Fucking Scary, Me ....!

  I mean; Ye wouldn't want me after ye, in the woods. Not if I had a knife and you only had a gun. Ye'd have to be well on ye toes not to spend the last seconds of ye life wondering how the fuck I'd pulled That one off.

 I used to slip through the woods with bare feet, when I was a younger man. (Oh, alright. Fair enough; Much younger!) Padding about like some carnivorous 'WereDeer'. I could've slipped in and fucked ye shit up then.

 Just sort of grown to assume I was past all that now. Haven't done it in decades. Completely out of practice. Too fucking old to be playing 'Cowboys and Indians' with myself anyway.

  Till today. Had a crafty pint and a bit. Just sat there, on the grass of my compound. Orange Dog baking in the sun behind me. Watching my Starlings popping in and out of their box like the Changing of the Guard. Bliss.

 Then it struck me. I'm supposed to be Nest Recording for the BTO. Fine. Starlings duly recorded. Count their eggs any time. Now; What about Ducks and shit? That'd make a change. I wonder if there's any swans nesting on that lough over the way ....?

 Off I went. I was on a mission. Spring has sprung and the Old Feeling was stirring within me ..... Game On!

 That's how I came to find myself in the conifer plantation. Following a deer trail through this virgin place where the last man to set foot was probably the one who planted this shit. Seriously!

  I was in there just for a recce. Wondered if I might chance upon any hawks nests. But, I'm noting the deer foot prints (" Slots ") and shit as I sneak about. All senses on full alert.

 And that's when I realised it. The scraping of the back of my hat brim, against my shirt collar, was doing my fucking head in. It was so Loud! 

 Every time I paused and scanned the tree tops around me, there was this awful roar of felt brushing cotton.

 That's when I realised how absolutely silently I was moving. Through even the most ridiculously low and close cover. 

 Crispy carpet of deer broken branches under foot. Dry as dust. Yet, I was unconsciously placing my feet between each one.  

  I thought to myself then what a danger I could be placing myself in. If there was some 'farmer' in there, with a gun?

Catching a glimpse of me slipping so silently, like a shadow passing, about the place, he might think I was some wild creature and take a shot!

  That's when it occurred to me; " I'd fucking hate to have me after me, in here! I'd be fucking dangerous! Never hear myself coming. "

 I remember Jack Hargreaves once showing some old countrymen in some woods. He explained how, for all their knocking on a bit, these guys could still slip through a wood as silently as cats. Despite their hobnailed boots.

 And there's me. Steel toe capped whellies. Moving silently as a wraith. " Mr SAS ".

 You ever want a piece of me? Bring a gun. I'll lure ye into the woods. Then I'll Really fuck ye up ~ with just a knife.

  I haven't lost it. This geriatric Geronimo can still manage that Viet Nam  Stealth Walk  ;-)