My friend Dick was good enough to take me out on a shoot recently on a local estate, as his guest. We were not actually doing the shooting. With the enthusiastic assistance of Dick’s spaniels, we were picker-uppers – although we didn’t actually pick anything up. Shot birds were retrieved from where they fell by the dogs who then delivered them directly into Dick’s hand. Apparently not all dogs are so properly trained. Some birds had to be knocked on the head to finally dispatch them, but the delivery to the hand meant none ran away wounded and to suffer. Dick meanwhile is a fell shot himself but says he’s as happy to pick-up, or to beat (drive the birds towards the guns) as he is to shoot. Nonetheless, his proudest shooting moment was when he downed two woodcock in immediate succession with the two barrels of his shotgun. (Woodcocks are notoriously difficult to shoot. They refuse to fly in a straight line).
Our first drive (when the beaters drive the birds towards the guns) was in open fields. The birds had been reared in pens and then released into a block of maize and other tall cover plants, where they were encouraged to stay by regular feeding. The beaters worked their way down to, through and around the block, driving the birds out and over the heads of the guns. We picker-uppers, and our dogs, stood, or sat, in a line behind. There were of bales of straw along the lower edge of the block intended to encourage the birds to fly up and over. Most of them did. Red-legged partridge, and a handful of pheasants. They burst out of the block to escape the beaters. A few sat on the top of the bales for a moment to review the situation. Some flew over the guns and were either, if they were unlucky, shot and tumbled out of the sky or, mostly, made it over their heads to the field beyond. A noticeable number of birds, however, headed off to the right, over a farmyard and to fields beyond, avoiding the guns almost entirely. This was not the first time this season they’d been shot at.
Our next shoot was in the woods. Or at least, we and a gun were in the woods. I think other guns were in adjacent fields and the birds – all pheasants – were being driven over the wood. Actually, it was difficult to know, from our enclosed position, what was going on, but Dick seemed to know so I just enjoyed being in the wood, despite the bangs. Picking-up in the woods was a longer affair than in the field but the dogs were not deterred by the tangled undergrowth.
Then we stopped for elevenses, or thereabouts, or probably early lunch. The guns travelled in their own high truck and stopped nearby. The sides of the truck were opened to reveal a built-in, traveling kitchen providing – I think – alcoholic drinks, hot beverages and (presumably) refined food. Quite what they ate, I don’t know – we didn’t much talk to the guns, or to the beaters, the whole day, nor they to us. There seemed to be an etiquette of separation. We dined on sausage rolls and doughnuts – and drank a bottle or more of port between six of us.
An afternoon drive involved beating pheasants out of their home in a wood. The birds tended to exit the wood in successive bursts and from the same place at its edge as the beaters drove them to a point. The guns were overwhelmed at each burst. It was as if someone was turning a handle and a machine was flinging the birds out. But these birds too had been disturbed before and many cunningly kept low so they couldn’t be shot at and escaped to neighbouring fields and hedgerows. Nonetheless, the dogs had plenty to do when the ending whistle went.
The last shoot of the day, Dick and I were once more in a place where I, at least, couldn’t really understand what was going on where. However, there were wild ducks – mallard – being shot and falling at our feet. The mallard, like the pheasants, like the partridges, wore exquisite plumage, all the more so viewed close up and in the hand. Beautiful, but dead.
The target for the day was one hundred and fifty birds. The guns paid according to that target, no matter how many, or how few, they managed personally. At the end of the day, the target had been reached, and more. Everyone was happy. Many more had got away, for next time. The guns got a brace (two) each, I think, and the others went to be hung and dressed by a local butcher.
I am not a shootist. My interest in the whole affair was as a countryman, a lover of the countryside and what goes on there, as well as of wildlife. So too Dick’s, as well as the shooting. It was a pleasure to be out in the winter fields and woods all day and to watch the irrepressible enthusiasm of the dogs about their work. It was also interesting to see how many birds evaded the guns. Like the animals which we farm for their meat, these pheasants and partridges, had been reared deliberately for death. Unlike the farmed animals, they had the chance of escape, not certain slaughter.
This left the issue of the effect of releasing so many reared birds each year on wild wildlife. On the one hand, the shooting interest helps maintain a countryside which might otherwise be lost, providing habitat for wild as well as reared animals and birds. On the other hand, the release of thousands of artificially reared birds into the countryside might be competitively detrimental to wildlife. The RSPB want the practice regulated in order to minimize damage. The Game and Wildlife Conservation Trust favour encouraging ‘a sustainable low impact approach to releasing’. The Government already has licensing requirements for protected areas. In fact, it is difficult to find any concerned organisation failing to acknowledge that there is at least an issue.
However, there is not a conclusion. Research has been done, but methodological difficulties produce only tentative results. My conclusion is that, after the difficulties that followed the ban on hunting with dogs – especially fox hunting – the shooting fraternity is safe for a while yet.
KB
27.02.26