Greeting Folks,

As I mentioned in the last post, I was born in an industrial town on the North East coast of England, called Hartlepool.  I grew up amidst housing estates and busy shopping precincts and a very black beach. It was mostly black due to the amount of sea-coal; the fines washed out from the pits a few miles up the coast, that washed ashore.  Collecting this seacoal seemed to be a thriving industry for little old ladies, who could often be seen armed with a plastic bag and a small shovel, scooping up the stuff.

The whole place was surrounded, for the most part, by the signs of heavy industry.  Cooling towers, tall chimneys, large factories and the cranes from the shipbuilding yards.  There was lots of pollution too, but this at least meant the most amazing sunrises. The colours were spectacular.

Before the advent of shopping malls and the demise of all the industry,  it was a bustling place.  I remember shopping with my Grandmother on a Saturday when there was still a vibrant high street with butchers and fishmongers, large department stores and small delicatessens.  These would sell fresh ground coffee, loose leaf tea, fresh-made pies, quiches and cheeses and had the most amazing smells.  You could find pretty much anything along the high street, including a few small book stores.  My weekend treat was often a new book from one of these small establishments. A favourite read was the Jennings books by Anthony Buckeridge, about a public schoolboy, his best friend Darbishire and their misadventures at Linbury Court Preparatory

School. All very boys own stuff, written in an age when you still called each other by your surname.  I still have the full series of books somewhere and well-thumbed they are too. Their school was set in the English countryside near a small village, presumably called Linbury,  I honestly can’t remember. However, many of their adventures seemed to involve being in the great outdoors and this seemed like a great way of spending your time to me.

Outward Bound

There were some nice parks in Hartlepool, green spots were we urchins could run around, play football in the winter, cricket in the summer or just generally run off our excess energy in games of our own invention.  But I was also lucky in living close to the inland edge of town, where the urban sprawl gave way to farm fields and woods and these were the places where I used to love to spend my free time.  Climbing trees, building camps, or lying on my front by the side of a stream, arms extended trying to catch frogs and the elusive newt.  I was quite good at amphibian hunting. Not as good as my Small daughter is now, I have to say, but I did OK.  There would usually be two or three of us, getting up to innocent mischief, but  I quite liked to go exploring on my own.

In the summer, during the school holidays, I would leave the house early morning and not go home until it was getting dark and hunger had set in.  My parents didn’t seem unduly worried by my extended absence. I suspect they relished the peace and quiet.  Occasionally, I would have the presence of mind to pack some sandwiches and grab an apple to keep me going.  This feast would usually have been scoffed within the first hour or so. I have never been the patient sort, particularly where food is concerned. I loved the peace in the countryside. Away from the traffic and the bustle of people going about their daily grind. I loved the sights and the smells and would occasionally wander off to a local farm to see if I could help out in any way. More often than not, I would get a ‘Bugger Orrf ” but occasionally my offer was accepted and I would spend a few hours stacking hay bales (and more hours playing in the barn, jumping from said hay bales).  I would help tidy up the farmyard and on a good day, get to help feed the livestock. All good fun and all free child labour. I never got paid, but I would get a drink, usually lemonade and perhaps a homemade cake or biscuit in the farmhouse for my efforts. Reward enough.  But this set the dream in my head that one day I would own my own house in the country.

I have been very lucky to have lived in many, big and fascinating cities in my life so far.  From Manchester, Oxford and Newcastle in my University days to London, Paris, Houston, Sfax, Singapore, Jakarta, Cairo, Melbourne, Aberdeen, Doha, Abu Dhabi, Dubai and now Erbil. All have their charms and all have their downsides, but I still retain my love of the countryside and this is still where I feel most comfortable.  After a few false starts; houses bought but sold as we

went on yet another overseas adventure, I have finally fulfilled my dream.  We now live in the Scottish Highlands in a beautiful house in a small village called Craigellachie. It’s a wonderful little place and is surrounded by beautiful scenery and of course, it lies on the glorious River Spey.  For as well as my love of the countryside, I have over the years developed a love for country pursuits, including fishing, shooting and riding.

Game Shooting

Being so close to the Spey, it would be rude not to cast the odd fly into the river after the elusive Atlantic Salmon and I have written about our combined family joy at fishing before (See The Fishing Edition). But as well as fishing, I also thoroughly enjoy a spot of shooting.  I am, I believe, casting aside any false modesty, quite a good shot.  I don’t do a lot of shooting. Nowhere near as much as I would like to, but I am optimistic that now I am able to spend more time at home, I will be able to get out into the field more often.  I do appreciate shooting is not everyone’s cup of tea and I respect that.  But I do wish such people would reciprocate and respect that shooting is a traditional pastime that can do a lot to enhance the countryside and let we shooters get on with something we enjoy.  I fear that it won’t be long before game shooting is banned and  I believe that would be a great shame and a tremendous loss.

I am unsure what the latest figures are, but previous studies have shown that shooting has a tangible impact on the economy, particularly in rural areas.  Shooters spend around £2.5 billion each year on goods and services. Shooting supports the equivalent of 74,000 full-time jobs. Shooting is worth over £2 billion to the UK economy (GVA). Shooting is involved in the management of two-thirds of the rural land area.  600,000 people in the UK shoot live quarry, clay pigeons or targets. Shoot providers spend nearly £250 million a year on conservation. Shooters spend 3.9 million workdays on conservation – that’s the equivalent of 16,000 full-time jobs. Two million hectares are actively managed for conservation as a result of shooting.    In Scotland, much of the land used for shooting isn’t really much use for anything else.  It’s generally of too low quality for grazing, so not really suitable for crofting.  But management by estates with a large deer population or healthy grouse numbers can turn this low-quality grazing land into high value, low carbon meat production and that’s got to be a good thing, hasn’t it?

One of my earliest shooting experiences was in Northumberland with the Allandale shoot. This was a typical farmer’s shoot and my father-in-law and good friend Jack was a stalwart of the shoot. He used to impress me with his dedication and devotion. He would spend a good half of the year getting up in the middle of the night, or so it seemed, whence he would visit his pheasant pens, feeding, watering and checking on his charges ensuring no harm had befallen them. It was a similar story at night.  After a hard days work; he owned a timber mill and spent his days chopping, sawing and lugging trees around, he would ensure his babies were all safe, secure and well-fed before retiring for the night.  Then the big day would come when the pheasants would be released into the wild.  The pheasants tended not to wander too far and the feeding pens also encouraged them to stay relatively close.  They are pretty stupid birds, to be honest, so inevitably,  some would fly off to the next county.  Some would get flattened on the roads and some would be predated by the local fox population. But enough would last to treat Jack and his farming chums to a few weekends of good sport.

A Dogs Life

I was out beating one weekend and it was a foul, inclement, typically Northumbrian late autumn day. Slate grey skies blowing a hooley and driving horizontal rain.  It was the second drive of the day and everyone was soaking wet and thoroughly miserable, including the dogs and the pheasants.  The first drive had been poor, resulting in just a single brace of birds, plus a couple of unlucky rabbits.  No self respecting pheasant wanted to fly in weather like this. As one wag put it, “more chance of clubbing t’buggers as they run past than shooting them”.  So it was decided to abandon the day.  No one was very keen on returning home so early as this may mean a shopping trip to Hexham with the Mrs.  No, a better option seemed to take refuge in a nearby derelict farmhouse.  Despite a lot of the roof being missing, it had sufficient roof left to provide shelter from the worse of the weather.  To help warm us up and dry out soggy coats, a fire was quickly started using the ample timber and wood lying around the derelict.  Before long, there was a warm, cosy, if slightly doggy atmosphere, tinged with woodsmoke and returning good humour. Inevitably, the hip flasks and refreshments made an appearance and before long, we had quite a party going.

As I recall there was quite a selection of refreshments on offer. Of course, there was the inevitable and almost compulsory single malt whisky, but it was something of a source of pride to see who had the best hipflask contents.  Jack used to make his own sloe gin and it was delicious. Rich, rounded and fruity with just the right amount of kick, it was always a personal favourite.  Elsewhere in the group, we had Cherry Brandy, Rhubarb Vodka and some interesting Rum Pot liqueur which was both fruity and potent.  Of course, once the booze started flowing, hunger quickly set in.  So the packed lunches were opened and shared. Thick slices of home-cooked ham. Juicy chicken drumsticks. Hearty pork pies with various relishes.  One of the guys decided it would be a good idea to cook the rabbits we had shot.  These were quickly skinned, cleaned and put over the fire to roast.  The smell as they cooked was surprisingly nice, it certainly got the dogs excited.  Sadly the taste didn’t live up to the promise provided by the cooking aroma, although in fairness the cooking was a bit perfunctory.  The meat was chewy and tough and largely tasteless.   This was good news for the dogs, as they got the bulk of the rabbits, scampering across and grabbing the discarded bones and chunks of meat.   I remember one old guy was struggling to tear off some meat from a rabbit leg and whilst pulling on the bone, his false teeth flew out of his mouth and landed a few feet away on the ground. A couple of the dogs, spotting the morsel, dashed over and began to fight over the fallen teeth, the victor taking them back to his corner for a good chew.    The old chap wasn’t having this. He slowly got up and ambled across to the happy dog and with a gummy cry of “ger orff them ya bugger,” retrieved his dentures and without a seconds hesitation thrust them back into his mouth.  I lost my appetite at this time.

The party continued until the flasks had been emptied.  The dogs had been secured in an anteroom to avoid any more denture-related incidents and the stories were coming thick and fast and getting ever more outrageous. It was a very pleasant way to spend a wintery afternoon, enjoying the fire and the wit and accumulated wisdom of the old guys. Eventually, we all made our respective ways home. The worst of the weather seemed to have eased off and it was a chilly, but pleasant walk back.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t until the next morning that I remembered we had left the dogs locked up in the building.  We quickly made our way back to the old farmhouse and discovered the dogs, no worst for wear, but very happy to see us and rather hungry.  They are a wonderfully forgiving and faithful lot, dogs. 

The Unusual Bag

Thinking about it, it was the same shoot, a season or two later that had the most remarkable gamebook I remember seeing. All shoots will record what they have shot and a number of shots taken. On this day, as well as a respectable total of pheasants, woodcock, pigeon and partridge, I spotted an entry for a salmon?   Flying salmon??  It seems a few of the pheasants on one drive had fallen into or close to a tributary of the River Tyne. The water was quite low, but the picker-uppers had dispatched a couple of dogs to retrieve the fallen birds.  Once in the water, a dog had disturbed a salmon that had been minding its own business in the shallows.  Trying to escape, the fish wriggled and splashed in the shallows across the gravel bed and was spotted by one of the guns who, instinctively, he claimed, took his gun and shot the fish.   The dog dutifully recovered the quarry and it was entered into the game register.  Never had fresh shot salmon before, but I heard it was delicious.

Possibly the most memorable shoot I recall was on the Glen Estate near the Scottish Borders.  It was memorable for a number of reasons, but primarily because it was the first time 3 generations of our family would be out shooting together. Jack, my eldest son and myself.  I was working in Egypt at the time but had flown home for a long weekend and arranged with the estate,  a walked-up day, a driven day and some grayling fishing in the local river to finish off the weekend.  We were to stay at the Roxburghe Hotel and I was really looking forward to it.

The walked up day was good fun and allowed us to get a feel for the estate. The weather wasn’t great, not too cold, but grey and overcast. Fortunately, it remained dry and the wind kept low.   Not many birds were taken, but I always believe once your bag is filled, its time to call it a day. Being out in the fresh air really does work up an appetite and that evening, the remaining guns for the driven day arrived for a pre-shoot dinner.  And what a feast it turned out to be. We were treated to a selection of fine game and produce mostly from the estate itself. Each of the many courses was accompanied by a wine, selected to complement the dish we were eating. It was a memorable evening, with superfood, fine wines and great company.  The next day dawned bright and fresh with a touch of frost. After a hearty breakfast, the guns gathered for the briefing with the estate gamekeeper and to draw pegs.  I found myself next to my son which would allow me to check on how he was doing throughout the day.

The Driven Shoot

It was a wonderful day.  I was very impressed by my boy’s prowess, he had certainly improved since the last time I had

seen him shoot.  On one drive, I was essentially the backstop to him. I anticipated picking up the various birds he allowed past and giving him a few pointers later in the day. I have to report he let next to nothing get past him and I spent the majority of the drive admiring a succession of fine shots.  By this stage, a bit of generational competition had built up between the three of us, so I was desperate to make up for having been a spectator in the remaining drives.  After lunch, the weather began to change and as dusk started to fall on the last drive of the day, a gentle but determined snow was falling.  I was at the end of the line in a sloping valley for this drive and could hear the guns further up the line having great sport. These were challenging high birds and by the time they reached me, they were racing, leaving me watching these tiny dots in the sky swooping away, far overhead.  I know my limits so didn’t even try a shot. I could see Jack a few pegs down knocking bird after bird out of the sky with an accomplishment that only comes from a lifetime of practice.  I had been given a stuffer for the day, responsible for loading for me.  He was a bit perturbed that I wasn’t shooting.  I explained my limitations where high birds were concerned. Rubbish he said, have a go. Give it as much lead as you think it needs, then double it and have a go.  Well, I tried his advice at the next bird.  This mere spec somewhere in the stratosphere.  I gave it an uncomfortable amount of lead, then added some more and squeezed the trigger. At first, nothing happened and I shrugged and was about to say, “See, I told you” when there was a high, cloud of feathers and the bird fell, landing on the opposite side of the stream we were standing by.  I was very chuffed.  Better yet, I looked up to see my neighbouring gun and Jack looking over and offering a thumbs up with a cry of “Fantastic shot”.  That really made my day.

Later that evening came one of my very favourite memories. After another sumptuous meal, Jack, still resplendent in his plus-fours, tweed waistcoat straining to hold back his ample midriff, was reclined in a very comfortable armchair.  With a glass of fine single malt on his chest, nestled amongst his huge bushy beard, his stockinged feet outstretched towards a roaring log fire were steaming gently as he snored peacefully, a contented smile on his face.  This really was as good as it gets.

We never got to go grayling fishing the next day as the river was in full spate, but it was still a hugely enjoyable weekend and one I will always remember. I had hoped we would have more such weekends, but sadly Jack passed away not long after this. A sad loss to the shooting fraternity and to all who knew him.  I am so glad we got to have that amazing weekend, the three chaps from three separate generations together.  No 1 Son and I have shot together again since that weekend and I look forward to one day introducing a grandson to the joys of shooting, assuming it is still allowed.  Clay pigeons, grouse, pheasant I don’t really mind what the quarry is, its the skill, the camaraderie and the banter that love. And, I suppose the pomp and tradition that goes with a formal driven day.  It really would be a shame to lose yet more of our heritage.

Oh and in case you were wondering, Jack won the day, with an amazing tally, No.1 son came next and I was last.  But it was still fun.

And on that bombshell, take care and talk again soon.

Graham

(If you are interested in getting involved with shooting take a look at the BASC web site to see what facilities may be around you. )