I went to Foxes wood with the specific intention of finding out the name of the landowner to ask permission to use the wood. This was a good time as the harvest has been collected and the fields are being re-ploughed. I pulled up in front of the woods, and saw a tractor in the field opposite the woods. I walked into the field and waved. A stunted conversation followed (the driver was Portuguese) but I managed to find out the name of the land owner.

After a short drive I found myself in front of a manor house. I knocked on the open door. There was no-one about. The grounds were magnificent. Think of a period drama on TV with long drive, small lake, sculptured garden and you will have the archetypal English country house. “Anyone at home,” I called into the empty house, admiring the small grand piano in the hallway (the hallway no less!) No reply.
I walked round the back of the house. “Hello! Anyone at home.” An elderly gent came into view, stooping slightly but well dressed (standard mustard coloured waistcoat) and carrying a splendid cultured accent. “Hello there,” he said, with a beaming smile. I introduced myself. The conversation went roughly like this:
P: I understand you own Foxes wood.
Mr J: Yes, actually I do.
P: I was wondering if I you would permit me to have a look around. I’m interested in wildlife (…shall I mention Bushcraft? Would he understand?) … and things like that. (What an idiot! What do you mean, ‘and things like that!’)
Mr J: Oh really.
P: Yes. Tracking. I like tracking. Animals. Mammals.
Mr J: What do you do when you’ve tracked ‘em?
P: I just like to get close. In fact, I like to get as close as possible to nature in general. That’s what I do. (Embarrassed.)
Mr J: Splendid!! We like all that. That’s no problem, only it’s the pheasants. They need the quiet. Come back in February. Yes. We like all that. Splendid!!
… and off he went.
Well. That was a result. I suppose. I was on a roll. I decided to capitalise on the success and try my hand at Lowt’s wood. I walked through the wood keeping to the public track at the foot of the hill. I’ve always loved this wood, even though I don’t venture in there too often. There’s badger setts, deer tracks, open woodland, bluebells in the spring and a nice mix between ancient and new woodland. On the way out, I noticed a small dumper spreading chalk. I just knew this guy was a landowner. The standard yellow Labrador MK 1 gave it away. The conversation went like this:
P: Hello. Do you know who owns these woods?
Mr T: I do.
P: They’re wonderful woods.
(No reply)
P: I wondered if I could ask your permission to take a walk off the track and into the wood.
Mr T: If I gave you permission, I’d have to give everyone else permission. That’s the problem. Everyone seems to think they have the right to go where they want. It just won’t do you know.
P: Well, that’s the reason I’m asking your permission. I wouldn’t just walk onto someone else’s property. I agree that some people don’t respect the countryside, but I assure you, I do.
Mr T: … they think they can roam where they want …
P: That’s why I’m… I like to track animals, (pointing at my tracking stick).
Mr T: You don’t need equipment to follow the deer in there.
P: (Equipment? I’m getting nowhere here.) I can keep an eye on things and let you know if there’s something amiss.
Mr T: I’m at the top of the hill. The white cottage.
P: So that’s okay then?
Mr T: Now and again.
P: Many thanks, Sir. That’s a great looking dog you have there.
MrT: It’s a bastard.

He actually turned out to be an alright bloke. We chatted about the pH value of the ground and I nodded in all the right places before taking my leave and wishing him good-day. A couple of bottles of whisky won’t go amiss in both respects. A small price to pay methinks.

Pablo.