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SHOOTING GAZETTE - JUNE 2005

Messieurs, Mesdames, bon jour, ca va bien? So what, you may, ask is James up to – jabbering away in French (well, sort of)? The answer as Blair might put it (will he still be Prime Minister by the time that you read this) is – ‘Relocation, Relocation, Relocation’. The Dragon Lady and I are thinking of moving to France and the Editor (all bow) has suggested that this column might go too and become, as it might be a, French letter. There are various reasons as to why we are considering this move. One is that our poor little island is becoming very overcrowded. The UK has a population of c.60 Million and is starting to burst out at the seams. France has approximately the same number of people, but has 6 times the landmass. There is still a lot of room in France and much of rural France is sparsely populated, because Johnny Frenchman prefers to live in the town. This means that rural property tends to be cheaper than it is here; as is the food. We went into a small restaurant last month and had a very good 4 course meal (inc wine) for about 8 quid per head.

“Ah,” I here you say – “but what about the French, eh?” We have been going to deeply rural France, these many years and have had no problems with the French. The thing is to try to fit in with them. It is their country. It is a country where the people have the constitutional right to hunt (it was one of the planks of the Revolution). There are some 300 ‘recognised’ packs of hounds in France hunting Boar, Red Deer, Roe and Hare. There are also a lot of local bobbery packs, which, I suspect, hunt pretty well anything. The French politicians know that if they tried to mess with Field Sports, there would be blood on the floor. I remember having a good hunt one day after which the Boar was paunched and cut up in the middle of the church car park. All the villagers came out to watch. I said to one of the hunters that I could not imagine doing something similar in the middle of an English village. He shrugged and said:

“Ici c’est l’habitude”.

I have never forgotten my first boar hunt. Boar hunting can be very exciting. The wild pigs look a bit ungainly, but they are quick as cats and can go like the proverbial stuff off the proverbial shovel. A good pig can make a 20 mile point. Eventually the pig will stand at bay. It then has to be dispatched as quickly as possible and if you have ever inspected the razor sharp tusks on a boar then you will understand why. Every pack of Boar Hounds has hounds killed or wounded by pigs every season. Some packs run three or four big terriers with hounds. Their job is to dive in and distract the Boar’s attention by nipping him in… well, the dangly bits. I expect you are expecting the Boar to be shot. The French, very sensibly, reckon that this might be more of a danger to the hounds and the spectators than to the pig; also it would be an insult to the pig. On the hunt in question the Boar was at bay in a thicket in the middle of a bog. By the time I got there, the foot followers had formed a human chain through the bog and I found myself being passed (“Vite! Vite!) from hand to hand to the thicket. I still had not twigged what the form was, but I sharp found out, when I arrived at the thicket and a man thrust a boar spear into my hand – this is about 3 feet long with a T piece and a wicked pear shaped blade. With this you have ‘serve’ the Boar by thrusting the blade behind the shoulder and into the heart, whilst you hope that the hounds are attracting his attention. I should add that you get one chance. The Boar is in pretty tatty fettle by now and if you do not get him, then sure as eggs is eggs, he will get YOU. I have seen it happen. I did get it right – I think that by the time I had crawled through the thicket to where the pig and hounds were making all kinds of ruckus, I did not have time to think. I was still in a daze as I stumbled out of the bog and into the arms of a large French lady who clasped me to her ample bosom with great enthusiasm and said what an honour it was to the boar to have been ‘served’ by an Englishman. I must say that I had not looked on it quite from that angle

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