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SPORTING SHOOTER - March
I once went stalking in Galloway - a lovely place with awful weather.
Most of the natives seem to suffer from terminal mildew. When the Stalker
came to pick me up, I noticed a large orange umbrella in the back of
the truck and ventured to remark that it was a strange bit of kit for
a stalker. He told me the story.
They get a lot of Germans and Belgians on the estate and, during the
last buck season, there had arrived a huge, monolithic, Prussian. He
had in tow a huge, monolithic, Prussian wife. The man spoke little, except
to complain. The wife never uttered. It was not a good week. As usual
a westerly gale was lifting half the Atlantic Ocean and dumping it on
Galloway. The bucks were staying in bed. The Germans were not. Every
streaming morning, stalker and rifle would stamp stolidly through the
dripping forest. The wife came too - she knew her duty, which was to
stamp stolidly behind her husband and stay stumm. After several blank
days, the weather relented somewhat. The little party set out with raised
expectations and sure enough there in a clear fell was a nice 6 pointer,
feeding quietly. A quick drive around the forest tracks brought them
down wind. The stalker knew that a creep down a firebreak would bring
them to a handy bank, from behind which the rifle could get a nice clear
100-yard shot at the buck. The Frau was left at the top of the firebreak
with firm Teutonic instructions not to make a sound. The stalker and
the rifle crept down the break and got themselves snugged in behind the
bank and a careful look showed the buck still feeding quietly - a perfect
presentation and a nice clear shot. The Prussian heaved his bulk up the
bank, lined up his scope and eased off the safety catch… At this
moment several things happened - the skies opened again and the buck
threw up his head, took one horrified look and bolted. The Prussian said
something Prussian and the Stalker said something Gallowegian. What had
happened? They turned round and saw the Frau in the process of opening
a huge orange golf umbrella. The Prussian got to his feet, threw his
rifle on the ground and jumped on it. He then strode back up the firebreak
and, without a word, felled his wife with a solid right hook. He then
strode off into the forest without a backward glance. This left the stalker
with a dilemma, which included a trampled rifle and several stone of
unconscious German Frau, still clutching a large orange umbrella. Everything
was eventually restored to its rightful owner, except the umbrella, which
got forgotten in the excitement. It was lying in the stalker's truck
and there to the best of my knowledge and belief, it remains to this
day. The stalker was kind enough to offer it to me. I declined the offer.
I don't want to be felled by a 25 stone Prussian.
Waidmansheil!
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