Hi red, just posted this on my blog and thought you might like to read it. Had a lovely days shooting and know some of your readers are interested in the countryside.
Hope you dont mind if i post this here, let me know.
I wake up early, too early infact. Its still very dark outside. But on a shoot day i can barely contain my excitement. I get up and put the kettle on, get some bacon on the grill and get washed and ready. Dammnit, my prize shooting shirt is in the dirty laundry. Nevermind, hand wash quickly and setup an ingenious way of mounting the hairdryer on the desk to facilitate speedy drying of said garment. I check the gun (cleaned and checked night before obv) and get all my kit together. Shit i didnt get cartridges, no worries, my old man said he would sort that out. Ring my mate Matt, one of my oldest and best freinds, who i got into shooting and fishing when we were both very young and who has spent many days out with me pissing about doing something in the field or stream. Hes on his way and will be here soon. On this shoot me and my father share a gun, as it is our 1st year on a new shoot we wanted to try it out before investing a substantial sum of money and finding out the guns were assholes/ the shoot not up to our standards (in terms of etiquette, not numbers or height of birds i should add). Matt is beating for us today along with another good mate of mine Paul, there is a rule where you must bring at least one beater per gun, and these two love it.
Once shirt is dry, get dressed, some nice moleskin trousers, fave shirt and i dont think ill wear a tie today. Look outside, looks sunny, i think ill wear an old barbour waitcoat i have opposed to the longsleeve jobbie, ill be roasting after walking a few miles. The boys turn up, almost simultaneously, i get them both a quick bacon sarnie and cup or tea while we natter for a bit and they have a fag. Right, all set, into pauls old pickup and we are off. We meet the rest of our party at a little cafe in hertfordshire, place looks so out of sorts with the rest of the street at 8am, dogs, kids, odd hats and cigars and even port being handed around while copious amounts of sausages and eggs are being wolfed. My Dad is there too, along with my youngest brother Daniel who's beating too. I dont get on with my dads wife, but ill always have time for Daniel, who has so much enthusiasm and class you wouldnt believe he was 10. After half hour or so and we move on to a nearby coachyard where we are given a talk. The beaters and guns are seperated and they are driven off while we are given a thorough talk about the day by the keeper here, Carl. This guy puts in sooooooooooo much effort into this 200 acre piece of land you would think he must be getting paid a fortune, but no, he doesnt earn a penny out of it, just loves what he does and loves the craic. He told me that with the rearing, trapping, clearing, hedge-laying, planting, feeding, shooting and planning he probably spends more time here than he does with his family and work combined. Damn dedicated and helped by his freind Dave, a wisened old boy who loves his shooting and is handy with a chainsaw these two are the people who make this happen. We are told that there are a few english partridges about on one of the lower fields so if you are in any doubt as to the identity do not shoot; since the loss of small fields and gamekeepers and the abundant use of fertilisers and pesticides and changes in farming practices post 1960 there has been a massive crash in english partridge numbers, nowadays except in areas where they are abundant, they are left by nearly all guns who marvel at them when in years gone by they would have shot them by (literally) the thousand. They are sometimes occasionally shot when mistaken for a redleg or french partridge, which is easy to rear in the uk (english partridge rearing is ridiculously difficult) and as such is bred and shot as one of the two primary gamebirds, the other being the pheasant. We are told that no ground game is to be shot and not to take woodcock as not many have been seen this year. Alltold, we setoff in a few landies and drive to the farm.
Me and my old man flip a coin for the 1st drive (we stand together and take it in turns drive to drive) which i win. Im shooting on the first drive, oh and look, im in the absolute money peg after we draw for numbers, 6. There are 10 guns, and normally the birds are driven over a large area over the guns who are spaced in a wide arc, from 1 to 10. As a result, the middling numbers tend to get the bulk of the sport. Normally, i would be chuffed to bits, but i havent shot since pidgeon in the summer and im definitely rusty, this could be embarassing. Im not disappointed, as we watch the army of beaters blank in well over 400 acres (that we cant shoot, but are allowed to walk) i can see them coming. Partridges. Fuck me they are high. And this morning, the gods have seen fit to make it the perfect day for flying a kite, its very very windy. As the beaters get closer a few take flight towards us, the first climbs like a rocket before powering over the gun to my left, which he misses cleanly with two barrels (behind it looked like). Then i see it, a wonderful, majestic cockl pheasant has got up from the bottom of the hedgerow, with the wind behind it it powers up aiming for the wood 1/4 mile behind. Me. Behind me, everyone in the line has seen this bird and christ almighty its going fast now, wings locked and curling in a wide cresent over my right shoulder, its about 55 yards high and appears to be moving at 19000 miles an hour. I tell myself to relax, get my footwork right, follow through the bird, pick it up on its tail, swing through till its about half a yard past its beak and shoot, but its no use. I miss cleanly with both barrels, the bird flies on giving me a two-fingered salute. A huge cheer erupts from the guns, i think ill be taking some stick for that later. Confidence shattered, i then miss another two partridge before the end of the drive. To say i was the butt of a few jokes is an understatement.
The next drive, daddy's turn!. This drive is in the woodland, a think belt of conifer trees drives the birds up to point where they catch the crosswing at the top of a hill, then bank right hard and slide along the guns. They are fking tough. Except my old man seems to be superman. He doesnt fking miss. Once of the pickers up (basically, man with dog strategically placed to collect and/or retrive fallen/wounded game) has to move dirctly behind us because of how well he is shooting. I dont recall any being wounded, most were cleanly shot, but a few needed the second barrel to finish. 14 birds after the drive. The bastard has shot 14 birds for about 20 cartridges, most of them absolute stonkers. wp gg sir. en garde.
We break for lunch, meet up with the boys, i get some more abuse, we have a nice little chinwag with my old man positively beaming and have a little glug on a cracking bottle of port a freind has brought along. mmmmmm. Then its back in the thick of it. I get a stunning peg on a partridge drive, named shitbottom. Said drive got its name owing to the fact dave got caught short once while ill and unfortunately couldnt batten down the hatches, unleashing his bowels upon the poor plantation while working in the wood oneday. LOL. I decide sod this, off comes the jacket, sleeves rolled up, ground flattened down a bit, legs moving a little. I shoot like a i shoot pidgeon, im not a driven shot, i dont have the luxury or shooting driven game 50 days a year. Im a poacher, a ducker, my experience is with trying to take the woodie crossing the hedgerow trying not to be spotted, poking and stabbing neat shots rather than the graceful elegant slow long swings of the best shots in the country. Fuck them, i want to start connecting. And there it is, the first covey, it busts over the hedgerow like a starburst, but i pick my bird well (not the lead bird, which is generally the lead male and who has the responsibility of the whole covey, calling them all together before nightfall to prevent predation and usually having the most experience) and drop it well out infront, having enough time to pickup a cracking bird high over my left shoulded. Get in, this could be better. Dad stuffs a couple more catridges (paper of course, no litter)in just in time for me to take out the best bird iv shot all year, a screaming cock pheatant crossing down the line, missed by two other guns. This is generally known as wiping someones eye (not to be confused with "in your eye" a poker term popularised by moorman, pab and the blondepoker boys). The drive continues and i am suprising myself, the early flurry has subsided but i still have some great shooting, finishing up with 7 partridge and 2 pheasants, for 11 shots, superb. Pride restored, i then help to pickup the birds, helping the wonderfully named heidi find a partridge a long way away. You might think she was a supermodel, well she probably is if you were a male, shorthaired springer spaniel, and watching her make the retrieve and come to her dog handler Peter was a marvel. Hes an old boy, clocking on for 75, but absolutely loves this and wouldnt miss a day ever i learn later.
We finish up the day in the bottom of a deep gulley, im watching my day shoot but these are immense birds that are probably a little too good for anyone in the gun line. They are too fast, too wily and too high for anyone to have a chance, and despite a couple of lovely high hens, the vast majority escape unscathed. Fantastic, there will be more for next time and next year
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