Uncalled for behaviour: what happens when roe deer calling goes wrong

By any measure, British imperial or French metric, my first solo attempt at deer calling was not exactly a success. It was during a family summer holiday in a remote part of France and achieved the dual outcomes of irritating my wife and traumatising the local roe population.

A few days before our departure for France, I’d been given a Buttolo Blatter caller for my birthday. This bulbous black device emits high-pitched noises intended to replicate the calls of distressed young or overly put-upon does. I opened this present with excitement, but it only took two or three peeps for the novelty to wear off for my wife, Sarah. When I revealed it would be coming on holiday with us, she looked displeased. “I hope you’re not going to ruin the peace with that thing,” she said.

Woods full of roe deer

Sarah had researched and booked a little gîte in unspoilt countryside east of Poitiers. “It’s in the woods,” she’d said, trying to pique my interest, “and the woods are full of deer.”

The place, when we arrived, did not disappoint. After the hot hubbub of late July London, it seemed almost supernatural in its tranquillity. It was a remote private hamlet of cottages and stone barns that had once housed the workers of a long-defunct country estate. For a family of jaded, road-weary urbanites, it was exactly what we needed. Being the only guests, we quickly adapted to the peace and pace of life in ultra-rural France.

The main house had a swimming pool, which was ours to use. It featured a wide terrace with sun loungers, plus one other strong attraction. “C’est ici, we see le chevreuil in the evening,” said our elderly landlady. The pool terrace was built on a mound beside a triangular field that was bordered on two sides by woodland. The roe deer, Madame informed me proudly, would often emerge into the field at dusk, even if people were splashing about in the pool.

Roe deer unfazed by the swimming pool

We did not have long to wait. They appeared a good while before dusk at a time when there was still some heat in the day. There was shade on one side of the field and two does stepped out to browse for a while before lying down. They were 200m away, unfazed by the human activity around the house, completely at peace and content. In the far corner of the field, a young buck mooched about, paying the does little attention. I watched them for a moment and then announced I was going to get my caller. Sarah’s eyes rolled as I trotted off.

This was to be the first time I had attempted deer calling myself, but I was not entirely uninitiated. A week before our departure for France I’d been out stalking roebucks in Hampshire with my friend Martin. We’d put the date in the diary months earlier, when we’d anticipated a late-July rut.

“The fields will have been harvested, the sun will be out and the bucks will be gallivanting everywhere,” Martin had predicted, only half joking. In the event, the weather that evening had threatened rain and the fields had not been cut. When I asked about the gallivanting, Martin had looked sheepish. “I’ve hardly seen any deer activity over the past week,” he told me.

Despite that warning, we’d come across a courting roe couple almost immediately. Martin whispered that the handsome buck was one to leave, but we still watched them closely. From their behaviour it was apparent that, when it came to the rut, we were close – but no cigar.

Half an hour later, within a minute of clambering into a high seat, we’d seen a second buck. This youngster was picking his way across an area of recently cleared woodland. He was small and a little thin, with poorly formed antlers – a perfect cull beast.

Why hesitation does not pay when stalking

I was almost disappointed that he’d appeared without the need for calling. I considered asking Martin to use his Hubertus caller anyway, just to see what happened. But experience had taught me that when stalking, opportunities must be grasped; hesitation doesn’t pay. The buck presented me with a perfect stationary broadside at 80m, so I levelled my Mauser M12 rifle and took the shot.

With the animal gralloched, Martin and I headed off on foot to try some calling. He told me we would find a likely spot, where we would stop and let everything settle down for a bit before calling. He warned me not to get my hopes up too much, as the rut was not yet upon us.

We were unsuccessful. The still of that warm evening passed undisturbed by amorous roebucks rushing in to investigate an irresistible noise. And now, as I walked back towards the pool, I tried to remember the sounds that Martin had been making with his cherrywood caller, wondering how I could recreate them with my Buttolo.

This would be a bloodless event, as I’d left my rifle at home in the UK. But I hoped the roe would hear my call and come towards me. If nothing else, I’d get a good look at them. I knew that extraneous calling is frowned upon as it educates the deer, but given that no one would be hunting these animals I didn’t think it could hurt. I also knew that calling requires a level of skill I patently did not have, but as I stepped back onto the swimming pool terrace, I found myself thinking; how hard can it possibly be?

One peep and the roe were gone

The scene was as I’d left it; the three roe carefree and calm in the late afternoon sunshine. All that was about to change.

Peeep, peep, PEEEEEP!

It was as if I’d let off a firework in the field. The does were immediately on their feet, looking directly at me with all the appearance of considerable discombobulation. I had the buck’s attention, too. To start with, he appeared more curious than disconcerted; his head swinging about, ears pricked. For a moment I hoped he might approach, but then he looked over towards the does, who were bolting for the woods. Taking the hint, the buck immediately performed his own disappearing act. Where five seconds earlier there had been three roe deer making up a classical pastoral scene, now there was nothing but little clouds of dust.

I went into the woods at dusk the following evening with my caller, or my “squeaky toy” as Sarah had started calling it. I saw nothing. Deer calling is an art and a science. As a stalker, one improves with time, patience and practice and I’m a little better at it these days. But I learned an important lesson on day one – get it wrong and it can have exactly the opposite effect to the one that’s intended.

“C’est très mystérieux,” said Madame. The roe had not been seen now for four days. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I’d caused them to run for the hills with some laughably amateurish calling. “I’m sure they’ll be back soon,” I muttered. We stood in silence watching the empty woods, then she moved off without another word. I never saw her deer again.