28th October - Rough Shooting

Mixed Bag

At some point during the summer a letter comes through the door from our local vet and good friend H. The content of the letter is not about animal health, but rather the contrary.  It is a list of shoot dates spreading from October through to the end of January. I've been involved in H’s shoot for over 15 years and during that time my excitement for driven pheasant has waned slightly. Nowadays my role is one of posting guns, bringing in the flanks and back gunning to mop up the birds which have got wise to the system. This suits me very well, as I get all the shooting I want and my close relationship to the establishment means I am invited to several of H’s rough shoots and rough shooting is where my passion really lies. To walk all day with friends pushing up hedges and walking in stubble, stalking ponds and waiting for pigeons appeals to my nature and fits more comfortably with my way of life.

By my own tradition it is waxed jacket for rough days and tweed for more formal shoots. Recently I listened to a friend complaining about the smell of old Barbours but to me it is a stirring scent, imbued with a lifetime's memory of shooting with my father, going beating, ferreting and days spent like today. The first drive saw us lining up to sweep a hundred acre field of wheat stubble. No cultivation had started, (probably due to some government payment or other) and as a result the ground was dotted with skylarks which fluttered up in ones and pairs as Treacle and I approached. We saw pheasants but I had no shots and so it continued until after lunch. Still this is often the way on rough days and the unpredictable nature of the sport is a large part of its appeal. Of course when you work a dog there is another avenue for satisfaction (as well as extreme frustration).  Treacle excelled herself at Spratsporn farm, driving numerous birds from two small copses densely grown over with brambles and then later by retrieving two lost pheasants also from thick cover.

After lunch, (a sandwich of egg mayonnaise and crisp chickweed) I was sent across H's farm to beat out a neighbouring market garden. Pheasants were everywhere feeding on fallen beans and rotting squashes and despite my bawling the dog took off and went berserk. The result was fine, as panic stricken birds flew in her wake to the waiting guns - even I bagged a couple which flew back - but in terms of discipline the incident was appalling. At the next farm we walked more stubble before driving a hornbeam coppice canopied with pale gold where a white pheasant broke from a bramble patch. It was a simple enough shot and it is my suspicion that H deliberately missed to avoid the inevitable jocular cry for ' £100 ' which would have accompanied its descent to earth.  (It is traditional to pay a stout fine for shooting a white pheasant). We finished at 3.30pm with seven brace of pheasants, four doves (shot from farmer's barn) and three pigeons. I was given my share and so the season for eating game begins! An invitation for dinner from my parents meant I didn't have to cook, so instead I planted ' Winter density ' lettuce in the greenhouse and potted up the tomato cuttings I had taken from H's greenhouse. This is a new experiment of mine to over-winter tomato cuttings instead of planting seeds in the spring. Seed for the popular varieties has become extortionate (around three pounds for eight seeds in the case of Sun Gold) and besides that I'm always keen to find ways of getting my tomatoes going earlier so they're able to produce more fruit before the blight arrives. ' Sun Gold ' cuttings which I potted a fortnight ago are now well rooted.