As a follow-up to Russell Edwards’ excellent article about sitting still and letting the wildlife come to you (White Admiral 65) I can relate a memorable evening watching fallow deer at Nacton.

It was in October, during the rut, and I was sitting up an old oak tree which overlooked a bracken-surrounded clearing that was a traditional rutting stand, where the master buck would pick out the receptive does and pursue them noisily through the undergrowth, eventually mating somewhere deep in cover.

On this evening there was a full moon obscured by cloud but with enough light for me to see a buck approach three does and a fawn, pick out one of the does and slowly begin his pursuit. They moved towards a large bough of oak torn off in a recent gale lying with its thickest limb on the ground and two longer branches curved upwards roughly in the shape of a cupped hand. There was a large gap in the centre. I watched the buck lower his antlers and carefully thread a path through the branches into the gap, then out the other side. I suddenly realised that the doe was moving too, slowly and gracefully, matching his pace but outside the fallen bough so that at the end of their respective circuits they faced each other on different sides of the bough. It was almost like a country dance. I assumed the whole sequence was just coincidence but then they repeated all the moves, and again a third and fourth time, the two dark bodies momentarily fusing as they passed by. There was no distracting sound, no scrape of hoof on grass, antler on wood. The buck did not groan, and the doe made none of the low whickering that usually accompanies pursuit. I realised that I did not want the moon to break through and flood the scene with light; it was best in half light, dark and mysterious.

On the fifth circuit it all suddenly changed. The buck moved close to his partner, his nose to her tail to assess from her scent whether she was ready to mate, behaviour known as flehmen. Then they were alongside each other and the doe ran off, followed by the buck. Loud crashing noises came from the bracken followed by the soft whinnying of the doe and bursts of deep groans from the buck. After the consummation there was silence. I leapt down to the ground and left, not wishing to shatter the magical experience.

I have not found a record of such mating behaviour in any book. Perhaps the presence of the large bough was a catalyst. Or was this just a variation on a theme never witnessed before? Whatever the cause, it was an unforgettable sight, particularly at that atmospheric time of day.