With a free pass to go fishing, while my wife went into town shopping, I arrived before 10 am at the Farnham AS Yately complex to fish the river Blackwater this week, driving the van to the eastern side of the carpark, which is bordered by the river. There are a couple of deep swims here, ideal for trotting a stick float, where along with quality roach and dace, there is a good chance of a chub, or even a barbel. The other bonus is that it is less than a hundred yards to the river. Judging by the number of cars in the car park, I had been beaten to it and walking the bank confirmed my fear, both swims occupied by anglers fishing “The Meat” on feeder rods. What a waste of good stick float swims.

Back in the van, I now drove to the upstream end of the carpark and unloaded my fishing gear ready for the quarter mile walk to my next swim, another deep run, where the river is restricted in width. Not many anglers venture this far, preferring to fish close to their vehicles and the path narrowed the further I ventured along it. Looking out for the swim proved impossible, as mature stands of Himalayan Balsam crowded out the open banks.

I think that the swim is in there somewhere, but was not prepared to start hacking through this jungle. I have only fished this area in the autumn, when the balsam has died back, leaving a clear bank. Continuing up the path, brambles were now restricting the width, snagging the wheel axles of my trolley as I searched for a suitable swim. They were either choked with streamer weed in the open and covered with more balsam, or clear of weed, but shrouded with trees with no casting room overhead. Finally I reached the top of the stretch, where a fence crosses the river. I turned around and headed back, finding a gap in the trees wide enough to cast. This would have to do. It was now gone 11 am and wanted to be on my way by 2 pm.

The river is very low and clear at the moment, our part of England is in near drought conditions, whereas the West and North of the country have had more than their share of heavy rain for weeks. I could see the bottom right across, the main flow passing down a channel only twenty inches deep, but this did not put me off, some of my most successful stickfloat sessions recently coming from equally shallow swims.

I started off by lobbing a compressed ball of liquidised bread into the channel, to watch it break up in the flow and hopefully be attacked by fish as it sank, but it was soon gone in the shadows. Setting a 4 No 6 bodied stick float just over depth, I punched out a 5mm pellet of bread for the size 16 hook and followed the feed down. The float shot under and the first of several very small chub were hooked and released. Finally getting a keeper.

I put in another ball to help feed off the minichub and went up to a 6mm punch, watching the float travel further downstream before it disappeared, the twelve foot Hardy rod taking on a bend as the fish broke surface on the strike. It was a better chub, but not big enough to cause problems and on its side by the time it reached the landing net.

More small chub followed from much further down the swim and I damped down the bread to form tighter balls of feed in an attempt to bring the fish closer. Dip, dip, sink, the float was under and a roach was putting a bend in the rod again, reeling back slowly to the net.

I had gone deeper again for the roach, letting the line pull off the reel, allowing the bread to swing in the current, hoping for one of the big Blackwater dace, but was surprised by the solid pull of a perch, its black stripes clearly visible.

Perch aren’t supposed to take bread, but here was one yet again, this ending up being the largest and the first of three that took down the middle. No doubt there were a lot more there, if I was a maggot drowner, there would have been a netful.

A cool wind was now blowing hard downstream and across, causing a bow to form in the line and dragging the float off line into shallower water, so I called a halt, getting out my tea and sandwiches, while I changed rigs for a heavier 4 No 4 float, that allowed me to mend the bow in the line back to it.

Fifteen yards down the swim, I picked up another nice roach, but by now I would have expected a lot more bites, including some dace. It was very slow going, often the bread still on the hook at the end of a long trot. Another roach got my hopes up that I was doing something right, this was the last of a trio.

The bites were now coming from twenty yards down the swim ahead of a weedbed and difficult to see, often the shadow of an expanding ring, where the float had been, the only indication. I could not move closer due to the overhead trees, so stuck it out for a little longer, hooking a small chub.

With the bread in my tray in need of topping up, I decided to pack up early, ready for the long trek back to the van.

Not much to show for over two hours fishing. Next time I will bring some worms for the perch. The highlight of the session for me being my spicy chicken and ham sandwiches.

On the way back, I located my deep swim among the Himalayan Balsam, leaving it undisturbed in the hope that it will be unoccupied on my next visit.

 

 

Staying at Diamond Farm Touring Park beside the River Axe for a second night, I had intended a longer fishing session, than the two hour tryout the evening before, but a bus trip to Burnham on Sea and a late afternoon meal at the Park’s restaurant ruled out that idea. To prove to myself that the previous evening’s catch was not a fluke, I decided to try a swim much further along the river, climbing down the bank between bramble bushes that hung over the water.

Like the evening before, the wind was howling along the river upstream, although close in was in the lea of the bank. Plumbing the depth I found a foot less water, 3 feet dropping to 4 feet a dozen feet out. Shallowing up on my 16 x 4 rig, I started off with a 5 mm pellet of punched bread on the size 16 hook, feeding an initial ball of feed inside and another over the drop off.

Being shallower, there was more pace on the river and after 10 trots without a bite, I fed a couple more balls of liquidised bread further upstream on both lines, dropping the float into the cloud on the inside. The float went straight down and I was playing a nice roach.

That extra feed switched them on, a better roach diving away with the bait, pulling out the elastic.

The next cast struck into a decent roach-bream hybrid that fought slow and deep at first, before exploding into life, stretching out the elastic with a powerful downstream run.

A small ball of feed was dropped in followed by the float, which disappeared in seconds and another quality roach fought for freedom.

Yet another hybrid. Having the depth of a bream and the thickness of a roach, these fish fight harder than either individual species, testing the hook hold at every turn.

A sliding bite, like a rudd, turned out to be the first of several skimmer bream.

This one WAS a rudd.

This skimmer gave me an old fashioned lift bite, striking when half the float body lifted up, a delay in the hook going home telling me that there may be others well off the bottom. Shallowing up by 6 inches, I dropped in again and the float dived with a clonker roach, that took some getting into the landing net.

The float popped up again as the bulk shot was lifted by a fish and I was playing a definite skimmer, the silver flash of its flank, each time it rolled beneath the surface, giving the game away, steady pressure guiding it to the net.

I love catching skimmer bream, when I was a kid, my local canal was full of them, a porcupine quill float and a piece of crust, torn from a loaf, on a size 12 hook accounting for many of these slimy beauties.

The roach had been pushed off the feed by the skimmers and I was happy to take advantage, netting a few more, before this slimy individual.

I had fed again, after netting the this last fish and dropped into the sinking cloud, again the float lifted and I was into something big, that just sat there, bending the pole and holding out the elastic. Then it woke up, heading up and away from the bank in a sudden spurt of power. Twice I had it close to the landing net, but each time it swam under it, into open water, the dull bronze flash of a big bream visible, when it rolled. The elastic was too light to lift the weight of the bream into the net and watched it swim round for another pass of the net this time on its side. Just right, but no it turned again and headed downstream, with the elastic stretching out, kiting out across the flow, its deep body acting like a sail. Ping! The hook came out. It was gone. My hooklink and weights were one mass of slime, unusable.

It was close to 8 pm again, almost two hours fishing. The 5mm punch had worked all evening, the fish happy to suck in the bread particles, some with my hook in. Sometimes I caught hard on the bottom, at other times around mid water. It had been an interesting evening, at one time I had a family watching from the bank above “Look he’s got another one!” I had learned a small amount about the Axe, and wondered if the wind had not been so strong, the long pole would have found a regular supply of the larger bream. Maybe another day.

A 6 lb net.

 

 

 

 

The Somerset River Axe was an unknown quantity to me until this week, when I booked into Diamond Touring Park for a couple of nights, before the Bank Holiday weekend. With the electric hook-up pitches already occupied, my wife and I were allocated a spot alongside the river, which to me was perfect, but for my non fishing better half, not ideal. Fishing for guests is free, but information on the prospects are non existent. At the Park reception, when asked about the fishing, all I got was, people fish it and they catch fish!

Arriving in the afternoon, a side stream was already occupied with people fishing, maggots providing a mix of small rudd and roach on the pole, while another fishing the feeder into the main river had several small eels and a couple of roach. I intended fishing the main river on the bread punch, my usual method.

The River Axe enters the tidal stretch at the Brean Sluice here, two miles from the sea.

In total there is about a 1,000 yards of the west bank available, although brambles restricted access to much of the river, which was a approached with caution down a steep slope. I chose a swim close to my campervan, where a board had been left in position by a considerate angler.

Travelling light, I had selected a few bits and pieces from my tacklebox, pole winders, punches, disgorgers, spare hooks and line, placing them into an old plastic toolbox, that had been kicking around the garage for years, happy to give it a new lease of life.

First step was to plumb the depth, finding four feet dropping away to five only a few metres out. Feeding a couple balls of liquidised bread over the shelf and a couple close in, I was able to judge the rate of flow, which was steady, although a strong upstream wind gave the impression of it flowing in the opposite direction.

With a size 16 hook to my 16 x 4 antenna float, I started off at four feet close in using a 5mm punch. Bulking the shot 18 inches from the hook helped the float carry downstream against the opposite drift, my first bite coming second trot, diving out of sight and a 4 inch dace coming to hand. A dace from a Somerset Levels drain, I was surprised, but then close to the source of the Axe at Wookey Hole, it is a trout stream, so a fish from a fast flowing river was bound to end up here. After five bites and three more dace, I scaled up to a 6 mm punch and cast along the drop off, the float burying again and the elastic coming out of the pole tip. It felt like good skimmer bream and a flash of silver in the coloured water confirmed it. The net was out and I pulled the skimmer across the surface toward it, only for a fatal roll and a lost fish. Rebaiting and following another feed ball, the float buried again and I was playing a nice roach.

In again, the float sank to a slightly smaller roach. The wind was difficult and I had to almost pull the float downstream, a few dips among the waves of the antenna warning of submersion. The elastic was out again and I had a fight on my hands, the fish running out, then to the sides, following, letting the elastic do the work.

What a beauty, the bread punch certainly attracts the better fish. The next cast along the drop off saw the float sail away and the No. 6 elastic following another hard fighting roach, taking my time to slide it over the landing net.

I tried another two metres of pole to fish over into the deeper water, but the wind made controlling the float impossible, as the pole was blown around, so it was back to four metres. The change back resulted in another strike, this time a small skimmer bream adding to the tally.

Adding another small ball of feed kept the fish lined up on the bottom, waiting for my 6 mm pellet of bread to fall through, small rudd often intercepting the bait meant for larger fish.

Feeding a yard upstream, the hotspot was out in front, a cast swinging the float out downstream, then pulling the float back, often brought an immediate bite.

Another nice roach, followed to the net by a second skimmer.

The river Axe is obviously full of quality roach, that had homed in on the bread.

After an hour I had punched my way through a square of bread, getting out another to start the next. I had fed less than a pint of liquised bread at this stage and was trying not to overfeed, keeping the fish hungry for more.

A small, but fat chub added to the variety of species, yet another flowing river fish.

A quality roach again, who says the bread punch is only fit for small fish on winter canals?

As if to disprove the above statement, an elastic stretching skimmer was next in the net.

The roach seemed to be getting bigger with each cast.

As did the skimmer bream.

I think that this was a roach bream hybrid, it had the anal fin of a bream, but was broad in the shoulder like a roach. Whatever it was, it fought like the clappers, darting from one side to the other, pulling out the elastic with each run.

This skimmer showed signs of an attack of some kind, be it from a bird, animal, or a fish, but its fighting qualities were not affected.

This was my last roach of the evening, coming to the net at 8 pm on the dot, my wife’s curfew time. Two hour’s fishing and no more. The wind had got up and the temperature had dropped. We had only packed summer clothes, believing the weatherman that sweltering weather was returning. Not today it wasn’t. My wife was soon on the skyline, coming to make sure that I stuck to my word.

The evening had proved a steep learning curve on a new river, 6 lb of fish in two hours, not bad for a first visit.

 

A mile from my chosen venue this week, Farnham AS water, King’s Pond, my way was blocked by a Road Closed sign, while a large yellow Diversion arrow pointed at a right angle away to the west. I am not familiar with the area and on my previous couple of visits last year used a Sat Nav to find it. I dutifully turned the van into the unknown, along narrow housing estate roads crowded with parked cars, until I reached a T junction and diverted left, across a roundabout signed Farnham. I don’t want go to Farnham! Diverted left again along another narrow road, I drove past the fishery entrance, having to drive into a side road, complete a 6 point turn and return. By now my blood pressure was at dangerous levels and once parked needed a cup of tea to settle down.

The clouds of earlier had gone and the midday sun brought sweat to my brow as I pulled the trolley  to the pond, my attitude not helped by the angler in the first peg. “How is it fishing?” Answer. “Rubbish. That rain yesterday killed it!” He was using banded pellets and had only had a few crucians since 6 am. The next angler had a similar story. Choosing a peg further along, I set up a pole and plumbed the depth, finding a drop off six feet out sloping from three feet to four.

Last season I did well here on the bread punch, but for today had decided to try a wet mix of bread crumb, ground carp pellets and 2 mm krill pellets. On the hook and as loose feed, I was going to try some soft 4 mm crab krill pellets. As a backup I had my trusty bread punch and some finely liquidised bread.

While mixing up the feed, I cast a 6 mm bread pellet over the shelf, keeping my eye on it, expecting the float to glide away at any moment with a small roach. It did not move. The wind was blowing from behind and across to the left, so I put four balls of my mix to the left, over the drop off and a metre further out, where I could hold the antenna float back against the drift. I pushed the size 16 hook through a 4 mm soft pellet and cast in over the feed. The float bobbed and vanished, the elastic streaming from my pole tip as I lifted. The elastic stretched out toward the far side in a straight line, then pinged back. I assumed that it was a carp, but will never know.

Encouraged, I cast over the feed again with the soft pellet, but all I got were taps and bobs. Within 15 minutes, tiny bubbles were rising over the feed, again no positive bites, then the float sank. Resistance, then a dead weight as I lifted a signal crayfish off the bottom, swinging it onto the grass, where it received the Last Rights from a bank stick. I got my hook back. More bobs and bumps, but no fish. Each cast had followed a small ball of feed and the bubbles were still rising from the bottom. I tried bread punch again and this time the float sank slowly. A fish! Only a small roach. Back to the pellet, more half takes and missed bites. Bread punch again, a small roach. After an hour I had three small roach. My “special” mix was now on the bottom and the soft pellets were not working.

Reaching into my bait bag, I brought out some very fine liquidised bread and changed pole rigs for a lighter antenna float with an size 18 hook. The tench and crucians were not playing ball with the pellets, so with nothing to lose, I went for the roach with a 5 mm pellet of bread. I dropped a small ball of bread over the shelf to my right and cast the new rig through the cloud. The float cocked and sank. Surprise, the elastic came out as a good roach pulled away down the swim. I netted it.

Wow. Instant gratification. I repeated the action, casting into the cloud. The float bobbed then dived. I was into a good fish, the pole bending as the elastic was pulled out, the rolling, diving fight letting me know that it was a tench before I saw it.

Next cast a different fight again, a solid straight run from a small perch. They are not supposed to take bread, but this one did.

A different fight again, this one had to be a crucian carp, the way it bounced the pole top, a gold flash in the sun, proved me right.

What a turnaround. I had tried pellets like everybody else, but if I had stuck to the punch from the start,  I probably would have done better. My next cast saw the float bob several times, then hold down. Only using the top three sections of pole, it again bent double into a large fish that fought from left to right and back again, the flash of gold the size of a dinner plate. The size 18 barbless hook held and I netted this beaut.

A two pound crucian glinting in the sun

Time for a cup of tea and a sandwich. It had been a hectic half hour and in the bright sunshine I was beginning to flag. Another ball of fine crumb went in, followed by the float. Bob, bob, hold under, strike and I was in again, a smaller tench taking out elastic, but soon beaten.

This was now one a chuck. A couple more roach, then this hard fighting crucian.

Some of the roach were better than average, but it was the the crucians that I came for. Fishing into the cloud, the bites were quite aggressive although hard to hit, rapid stabs of the float, but no sail aways.

A round chunky crucian, that had blown the punch up the line, this one around the pound mark.

The wind was now getting up, driving rain across he pond and I scrabbled for my hoodie, the shower gone before I had my jacket on. A fresh cast saw the float dip long enough to strike, followed by the crucian above going into my net.

The final crucian of the day, I had run out of the fine liquidised bread and it was time to go, before the traffic built up.

I had been determined to give the soft pellets a good go, but after an hour, they had failed to hook a single fish, despite evidence of feeding fish. The introduction of the fine liquidised bread seemed to switch the fish on and I ended up with a decent net after three hours.

King’s pond is part of the Badshot Lea complex and it backs onto Big Pond along a causeway. Behind me was a proper carp angler, bivvy and all the gear. He had popped over for a chat a few times and had come over again to see my fish before I put them back, when his bite alarm went off. Going back to his rod, he lifted into a large carp, playing it back to his swim, where he netted it in his cavernous landing net.

I suggested it was at least 20 lbs. “No, its just a decent double” He returned it without even a photo. He then got out his phone to show me the 32 lbs common that he caught there in February this year. Different strokes for different folks.

 

 

 

 

 

The arrival of a new reel of Drennan Float Fish line in 3.2 breaking strain was eagerly awaited this week to replace the old 2.6 B.S Bayer-Perlon on my ABU 501 match reel. On my last outing, a tangle had  reduced its length, the line was no longer running off the spool freely, so an update was required. Online reviews were good for the Float Fish line, being supple and free floating, while at 0.16mm the 3.2 lb Drennan line was the same diameter as my old Bayer 2.6 B.S. The line dropped through the letter box in the afternoon post and I was quick to load it onto the 501. A light olive colour, even this was similar to the Bayer line.

Any excuse to fish, bread bait and feed were soon out of the freezer and I was on my way to the river Blackwater ten miles away. Black clouds were gathering as I walked to a new swim, literally spending ten minutes hacking down stinging nettles to clear a fishing spot, as heavy raindrops began to cover the surface of the river. The shower was brief and refreshing in the humid air, just a fine drizzle remaining by 3:30 pm as I made my first cast.

This river is very shallow and I set my small 3 No 6 bodied stick float to just 18 inches deep to trot towards the bridge. The bottom is visible right across and following the first cloud of liquidised bread down, the float dipped and held under, the flash of a small roach indicating my first fish. The line was performing better than expected, considering the very light float, it pulling free of the reel spool without snagging.

Next trot, the float held down and I was playing a plump chub back upstream. I saw a pike dart across to the chub from cover along the opposite bank and raised the rod to draw the chub away, lifting it clear at my feet, leaving the 5 lb pike staring at the bank.

I prodded at the pike with my landing net and it turned to swim back over to the the other side. The pike returned and grabbed a small roach that I was playing, swimming back over, then letting go, but chasing the roach as I rushed it back to my side.

It began to rain again and I was already considering packing up, or moving. Unable to safely secure my tackle box on the steep bank, I was sitting on the bank with my feet resting on a narrow shelf, which was slowly eroding down toward the river and I was constantly shifting my weight to stay seated. Not ideal.

The pike took a small chub and charged off downstream, bending my 12 foot Hardy to the butt as I backwound the reel. This was the last straw, the size 16 hook holding firm in the pike’s jaw, while the chub dangled from the side, watching it swim by, as I now switched the rod to pull back down river. It lay motionless mid river and my attempts to jerk the hook free failed, causing the pike to retreat to the far side again. Pointing the rod at the pike, I pulled the line tight with my hand for a break. It obliged with a spurt away and the hook pulled free, complete with the now dead chub, which I threw back to the pike, last seen heading upstream.

I fed another couple of balls of bread in close, to keep the fish on  my side of the river, hooking a golden rudd, which I swung in.

The new Drennan line was working well, lifting easily to mend the line behind the float and setting the hook into a better roach.

The roach were lining up and getting bigger, the fish invisible until the hook was set.

The bites were very delicate, the float dipping and holding, then sinking slowly. Too early a strike usually resulted in a lost fish after a brief fight, too long could see the bait gone. I varied between 5 and 7 mm punches, the 5 mm on the size 16 hooking more fish, although the larger bait attracted better roach.

I was surprised that there were no dace in the swim, as my previous visits have had the dace going mad for the bread, juddering and jarring the float as they attacked the bait, often hooking themselves. Today was a much more sedate affair, another shy biting roach coming to the net.

This was the last decent roach, the pike attacking another as I played it back, coming off when I tried to hurry it in. A swirl down stream may have been the end of that roach. For me this too was the end of the roach, the pike had put them down. I scraped out a few more small chub and packed up at 6 pm.

The aim of the session was to test out my new line, which I felt it passed with flying colours. On the stickfloat, with a closed faced reel like the ABU 501, you want the line to be soft enough to coil off the spool, yet stiff enough to be able to mend the line back to the float. Allowing a bow in the line to develope, drags the float to one side, or worse speeds it downstream, which looks unnatural to the fish and no bites. I have said before, stick float fishing is becoming a lost art, which many today do not try, content to lob out a feeder on the bottom and wait for bites, while a good stickfloat man can entice the fish to his hook.

I arrived at one of my shooting permissions on a warm evening to find that the hay had been cut, but not gathered in this week and opted for a walk round with my Magtech 7002 semi auto .22. The paddocks were still waist high with grass and cow parsley, as I walked along the farm lane toward the open fields, with little chance of spotting a wayward rabbit.

Approaching the old shed, a pair of rabbits crossed the path from the paddock and ducked down beneath the building, leaving me only enough time to raise the rifle before they were gone. I was aware now of another rabbit in the long grass beside the shed, again too late as it turned and hopped to safety. The gravel under foot probably sounds like thunder through bunny ears. They knew I was coming well in advance and I was not ready, thinking only of the area beyond. I reproached myself for my lack of fieldcraft, a stealthy creep along the edge, would have accounted for at least one of these big rabbits, I told myself.

On my last visit, the farmer’s son had filled in the burrows around the shed, but now they were scraped out again, evidence of a very active warren and as I rounded the building, rifle raised, I caught sight of brown fur disappearing round the back, with no sign when I reached the point. Hide and Seek.

Continuing along the path, through the gate, a rabbit pushed noisily through long grass into the safety of a patch of brambles, without offering a shot. I reached the cut field and waited by the next gate, where I had a clear view along the edge. Three rabbits were out between eighty and a hundred yards away, well out of range of the Magtech, with no cover in between. I decided to go back to the van for the HMR, but to stop first at the gatepost, where a bush gave cover back to the shed thirty yards away. The evening sun was still hot and the shed offered shade and green grass. Ten minutes into my wait, a rabbit appeared like magic beside the shed and hopped into the open. Resting the rifle on the gatepost, the muted pop from the silencer toppled the rabbit, the Winchester 42 grain subsonic bullet hitting home with a loud thud, that flushed out another feeding in the shade on my side of the path. It ran out, then back into the cover of the paddock, before I could get a bead on it.

 

A pair of rabbits appeared at the far end of the shed and chased in circles, not offering a shot, but keeping me busy with anticipation, spraying bullets at them may have struck lucky, but experience said not and I watched them eventually skip off in the opposite direction into another paddock.

Some minutes later the flushed out rabbit ventured back out and began feeding a yard away from the first. A dead rabbit does not seem to phase them. In the past I have picked off three, or four rabbits at long range with the HMR, continuing to feed, until they too were shot. At thirty yards this was a gift, the scope zeroed to this range giving a clear head shot.

The sun had now gone behind the trees and the area was in deep shadow. After 15 minutes there were no more offers and went forward and picked up these two big adults destined for more bunny burgers and pasties.

 

 

A warm dry evening saw me back at the pylon warren, that I visited a few weeks ago. Haymaking has still not begun on this field and the previously cut grass has grown another inch or two following recent heavy rain. I was a little late, due to getting stuck in theme park traffic and the sun was already behind the trees.

Driving past the pylon I could see no rabbits out, but was prepared to wait, positioning myself about 60 yards from the warren with the HMR raised up a couple of inches on the bipod in an attempt to see over the grass.

The light was already fading, but I could see a set of ears twitching beyond a clump of grass another ten yards on. Too ill defined, the shot was not on. It obliged and trotted off, white tail bobbing, but stopped in even deeper grass. As I scanned the area, the brown shape of a closer rabbit passed across the scope and I followed it, only again to stop in deep grass, the tips of its ears twitching as it munched away. I clicked my tongue a couple of times and it looked up. I took the shot. Missed it. Turning back to the pylon, the rabbit stopped short, head and ears visible. I fired as it jumped forward again. Missed it!

Ten minutes later another rabbit hopped into the clearing and stopped. I didn’t miss this one. The light was now going fast as a dark shape crept round my side of the pylon. Masked by the greenery, it was barely visible and I waited for a better shot, which never happened, the rabbit slinking back to where it came from. This was frustrating, but was rewarded minutes later, when another bound into view from the blind side of the pylon, knocking it down with a snap shot. I had been on station for an hour, seen five and shot only two, it was now 8:15 pm and raised myself to go, however, from this higher position I could now see another feeding rabbit. Keeping my eye on the shape, I dropped down again, aligning the cross hairs below the just visible ears, the impact of the .17 bullet flipping the rabbit over.

Extremes of weather, too hot, then too wet, had kept me away from this productive warren and all the time the grass grows longer.