RED DEER HUNTING IN GALICIAN FORESTS 
ing their own supplies and my dinner for the night we soon left the little 
village and ascended the low hills, here intersected by cattle paths and 
covered with large forests of spruce, sycamore, rowan and birch, with a 
few hazels and beech trees. The ground and steep banks were covered with 
raspberries and enormous fields of willow -weed that grew seven feet high 
in great masses, both being a favourite food of the red deer. In more 
secluded nooks were quantities of beautiful ferns of various species. Here 
and there were open spaces covered with long grass. In the open sunny 
glades the gorgeous Camberwell Beauty flitted over our heads, sailing 
along in stately beauty, whilst at intervals throughout the month I noticed, 
both in the higher Alps and lowland valleys, a few Red Admirals, Common 
Painted Lady, Brimstone, and Clouded Yellow butterflies. 
After a pleasant ride of five or six miles we plunged into a dense forest 
amidst noble spruces over 100 feet high, and came upon the little wooden 
kolibas which was to be our home for the next few days. 
The day was still young, and as Ivan showed his keenness to be off at 
once to the hills, we snatched a hurried lunch and proceeded up an old 
hunter road towards the Hungarian frontier. After rising a few hundred 
feet we diverted up a rough hill track and soon found ourselves on a small 
elevation commanding an extensive view of a heavily -wooded basin on 
the upper slopes of which dwelt a splendid twenty -pointer, well known to 
the hunter and many others who had unsuccessfully tried to stalk him in 
former years. We had been seated for about an hour in the blazing sun 
when a loud grunt emitted by the stag came towards us and imbued us 
with some hope that his majesty was about to call, but it was only a false 
hope. For the next three days, morning and evening, Ivan and I watched 
that slope and never heard another sound. After each long wait Ivan would 
spread his hands and lift his eyebrows in pathetic apology, as much as 
to say, “I can do no more. In such weather as this stalking is impossible.” 
The weather, in truth, was perfect for everything but stag-hunting. Day 
after day the sun rose and set in a blaze of glory and continued so for the 
rest of the season, much to our disappointment. We yawned on logs and 
sat and watched the birds, which were numerous and interesting, snoozed 
at midday on pleasant green alps, or wandered in the damp woods and 
watched the bathing -place of some great hart in the hope that he would 
come to enjoy a roll in the mud, but nothing happened. We heard no more 
sounds than the pipe of a Hungarian shepherd up in the forest tootling 
away at morn and eve to cheer his goats. On September 21 we moved 
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