23rd January 2008

The three hinds were passing outside the window again, moving easily & alert from east to west. They’re the same three I’ve been seeing at this hour of the early morning for a week or more. I’ve no real idea of the range of deer. I know they are hefted to a particular territory, but the size of the hill-ground, & in their case the bog, they consider theirs to occupy I can only guess at. I’ve seen them two miles from here to the east at dusk. They are easy to recognise, always three & one considerably smaller than the other two.

So this morning, giving a good half hour’s start so as not to alarm them in any way, I follow the three sisters (as I think of them). They’d outrun me & I mean them no harm, but I want to try to track them in their usual day’s routine. They need to cross the little road across the hill here, so I’m looking for their run, mindful that there are no sheep on the hill just now, so runs would be likely made by these three.

& there, where there’s the most shelter between the birches, leading from just beyond a stand of alders, is their line. I follow the meander of a path. They seem not to mind the boggy patches in hollows, which suck at my feet more than their small cloven hooves, though they must sink further, the way a high heeled woman would. But it makes the slots easier to follow, & the dark droppings here & there, show a regular route. I come across beaten down patches of bracken in dips, where they must overnight sometimes.
Sometimes a bite has been taken from a low fraughan, blueberry. The track’s leading up in a spiralling kind of way, west & up. The going is colder & rockier & of course I lose the track. Not before, however, working out that their only route needs to be to head back eastward round the curve of hill; that or walk off into the ocean.

Deer do seem to enjoy mooching on the sands here & there. I’ve seen them often enough, not browsing the sea’s weeds like the sheep, but rather contemplating waves. But here there’s no sand, just drops from the rocks.
I’ve travelled only maybe a mile and a half & not very high, but the direction suggests that they will head back to where I see them at dusk, keeping the sea to their left, circumambulating the hill to make for the lower bog & the degree or so extra warmth & the shelter it brings. They’ll be slowing down a little, with the calf each carries, half way through the gestation period, maybe not too picky about food, a little hungry; but nevertheless their occupancy of this limited stretch of hill & bog, bounded by the Atlantic, would seem to make a walk-round of about eight miles, taking in some three thousand acres of homeland, if my calculations are correct.

With the coverage of trees & rocks, with their ability to see & catch scent of me, their autumn bracken colouring & wariness, it’s no surprise that I see their traces more often than their presence.