BACK TO MENU

SHOOTING GAZETTE - MAY

I did not see the programme myself, but the Captain did and he told me about it. It was, it seems, a murder mystery. In the course of it, this bloke went shooting with his dog – you know the dog - the one that is always looking for its handler who is just out of shot (camera). It hardly needs saying that it was high summer with all the trees in full leaf, but at some stage there is the sound of a cock pheasant taking off. This bugger (must be the murderer) ups with his gun and fires into the leafy canopy. There is then a shot (camera) of a pheasant crumpling in the air (strange to relate - it is a hen). There is then a shot of the dog presenting its ‘master’ with a bird, which (mirabile dictu) is a French Partridge. I suppose that this is what is meant when they talk about the ‘magic of TV’, but more properly it should be the ‘sheer bloody ignorance of Townie TV people’. Another good example of this was told to me by Sir John (the Fat Lady’s Half Section). The Beeb had given the duo yet another Producer. I say ‘yet another’ because Producers with the redoubtable duo had about the same attrition rate as subalterns in the trenches in 1914 – 18. However, this one came from Country File and had therefore invented the Countryside. This twit suggested that they celebrate the month of May by going partridge shooting. The Bold Sir John – all Border Baronets are know as the ‘Bold Sir Jern’ (dialect) – it derives from that famous song, ‘The Lambton Warm (worm)’ – removed his pipe from his mouth just long enough to point out that partridges were far too busy to be shot at in May:

“How so?” cried our countryside expert – “what do partridges do in May?” Sir John unclamped his pipe stem yet again:

“They f-ck,” he said and another producer bit the dust.

Last weekend (Mid March) we had our annual Hunt Festival. The Ullswater bring their hounds over from the Lakes and the combined packs hunt on both Saturday and Sunday. The two days are seamlessly connected by Saturday night and Sunday morning, when songs are sung, stories told and, if reports are to be believed the odd dram or two are drammed. It is certainly true that most people look brighter eyed and bushier tailed on the Saturday morning than they do on the Sunday. At one time I used to attend the spiritual gathering on the night, but now that I have my senior railcard, I seek nourishment, not punishment and head back for home cooking and an early bed. This means that I sometimes miss happenings of note – like the time that a well known MFH had a spirited falling out with his lady companion, left the pub in a huff and was found curled up, fast asleep in the middle of the A68 trunk road. This is not a recommended procedure.

People come from all over Britain for this fest and to enjoy the hunting and whilst one always wants to make fellow sportsman welcome, I have a sneaking suspicion that this undoubtedly great occasion is in danger of being squashed by the very weight of numbers. I certainly felt that it was on the cusp this year. One of the things that please me is the number of Gamekeepers from all over the country who come. As one said to me:

“It’s a bloody poor job if us chaps don’t enjoy a bit of hunting.” It’s reet is that, tha’ knows. I have never seen such a flap of folks, as there was this year. It always amazes me the number of people who mistake me for Willy Poole, whom they all seem to know. I do not correct them, because, as Willy Poole, I get given drams that Arthur James would never get. I just thank goodness that I am unlikely to be confused with Jaques – Heaven forefend.

Although this is a great social occasion, there is no doubt as to the purpose of both packs – to catch foxes. This is high sheep country and the hill herds do not expect any poncing about. Their lambing is on the horizon and they want a good ‘redd up’ (dialect) of the local foxes

The Saturday was a still day of high pressure, good scent and lots of foxes. The combined packs always hunt well together, being of similar type and provenance. Hounds went like stoor (smoke) all day and I clocked up over 40 miles on the quad. It was after 6 when they caught the 8th and last fox and I had already been grumbling to the Master on the radio that it was getting near my supper time – “I can give you a bit of fox, Pooley,” he said – you see - even he gets it wrong.

We had a busy day on the Sunday, but it came on such a hellish storm of sleet, that the end of the day was just about blown out. In spite of the conditions hounds caught 4 foxes and I clocked up a mere 30 miles. But, Man, it was a grand affair – good hunting, good folk, grand crack and just the odd mouthful of whisky – what do you want better’n that?

BACK TO TOP

BACK TO MENU