Bergamot, lime, pine, peony, myrrh, moss, clementine, woodsage, and oh so many more; if I smell anything I have worn in the last month or so, one of these or plenty more scent oils will somehow permeate through the aroma of fresh laundry, or be found clinging to cutlery as I eat, or mugs as I drink. This smorgasbord of heavenly pungency is only bettered by the thin veneer of wax replacing the perfectly oiled tone of my beautiful kitchen tops and the industrial storage unit, full of packaging, that allegedly used to be our sitting room.
As I wrote last November, my wife and I set up a small, artisan candle-making business to offset the cost of living, by earning back the cost of Christmas through selling these highbrow, waxy wonders at two local Christmas markets, then beyond. We sold 80 and frankly, were delighted. This November, including wholesale through shops and direct at markets we’re up to 350 for the month, and counting. It’s been an amazing, challenging rollercoaster and something that we’ve both loved doing, but wow, it has been pretty much rain and candles for most of November. I’m not complaining, but going from very part-time, fun and fulfilling, to crazy and every day, in a matter of days, means that that’s almost all we’ve done. We’ve made, talked about, breathed and ingested, even dreamed more candle aromas than most will in a lifetime and had little time for anything else.
CLOSE ENCOUNTER
Imagine my delight then, when I bumped into a couple of friends in our local village shop. This father and son duo are brilliant fun and live life their own way. The father produces organic vegetables from his five-acre smallholding, which I’ve been up to once or twice after rabbits, with no great success. They informed me, over a wonderfully ‘non-scent-oil’ flavoured coffee that they had been inundated with squirrels. Apparently, the blighters were everywhere, but they were having no luck bagging any with my BSA Ultra SE that I'd loaned them, due to various reasons, and asked if I’d go up and thin them out!
Yes, yes of course I would. At roughly 250 metres door-to-door and after the October and November storms had stripped most of the leaves from the tree canopy, I couldn’t think of anything better. I could be out at 14.20, hunting by 14.30, dusk would be at about 16.20 so I could have lost the light and be home, elbows deep in wax pellets by 17.20.
I left the shop, airgun dream-drunk on words like; plague, everywhere, multiplying and tree damage. It was like a Christmas film in my head, but I’d replaced red bows, candy canes and characters called ‘Noel Clause’ or similar with Air Arms Fields, TX200s and bushy-tailed tree rats. I just needed to find some time, which it turns out wasn’t that tricky because our candles take four hours to set on the aforesaid once delightfully toned side, before being moved to the boiler cupboard to cure.
ANCIENT v MODERN
A couple of days later, I drove to the smallholding. I would have walked, or ridden a bike, but as with most things now, it’s easier to drive than be stopped and questioned by concerned newbies to the village, or worse, reported for carrying a slipped ‘sniper rifle’, or some such. An Amazon driver got vilified for driving too slowly in the wrong sort of car the other day!
I arrived, and jumped as the father appeared behind me out of nowhere. We chatted briefly and I asked if he was joining me. I think there was a confusion because I got the impression he didn’t want to, but felt that as I’d asked, he should. He popped indoors to get what I thought was going to be the Ultra SE, but reappeared with a rusty Webley Tracker from 19 something or other, open sights and a handful of Marksman pointed pellets.
No matter my aversion or possible knowledge snobbery, I said nothing and we loaded up. His ancient Webley v my monster TX200. The plan I was told, was simple. I was going to head down one boundary of the smallholding, and he the other. We’d meet in the middle at the bottom. Only shooting into trees above head height, or on the ground with a trunk as a backstop ensured safety, and with that briefest of intros, my host charged off, leaving me to figure out everything else alone.
STALK AND SPOT
As mentioned many times, my normal squirrel hunting tactic is to walk 50 paces, stop, wait,, identify ‘alien’ rustling in the canopy, look for movement, and listen for chewing or barking. Most of that would be useless here, though, because apart from the boundaries and a couple of spinneys dividing the property, it was open and flat, with crops or cover crops planted and shoulder-high apple trees in the orchard. Basically, it was a stalk and spot hunt and for the first time ever, I actually wished I had a thermal-imager to find quarry in the trees on the border because after an hour, I hadn’t spotted anything. It was also odd that in a place allegedly overrun with squirrels, I found a feeder perfectly intact with no squirrel damage.
Away to my right, I heard the familiar ‘phutpsssss’ of a shot, but no tell-tale impact crack at the end, so I was pretty confident that we were still nil – nil. Not that it was a competition, but it kind of was in my mind, not that anyone else knew; you can’t be the ‘Great Protector of Smallholding Trees’ and come away with less than the guy who called you in. You might as well not be there!
I heard two more similar shots in the next half hour, yet was still pretty sure there was nothing bagged. It dawned on me that with his far better reconnaissance and knowledge, my host might have headed for the very spot where the bushy-tailed bark robbers are most commonly seen.
EFFECTIVE SHOT
We met up as the sun set. My host explained he was off because was meant to have lit his fire, and now the house would be as cold as he was. As he headed off, he mentioned he’d been chasing two squirrels down to a still leaf-heavy beech. He’d lost them in the canopy, but had a couple of shots. I decided to head that way as at least there might be a chance.
The temperature had dropped with the sun and it was now really quite cold. I set up in the only cover I could find, a holly bush 25 metres from the beech with all the ‘action’. After almost no time, I was rewarded with a squirrel charging through the bare branches. I squealed, it stopped in its tracks, looking for the unspotted danger and l raised the TX200 and let fly an Air Arms Field. Finally this evening, the rapport of a muzzle ended with the resounding crack of an effective shot, and the squirrel dropped, twitching on the floor. From the trees around me, roosting pigeons erupted into flight, away from the danger. I decided to stick out the cold and see if they’d come back in.
LAST CHANCE
After reloading, and donning my natty winter-weight face mask, I pushed myself further into the holly and waited. After 20 minutes, losing the light with every second, four pigeons arched through the trees, banked round and dropped to an elegant landing. I had the TX200 already up and took the first I had a clear shot at. It folded with no fuss as again, unseen pigeons rushed to the safety of the sky.
With no gloves and a snot trail I could feel running past my chin, the cold had managed to seep through my clearly ill thought out ‘thin layers and no gloves’ outfit. I struggled to reload and decided that a final 10 minutes was all I could manage in the gloom. My last chance came as the light struggled through the scope, when another pigeon flopped in, offering a clear silhouette for a shot. Through the scope, the image looked as dull and grainy as a 1980’s TV picture. I took the shot and with a clatter, the pigeon dropped.
I collected my prizes and now frozen, headed back to the car, thinking now, with the benefit of hindsight, that I might have yet again fallen for the age old ; ‘see 3, count 10’ numerical system adopted by some landowners regarding vermin and their ground. That said, it’s a five-minute walk away, obviously holds quarry and is great to escape to, so I’m going back for a second go. Next time, I might just take a few pellets and leave the entire tin of AA Fields at home because again, and in a familiar counting methodology, for every three pellets I used in anger, 10 ended up on the floor!
