Richard Waller's "Bat Palace Mk.1", an experimental design
I love bats. Nothing is better than lying out in a wood on a clear summer night and watching them flit delicately between the branches overhead. When I found out that we have almost a dozen different species of bat in Scotland, I was amazed. Most people have heard the word “pipistrelle” and know that it applies to an extremely small variety of bat, but there is an astonishing variety of size, shape and coloration among fascinating little creatures with names like daubenton, noctule and natterer.
With the first steps towards turning the Chayne into a more interesting natural environment now in full swing, I couldn’t resist finding out more about the bats who are living on the land. I have made arrangements to have members of the local bat group come out to visit the farm and teach me how to identify the different local species, and it occurred to me that no self respecting shoot should be without at least one bat box. As fashions in shooting change and the sport becomes more and more popular, there has been a definite shift towards conservation and caring for the peripheral elements of shoot wildlife. There is no doubt that this is a good thing, and while bat boxes will have no effect on the amount of grouse shot in a season, they help to develop a relationship between man and nature that is at the very root of all country sports.
I looked on the internet for information on bat boxes and got a basic idea of what they were. It turns out that a bat box is basically the same as a bird box, only without the front hole. Filled with narrow vertical shelves and accessible via a slit running across the bottom, the boxes provide bats with somewhere to roost during the day and hibernate during the winter. Sketching a basic design on the back of an envelope, I passed it on to Richard Waller, a local carpenter, and asked him to have a shot at making one. Within a few days, we had a prototype.
I decided to hang the experimental Bat Palace Mk.1 in the lean-to of a ruined cottage on the western boundary of the farm. It is well sheltered there, and I suspect that bats are already nestling in beneath the tiles to roost during the day anyway. If it turns out that the Palace is used over the next year, we will know that our design is along the right lines and go into mass production.
All that remains of what was once a perfectly good snipe.
We have got another trouble maker. A fox lives somewhere in the woodcock strip and he has been making his presence felt over the past few days. First, he stole a rabbit leg from a fencepost above the Multi Larsen Trap while I was building a fence a few hundred yards away. Most galling of all is the knowledge that, in order to steal the leg, he would have had to have climbed onto the bonnet of my car. I took it all in good heart and was impressed at his brass-necked daring, but when I went up to the strip again today to clear some more trees, my opinion changed.
Feathers were strewn across a patch of bilberry. They were chocolate brown with silvery grey undersides, and they had been nipped off as if by scissors. Evidence of a fox kill. My heart skipped a beat when I thought that the rogue had eaten one of my grouse, and it was not much of a relief to discover a long, narrow beak amongst the wreckage of feathers. The head had been entirely chewed away, but it was obvious that a perfectly good snipe was now swilling around the stinking guts of some wretched, self satisfied fox. I declared war on him then and there.
Bilberry, strained into long, ghostly strands by the darkness of the plantation.
The more I brash in the pine strip, the more satisfied I am that what I am doing is right. I don’t really know much about woodcock behaviour or diet and my attempt to clear a path through the strip was more basic common sense than a genuine attempt to improve habitat. As I have been working though, I have found a great deal to reassure me that not only could the strip become a good woodcock drive, but also that the Chayne might once again return to its glory days in the 1930s.
The sitka spruces were planted very close to each other and they were never thinned out to allow proper growth. Douglas fir trees were planted in amongst them but they have been smothered by the faster growing spruces. Many have died and most of the survivors are only as thick as a broom handle with a needly plume at the summit. I have been clearing around the Douglases because, although they are not a native species, their pollen and needles are eaten by black grouse. As each tree comes down, a space of thick needles and moss is revealed to the sunlight.
Large patches of bilberry, forced by the darkness into huge long strands peer miserably out of the gloom, and if I can restore even some areas of this valuable plant, the future of black grouse on the Chayne will start to look a little brighter. Black grouse eat heather and bilberry in equal parts to form their staple diet, and by clearing the trees, I am now in a position to provide them with enormous quantities of the latter. Here and there I see withered and decaying tufts of heather, a plant that is not so tolerant of permanent half light, and after some advice from an old gamekeeper, I am now toying with the idea of introducing some thick woodcock friendly undergrowth in the form of cotoneaster or, ideally, rhododendron.
In a recent edition of the BASC’s Shooting and Conservation Magazine, the editorial discussed woodcock habitat requirements. Apparently, the birds look for patchwork areas of mature trees, middle height shrubs or bushes and thick undergrowth in the form of brambles, bracken and drifts of dead leaves. Rhododendron provides excellent cover to a height of ten or twelve feet and it would happily grow on the acidic soil in the strip, but it is poisonous to sheep and should probably be managed very carefully to begin with. Thin out forty percent of the sitkas, replace them with half as many silver birch, larch and hazel and I might be looking at a recipe for success.
Raising the Solway Multi Larsen trap slightly off the ground should help on rough terrain.
Having found a good site for my Multi Larsen trap and left it to acclimatise for a few days, the next step is to catch a call bird. I have learned from bitter experience how potentially difficult this first stage can be, so I have been calling on every piece of advice to carry it out successfully and progress to the easier stages.
In my opinion, no matter how well you hide a Larsen trap, if it is in a good spot, crows will always find it. I like to make the trap look as though I have tried to completely conceal it, leaving a few obvious hints that will lead these intelligent birds to believe that they are getting “one up” on me by finding it. Maybe I read too many human characteristics into their thinking, but it always seems that crows are much more inclined to take something that they think you have tried to hide than they are to take bait left out in an obvious spot. Clearing a small area at the top of the pine strip, I heaped some brash in a loose circle around the trap site so that it was invisible to everything on ground level.
One disadvantage that I have found to the Solway Multi Larsen Trap is that the side entry door system relies on the ground being fairly open and level. If a crow shows interest in the bait, he will want to carry out a thorough inspection of the trap before he commits to entering it. It seems unlikely that a bird that is naturally fearful of enclosed spaces would be prepared to duck his head and enter by stepping down into a trap that is partially buried in vegetation. To make the trap seem a little bit more transparent and “above board”, I built a wooden rack to raise the trap nine inches off the ground. Thin wooden perches were installed on the rack so that the crow can jump up and down from ground level to carry out a complete inspection of the trap and the perches make it easy for him to hop inside and trigger the mechanism. These adaptations would not be important in any other environment, but it seemed that, where the ground is extremely rough and undulating, the side entry trap system would need a helping hand to get started.
On my way up to the Chayne, I collected a freshly killed rabbit from the verge of the main road and cut it into quarters. I left a hind leg on the roof of the trap, another on a nearby gatepost and I placed the remainder of the body in the largest catch compartment. In the time it took me to walk five hundred yards, build a simple style for the new heather enclosure and return, a fox took the leg from the gatepost. A telltale line of tufted fluff led off into a thick patch of trees, and I wished that I had kept an eye out with the .243. With so much vermin going around, it is simply a matter of time before the new trap starts to make an impact.
High-tailing it for cover before an onslaught of indignant sheep
Foxes must be on the farm all the time. The sheep get so accustomed to seeing those trotting red shapes that they scarcely even acknowledge them. However, things are changing. The sheep on the Chayne were scanned for pregnancies last week and they are becoming noticeably more confrontational as the lambing season approaches.
Walking back to the car after an excursion to inspect a bucket of ash tree saplings on the hill, my girlfriend and I saw a big dog fox trotting through the rushes, apparently without a care in the world. Stupidly, I was unarmed, but my girlfriend began to photograph him through a long lens. He sauntered towards a small group of sheep in a purposeless attempt to push them out of the way, but was somewhat horrified to find that they stood their ground. The foremost sheep stamped her foot and the fox stopped. He took another step towards her, but she stamped again and began to jog towards him. Others joined her, and in a second it was all over. The fox had been beaten and he lolloped away into a thick patch of rushes.
The scenario would have been very different if I had had my rifle, but sometimes it is more satisfying to simply remain unseen. It reminded me of a schools publicity campaign that I once saw about how, when you stand up to a bully, they turn out to be a coward through and through.
Job done. With a stand of heather "in the bank", I can start looking at jobs to do elsewhere.
At last it is finished! Three days work culminated this morning after the installation of one final strand of barbed wire. In theory, I now have a little under a quarter acre of stock proofed heather, defended from the marauding sheep and cows by an impenetrable grid of rylock sheep netting and heavy gauge barb. The grouse should have paired up and chosen their territories by now and this forgotten corner of their former domain will probably not be much use to them for a few years, but with a little area of heather to call my own, I can start to experiment with low growing moorland plants like heather, bilberry, mountain thyme and bog myrtle.
Speaking to the neighbouring farmer about black grouse a few months ago, he encouraged me by telling me that there were still one or two about on his farm as well. As an example, he told me how an adult cock bird had been found decapitated after flying into a stock fence around a new plantation of trees a mile or so up the valley. I have read that black grouse and capercaillie regularly do commit suicide by flying into new fences, and I am determined not to allow that to happen on the Chayne. Any bird flying at forty miles an hour just inches from the ground is always going to run the risk of crashing into an unexpected obstacle, and although I don’t anticipate heavy black grouse losses on my new fence, I would never forgive myself if I went back to visit in a few days and found a dead bird lying at the bottom of the wires.
To make the fence line visible, I cut an abandoned and moth-eaten kilt into two dozen eighteen inch long strips of blue tartan fabric. Dividing them up, I then tied one end of a strip to the barb and the other to the wire so that the obstacle is now well marked. The fabric flickers and rustles in the icy wind, but I hope that the birds and wildlife will soon get used to it.
As the spring comes on, I will start to plant out various specimens in the enclosure, and with this first task completed, I can relax for a while. I did notice, however that I now have sixty yards of sheep netting and a hundred of barbed wire left spare. Could these be the foundations for a new juniper wood in black grouse country?
Months after writing this article, I've finally taken a photo' of my own to accompany it.
Who would have thought it possible to call in a wild barn owl? I have called tawny owls at night with a rabbit squeaker before, but leaving the Chayne late yesterday evening, I heard the familiar hiss of a barn owl. We have two pairs living on the farm and it is always great to see them, particularly when they are hunting low over the tussocky grass around the abandoned barn. The call was a hundred yards away, but I returned it, more out of a desire to see if I could make a similar sound than to actually communicate with the bird. I tried twice, then turned on my way and walked a few yards further back to the car. Thirty yards behind me, the phlegmy screech sounded and I turned to peer into the gloom. It was too dark to see far, so I called again, bubbling the spit at the back of my mouth. Against the moon, just fifteen feet over my head, a ghostly pale silhouette drifted past and wheeled into the trees nearby. It was a magical moment, made all the stranger by the fact that all I had done to bring it about was to clear my throat.