was awake at 04:00 whether I liked it or not.
A dawn patrol.
The sunrise was awe inspiring. My old friend, the woodland, transformed in my absence. The cover now blocking the rising light, vibrant green providing a screen from the multitude of pigeons cooing from the dizzying heights of the giant beech trees.
Whilst no quarry presented itself, I witnessed something I have not seen before. A crashing thundering sound suddenly erupted ahead. I dropped to my knee expecting to see a cyclist hurtle past at breakneck speed. Instead, four deer stampeded past weaving frantically through the trees... an incredible sight and most unexpected.
I exited the woods the other side.

Over the hill I strolled breathing in the fresh dawn air. It has been too long since I prowled the woods at this, a most vibrant hour so full of anticipation and promise it is almost palpable.
Out of sync with the terrain, and distracted by the scenes around me, I only managed to send the three rabbits that were seen scurrying back to their tunnels and warrens.

My focus switched to the pigeons as I embarked on the return leg of my tour. Only two shots of the many opportunities were possible and my closest attempt took a feather or two off the backside of one as I struggled to master shooting at near vertical angles. I have yet to learn this with the .177 let alone the .22 and I do not fancy scaling those arrow straight ancient beeches in order to mount targets to practice!

At 14:15 I set out to the fields on the lower slopes of the valley. After 3 hours I really did question my sanity entering on the forum a thread entitled "How I Know For Certain I'm Insane..." with the following post;

"...and it's the air rifles fault.

I read that one of the definitions of insanity is "the repetition of the same task or activity, with the expectation of a different outcome each time".

As I sit outside this warren for the umpteenth time, I can't help but wonder if the men in white coats, not rabbits, are about to jump out..."

I gave up on that warren and elected to 'mooch' instead.

In the next field over I spied two illuminated red elliptical shapes close to the ground. I dropped to my knee and inspected through the glass. As I suspected, the sun was shining through a pair of ears attached to a feeding rabbit. As I rose to advance, the wind, strong and unpredictable, and possibly over eagerness in my movement, gave my presence away and I had milliseconds to act. No time for laser range finding, it was shooting by the seat of the pants. The gut put range at 40 plus yards, the mind responded with the calculation of a mil dot hold over, she was turning to launch into a run. I fired from a standing position. She was out of the blocks and at full tilt. She failed to reach 572.5ft/s and the pursuing AA Field crashed into her skull. Two front flips and a side roll and four legs pointed upwards, twitching at the heavens.

A large and heavy Doe with seven fetuses. I was taken aback by her size.

'Bagged n tagged', we headed home. Within minutes she was 'dressed' (ironic, as being skinned surely she was undressed!) and in the pot. An old jar of Madras curry paste, its contents separated into 'brown' and 'liquid' provided the foundations of a very large and satisfying meal.

The possibilities and adventures that exist when the Sun doth shine!

The Hunter's Chronicles - Saturday 12th May 2012

Saturday 12th May 2012

Nature, my mistress, provider and dictator has limited my activities and resources somewhat of late.
Though today, just when required, she changed her mind. Bathing myself and the solar panels in glorious celestial warmth. The heat that nurtures all life...including the netbook...

Between this, and my last reported adventure I have been a hunting guide, dodging rain and shooting rabbits with success and failure on both counts.

Presented with the opportunity that was this day, I fed the new S200 a whole tin of RWS Superfields. She spat them out rather erratically and it was clear that they were not to her liking. When I changed her diet to AA Fields she started to behave, if she wasn't pumped too full (170 BAR seemed to side step the two magazines of 'two mildot high' pellets that had troubled me the whole day).
With a pretty thorough work out on the pump burning in my back muscle's, I decided it was time to turn her loose in the fields.

Rather than wander the entire land, I went prone outside of a warren whose population were as equally grateful for the return of the Sun. Shortly after, the cross hairs were rising and falling scribing an imaginary line of death down the side of the nearest rabbits face. They rested a mildot high at nine times magnification with a range of 53 yards. The S200 let wind.
The pellet struck the earth behind him...I'd over filled her! She was at 190 BAR... The Kit paused at the hedgerow, his play fellow evidently oblivious to his chums dance with death. I aimed straight at him. The Reaper visited and claimed a soul.

"Death wuz 'ere"

As I awaited the return of the remaining quarry, my mobile rang. It was my dear sweet lady love.
"Don't ask me how, but the chickens have escaped and are all in the garden, I would round them up, but the cockerels out too".
"On my way..."
Our Old English Game Cock appears to believe my partner and our oldest daughter to be hens that require rounding up. He's not averse to resorting to flying kicks and pecks to the buttocks to exert his will. He only avoided execution after an escape and assault earlier in the day as I couldn't be bothered to pluck him.

I returned to the fields around 19:00 with food in my belly, anxious to test my new found understanding of the .22 calibre pellet.

Progress was slow and silent as I patrolled a bramble patch. Improbably close to my right, barely 4 yards ahead, a grey/brown shape moved through the fence!
I was astounded. A fully grown rabbit boldly going about her business.
My senses searched to identify the factor that was facilitating this experience.
It was plain. Her fur was patchy, eyes narrowed slits, blinded by the grip of her decay at the hands of Myxomatosis. I suddenly found myself the victim of a moral dilemma. I, rooted to the ground, observed her for what seemed a long while as I deliberated on a course of action. Reason said Myxomatosis victims are edible, instinct told me not to eat a diseased animal. Added to this, her fur was of little use and appeal to me.
Eventually, I decided she was searching for death. She had been seeking me for a while now and the gods had chosen me to end her suffering. They guided my hand to lift the sights to 4 mildots holdover and send a pellet precisely where it was required. She rolled over and left this existence with barely a shudder.
She reminded me of the admiration I have for all those beings who, through whatever ailment/circumstances, are without one of the senses I take for granted and rely upon almost every waking moment. Whilst my phone and camera had run out of battery denying me the ability to record that event, it will remain forever branded in my mind. A personal experience granted exclusively to me, to be shared only in words.

My appetite for death escaped me, my hunger for meat forgotten.

For now...

The Hunter's Chronicles - Sunday 6th May 2012

My recent acquisition, though it has nigh bankrupted me, and tentative return into the world of PCP's enabled me to engage in something not recommended with a spring powered rifle. The use of my DCR-SR32e Sony video camera as a scope cam.
When I bought my first PCP, the Webley Raider 10XS, I went positively all out and bought almost every accessory I could think of which included an IR bulb with my L2 Solarforce Lamping setup. Whilst I haven't fully explored the night vision capability, it was most enjoyable observing the rabbits and photographing them. It also had the bonus of occupying my mind as I observed those out of range, so more often than not, when I glanced up, a rabbit would have popped up in my kill zone.

Unfortunately, when the opportunity presented itself to capture a kill, the Stealth (or my .22 marksmanship) failed to deliver. I believe that either the shot fell short, or the bottle is finally low. Without a pump however, I cannot rule out the latter and for the sake of the rabbit I sincerely hope it was the former.

For those purists amongst you who have always rooted for the TX200 over the Stealth, have maintained the springer will be more reliable and deliver when asked, well so far, I have to concede you are right. I too am one of those purists, and so far PCP is not living up to my demands and requirements.

I returned with 'Old Faithful'...

Within minutes she did as her master asked.

But, I am willing to extend my benefit of the doubt. I believe the Stealth and I maybe reconciled despite our calibre differences and preferences. With a tin of Bisley Long Range Gold or H&N FTT I believe she will be able to perform at the ranges of the TX200 yet with a bit more punch.
Lamping is where I think the Stealth will excel, so let us wait, exercise patience and thus be rewarded.

Sudden Schizophrenia

Apologies for the jump back in time, I just got around to posting the final few entries of my diary and the Diary of the Warless Warrior Series. Will either make those two months of entries into a small book "The Dance of The Warless Warrior" or will tag onto "The Path of the Warless Warrior".

"The Roses Beneath My Window" - Wednesday 05/10/11

Our 'Indian Summer' is at an end. Normality, if that is what it is, seems to have returned.
Friday, Simon and Jasmine took us with them to Picton Castle where an event was being held in the gardens. The theme was light. Interestingly to me, my pleasure came not from the man made attractions. Primarily it was being with Simon and Jasmine and my family and the change of scenery, and once there, the magnificent trees and horticulture, most notably a 300 year old Cedar tree. From its trunk extended sucker like branches that grew outward a distance, just beyond the canopy, and turned skyward.
My favourite of these was one that resembled an elephants head and trunk.
I grant you that its been one week to the day since my last entry. I am finding it increasingly difficult to breakdown my life into newsworthy events. My life just is. What arises, passes. The fact that yesterday, I and others collected algae bloom from the millpond along with its brown trout victims, does not particularly change nor matter much. It is a tit bit of limited interest to another. Collectively, the entries may give my children an idea of who I was and what I was thinking, but that is of little significance to who I am. To me, each day is now a new life. Each night that previous existence fades and serves no role in the present. A death.
The photographs are images, a form of forms, it, like the other forms, will fade and whither into past. Unless one derives identity from these and other forms, their capture and/or demise are of no consequence.
I once thought it mattered to record and to remember the past. I once believed it important to be able to communicate my activities to others. It is not. Not, for me, anymore. These records are and have been entertaining. A distraction from the present.
For those who read this because they want to follow my path, to learn the secrets of how I changed my life, I have not answers, but important questions for you.
It was not particularly useful for me to ask "Where do I want to live/be?" But rather "Where am I happy to die?" I believe the latter of the two evokes much stronger imagery in the minds eye than the former. Also; "If not now, then when? If not here, then where?

"These roses under my Window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God today. There is no time to them...But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time" - Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self Reliance.

Skeleton Houses - Wednesday 28/09/11

Emma joked that a Pole Shift must have occurred due to the unseasonably good weather. High temperatures of over 27 degrees Celsius are forecast to last until Sunday.
I made use of this sunshine and the morning dew to finish off some scything I started for Jude. She was most grateful for my help. Allegedly, she is now being denied the help of volunteers due to her honest reply to questions asked by participants of the 'Low Impact Experience' week. For many reasons, she is not a happy hippy. Well, for starters, she's not a hippy...nor is anyone else here for that matter...
Just before lunch, I  switched to polytunnel tasks and bolted braces along the top of the frame to the cross members. It was after doing this and gazing at the frame that I was struck by how much like a giant rib cage the structure looked. A whale skeleton. Hit by its natural form, I then pondered if, by planting trees instead of poles, it could be grown. Then a better idea hit me. How cool would it be to not build a house, but grow it! A truly natural living house! In my minds eye, it's possible and somehow, someway, I resolve to do it. When I mentioned it to Jude, she said she'd heard of such and idea being done in Ireland.
The mind can be most entertaining when not torturing.

Virtual PC - Monday 26/09/11

The Warless Warrior awoke. 20:30 is the moment this is written. A name, a number assigned so other beings may identify the moment to which is being referred.
Names, numbers assigned. Beings. Divine machines. Machines greater than the sum of their parts. Parts of substance. Substance of matter. All that exists,is matter. Matter manifests/morphs as matter reacts with matter. Matter is not destroyed, it simply changes form. Energy is the force released/radiated as a by product of the interaction of matter.
Beings are biological machines. It is recognised that beings have unique identifier 'codes' that affect the beings make up, internal and external.

Human beings emit noises that conform to a standard and are understood in the same manner a modem does.
Some emit strange sounds that others need to program themselves in order to understand.
Human machines have gone too far. Most are running 'Virtual PC' and are not using th CPU's full resources to maximum capability. 'Virtual PC' is also known as 'ego' and dwells in the sandbox of the mind. The Virtual PC has gotten so powerful, it runs the rest of the machine...with limited capability and and disastrous consequences.

The Offensive - Thursday 22/09/11

Boy have I got the 'touch' today. I offended Kit's wife this morning and by complete fluke, his neighbour in the afternoon!

The mornings assignment was to clear 4 rows of willow so the digger could shape hedgebanks on the perimeter.

Nigel and Cassie, who's land borders Kit's lower field, denied their consent for the digger to drive on their land, and so the willows fate was sealed.

Readers may recall the days I spent on my tod planting row after row of willow during Kits absence. I singlehandedly doubled the willow coppice. Since then, I have watched three to four of those fledgling rows be annihilated by the tractors when they cut the grass. Now, today, I was required to cut more down, at the wrong time of year, so some earth could be pushed and piled. A truly needless sacrifice. This job did not need doing and definitely not before November.

My first offence occurred when, after I had cut down the four 50m odd rows of willow, Saara asked if I would be happy to go back, root amongst the grass and cut every stump again to ground level. I was truthful but reserved when I replied “Not particularly, No”. She grabbed the loppers from my hand without a word and disappeared to the opposite end of the field. When our paths next crossed and I asked if she had taken offence, I got “I'll talk to you later” in reply.

I explained myself to Kit (a man should be warned when you've upset his wife!) who I don't think really got the meaning but he did his best to understand for which I am grateful.

Strike Two occurred as I was splitting logs. Nigel materialised and was visibly upset. Seething with anger is more accurate, and by God did he let rip. I was accused of all sorts of wild allegations including cowardice, bad parenting and spreading of bad karma. Based on second hand information and presumptions, all were in relation to our dispute with the leisure centre. His cowardice allegation was negated when I revealed that his wife had called me on the day in question and it was I who had resolved the matter by talking direct to the troublemakers. His eyes flickered at this, betraying his ignorance of important and rather key facts. The rest of his speech consisted of perceptions and opinions. I cannot argue those no matter how ridiculously inaccurate they may be.

This is not the first time he has erupted, and I am sure it will not be the last. I find this emotional outburst crap very juvenile and I attribute my repeated successful pacification of them partly to be down to the fact I deal with kids every day. Some, evidently, much bigger and older than others...

The millpond reflected an image back to me. It was no less real than the objects portrayed within it.

A ripple spread across the surface and the image was distorted.

I pondered this. All the world is a reflection, made real by us. Our lives have ripples in them that distort our perceptions.

Ripples can be created no matter how still we are. The key, I think, is to look past the ripple to see the image that continues to exist above and beneath.

What the Willow Died for...

Paining - Wednesday 21/09/11

It's 20:06. It's fully dark outside, the cat's been spayed and I am on the couch reading a book, exhausted and paining from my days labour. Good times (for me, not the cat, she's looking stiff, scarred and I imagine is paining more than I)

A Tiresome Train Wreck - Tuesday 20/09/11

At midday, Kit, Saara, Nick, Emma and I plus babies finally had a sit down chat.

I was rather dismayed, indeed disgusted by some of what was aired.

I particularly wished to put to bed the recent grumbles about my perceived lack of input. Somehow, it would appear my efforts are viewed in an inferior light to those of Nicks. A grossly unfair comparison to start with and I won't go into detail here.

It is times like these when keeping a diary pays dividends.

What most shocked me was Kits confession of envy. Not only of our material possessions, specifically my air rifles, but also our finances and what appears to him to be our relaxed life despite our newborn child. I am aware that beneath envy lies flattery, but it was Emma who astutely pointed out that whilst things such as money and toys are what they are, who owns the land? Who will leave here with nothing? Who will gain a house!?

I am writing this shortly after the event has occurred, so no doubt emotions are still present and issues that may fade still vivid in mind. I have expressed to Saara that I would like a follow up chat with them regarding the points raised.

Whilst my emotion charged mind wishes to document all niggling details, my hearts wisdom and pen hand knows it is for the better that I refrain. There are no accidents.

If my frustrations become a catalyst for our departure then that is that.

Am I sabotaging my circumstances in accordance to the pattern I have observed in my life, I ask myself. I said in their presence that I attributed this period to a lack of focus (building) and lack of clarity on our exchange.

A small voice voice in my conscience recalls that Hoppi and others warned us that Kit can be a challenge. Be that as it may, whilst I breathe, I am ready to be challenged.

I attended a Lammas meeting in the evening, not much was different from the others bar two items regarding directors and outside committee members. My notice that I wished to stand as a Director was again on the agenda after being dismissed off hand previously. None objected, bar Andy who belligerently asked me to repeat myself when I spoke clear enough for all to hear, as he “did not understand a word” and then declined to elaborate on his objection when challenged. Either he was being polite, so strong were his feelings, or he was just being 'difficult'. I didn't take it personally, just as well too as he was also did not like the idea of outside committee members. I also have a feeling Melissa would have objected as well, so the focus cannot be trained on him alone. This concensus thing seems a waste of time, cited as 'something to aspire to' it appears as fluffy and as foundless in practice as most other 'enlightened' ideas practiced by incapable aspirational folk.

I have endured all meetings that have taken place during my time here. I have observed and offered input when it was required, and/or requested, but watching a train fall off the tracks eventually becomes frustrating and dull. More so when your insight is most often seemingly cast on stony ground.

My offer to stand as director was therefore a most charitable and generous one. I thank Andy for excluding and protecting me from being obligated to attend these circuses. Lammas is bankrupt due to gross negligence and financial mismanagement. That is not hearsay nor speculation, it is a fact. The ship is sinking and like many others, I'm cashing out.

Let us see what next the Fates will deign to weave into this, my tapestry of life.

Bum Bum Changing - Monday 19/09/11

A morning of blogging, accompanied in the background by Eckhart Tolle, an afternoon carting nutrient rich muck from the border of the woodland. Thankfully, with Kits assistance.

The intention was a barrow each, the practice was not. Kits barrow had a flat tyre, so we relayed the barrow loads. I was exhausted by the time we eventually completed the task.

I did not have a restful night that night either. Woken at 03:00 to help Emma with a 'Bum Bum Change'. (For our baby, not Emma!) I didn't get back to sleep until 06:00. I passed the dark small hours reading in front of the fire. The library van had visited and I borrowed 'A Pheasants Revolt: More tales of the Country' it is so amusing Emma heard my frequent chortles from the next room. (We do live in a caravan).

A Proper Forum - Sunday 18/09/11

Kit, Saara and Henri came round this morning, During the conversation, we were invited to join them down at the hub for a 'food to share' meal.

Emma and I went down to Jayne's plot to get some vegetables and enquired whether, in fact, the meal was intended to include volunteers. I wasn't much bothered either way but as we had received an invite, I did not share Emma's concern.

We arrived just after the prescribed time of 13:00. 13:10 to be more precise. It was just us for ten minutes until Kit arrived. Five minutes after he, Simon, Jasmine, Grandpa Nigel, Elfie and Cosmo trooped down and we tucked in.

It later transpired that Jayne had shown up to this informal get together but had given up and gone moments before we arrived.

A good two hours was spent by all discussing many subjects. In my view, more is accomplished in these informal gatherings than is currently at meetings! Not much is concluded or resolved, but certainly views and personal opinions are shared in the proper forum.

The Hunter's Chronicles - Tuesday 1st May 2012

With the changing of the month came change in the weather. 19:00 I saddled up the TX200 and sauntered to my pigeon patch. Of course, there were bunnies a plenty. Kits lined the roadside, diving for cover when their nerve gave out. Each seemed to hold out longer than the last as though daring the next to out-do his bravado.
As I past my usual rabbit field there were four at least way beyond their usual limits, a quick scamper, but when I froze and remained a statue, they quickly resumed feeding. I enjoyed their company for a while smiling wryly to myself. Soon I tired of them and as I resumed my way, all scurried to the hedgerows in an instant.

Meet my closest neighbours, much more discreet than I!

I arrived in my favoured spot. A small woodland, unclaimed and unowned, inhabited at the weekend by two very friendly people and their equally friendly dog, Foxy.

I plunged into my secret garden through the thicket on the left that conceals the path to the treasures within.

A few paces in I like to stop and remain motionless for a minute or two. I fancy I am 'tuning in' to the surrounding life, calibrating my radar, becoming more sensitive to the subtle signs that betray quarry lurking in the depths... In spite of this, when I move again I very often disturb numerous pigeons who in turn scare the rest with the frantic beat of their wings and snapping of twigs. This has been almost unavoidable as the high winds of late have littered the floor with dead twigs, veritable land mines to the stealthy predator. More ominous and deadly than that are the shining and only recently exposed roots that lurk beneath that will take a foot and send it down the steep slope threatening at best to knock the rifle off zero, or worse, break a bone.

I threaded my steps with purpose. So slow and cautious was I that a heavy female squirrel nibbled upon a branch ahead oblivious to my presence. I took a standing shot the impacted below the ear. The crack sent two more pigeons off into the skies as she crumpled sideways and rolled off the branch impacting the leaf litter with a muffled thud. As I approached her shivering body, it was evident the life had vanished from the eyes, and yet the nose and whiskers twitched. I placed another pellet through the back of her skull to end the throes of Death.

Onwards, deeper into the forest I went. Songbirds chirped and twittered their chorus above and around me. Pigeons cooed but far off.
I arrived near to my position, eyes roving the canopy, My attention dropped nearer to the floor and it was then I spied the silhouette of another tree rat. This time a tree was perfectly positioned for a rested standing shot.
Crack, thud, roll.

I came to his remains and inspected the damage. There was no reaction, no struggling, no movement. But there was still light in the eyes. The round seemed to have struck just that bit too low and right of the ear. He was paralysed. A swift mercy shot and I held his chest feeling the strong heartbeat continue as blood pumped from his nose and mouth, then begin to falter, weaken, and stop. I tucked him up above where my gun is pictured resting, an offering to the Gods with the words "Lie with, and become one with the tree you loved, as one day I too will return to the soil".

There on in I played the waiting game.

My first opportunity presented itself three quarters of an hour later. The angle was extreme, almost directly above my head in a tall tree in front of my position. I am fairly certain I scored a direct hit, seemingly evidenced by the feathers that see sawed their way down, but he nonetheless escaped my clutches. Did it strike that impervious breast bone causing only a small flesh wound? Or did he fly on the fuel of adrenaline only to crash land to earth and become food for the Fox? I'll never know.

Around 20:00 another offering was made. This time I made the shot count. I held firm until his head protruded clear from the body and branches through which the pellet required threading and took my chance. He fell straight down and rolled with the slope towards me. A headshot, that was clear, but in a cruel twist reminiscent of the film Final Destination, he managed to thread a length of barbed wire through his throat! Evidently no mercy shot was required this time.

My prize gained, I ended my foray. As I alighted from my lair, quite without my noticing, the valley had become enveloped in mist. I arrived home to find my abode swaddled in the eiderdown of the gods. With the smoke of the woodburner rising gently from the chimney it was clear my night recounting my adventures, would be cosy and warm. A pleasant contrast from the North wind that pervaded every opening, chilling and leeching the life from that exposed to it.

As I butchered the pigeon by the light of my head torch, a stream of thoughts entered my mind in the fashion of an obituary. They went something along these lines;

You who once were one with the air and trees,
Who dwelt amongst the Gods, the object of the earth bound creatures envy,
Who lived as another expression of the consciousness that creates all things.
A life seen by man as the epitome of liberty.

If your life was the mastery of the elements Air and Wood,
Your demise was through my mastery of Earth and Metal.
You feasted upon the fruits of the farmers labour, I now take it back, less the tax your body exacted.
Our two species have dwelt together throughout history,
Long may our relationship continue.