When I first started stalking in earnest a few years ago, I was rather wrapped up in the romance of it. Striking out on an adventure, rifle slung over one shoulder, binoculars around my neck and a rucksack containing a flask of coffee and some food. Sometimes I’d even park my car further out from the land over which I was to shoot, simply to gain a bigger sense of intrepidness.
However, it was fair to say that my return rate was not as good as it could have been, perhaps only bearing fruit one in four or five outings. It was good fun, though.
Below target
My romantic ideal of stalking was brought down to earth after a brief but to-the-point meeting with the Forestry Commission. In short, we were well below the targeted cull numbers across the estate and, despite there being several stalkers across the
