I stand anxiously on my peg waiting for the fourth drive of the day. It’s a gloriously crisp and clear autumnal day in Devon and the early afternoon sun coming from exactly where the pheasants are expected is near blinding.
My angst is compounded by the fact that I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’m an antipodean interloper with a borrowed shotgun (crudely lengthened to fit my 6’5 frame) and ill- fitting breeks on his first ever driven day. As the drive commences I start to see birds flitting over the guns to my right and several of them falling well hit. Suddenly, I see a bold hen making directly for me, barely visible in the sun and impossibly high. Somehow as she crosses above me I change angles to avoid the sun, shoulder my gun and crumple the bird directly above me.
It falls emphatically, barely 10m behind me and as I turn around grinning the veteran Devonian picker up behind me says, “well done son”. In contrast to my previous form today I’m somehow able to repeat the manoeuvre another three times over the course of the drive. Absolutely delighted with myself, those moments of magic in the British countryside leave me completely obsessed with pheasant shooting.
Most readers of this publication will have shot many more, and far better pheasants, than I. However, each of us has our own journey into game shooting and will forever remember his or her first day. Accordingly, after adding that day’s entry into my game book I resolved to put pen to paper and write of that red letter (by my standards) day last November.
My hope being that to document one antipodean’s infatuation with British country sports might rekindle other’s fond memories of their own first day out. Amidst a media landscape currently laden with new political and legislative challenges to shooting it’s an apt time to reflect on how unique and wonderful the sporting opportunities on this small island really are.
My introduction to British country sports effectively began twelve years prior on an easter pig hunting holiday with friends on Woodlands Station near Mitchell in Southwest Queensland. The drought stricken red earth there could hardly be more different to the rolling green hills of Devon. However, the Station’s most recently recruited Jackaroo was a young man from Devon fresh out of a stint in the Royal Navy, and on his gap year. We had a terrific few day’s hunting pigs with the young Englishman, his mongrel hound and an old ex-military 6.5 x 55 Swedish Mauser. We left as friends, but realistically not sure that we would ever cross paths again.
Years later when my legal career had taken me to London I posted some photographs of a trip stalking red stags on Urrad Estate in Perthshire. Hours later I received an out-of-the-blue message from my Devonian friend seeking an update on life generally and demanding that I make my way towards him in Dartmoor if I could still remember how to ride a horse. The resulting experience of being in the saddle for the first time in close to a decade whilst trying to keep up with the Dartmoor Foxhounds was a day I’ll never forget. Since then I’ve continued to keep returning to South Devon for the occasional day’s hunting, stalking fallow and much more recently game shooting.
My initiation in game shooting was to take place on a hundred-bird-day at a small family farm shoot in north Devon called Whitsleigh. I arrived at Exeter airport from Ireland, where my partner’s family reside, the evening prior. We shared a couple of pints of Tribute ale and then hit the hay. I struggled to sleep as my busy mind pondered on the adventures coming the next day. Up early the next morning we shared a jeep with two other guns and skirted north around the edge of Dartmoor. Throughout the drive over my compatriots gave me a snap lesson on shooting etiquette and safety in order to prepare me for the day.
The reception at Whitsleigh could not be more different to the start of a day’s sport in Australia. Several hours driving to an often desolate and remote corner of the bush to meet one or two mates, was replaced with a short commute to arrive at a hive of activity outside a beautiful country house. For those of us accustomed to shooting or stalking abroad, where it is often a lonesome activity, the community surrounding British game shooting is nothing short of amazing.
I met our hosts, the wonderful team of local beaters and pickers up, the farmer’s wife keeping us fed and caught up with other guns I’d not seen since a day in the saddle over a year prior. It quickly dawned on me how incredible the community game shooting engenders in Britain is, and I felt incredibly privileged to be part of something so special surrounded by people with a shared passion.
I was blown away by the beauty of the rolling green fields
Piling into the back of the gun bus for the first time had me grinning like a child. As we lined out for the first drive I was blown away by the beauty of the rolling green fields. They ran into a thickly wooded valley, which was in turn intersected by a gently flowing stream. All framed between neat hedgerows and a crisp blue sky. A picture perfect image of the English countryside for an overseas visitor.
The first bird of the day was taken by the gun next to me. A wild mallard, flushed several minutes ahead of the pheasants and satisfyingly dropped with his 1832 Holland and Holland as all eyes focussed on the sole bird in the sky. Thereafter, the pheasants started coming over and despite my best efforts to expend cartridges I failed to hit one. We’ll put it down to avian ‘buck fever’. Nonetheless the shooting gods eventually took pity on me as a hen pheasant crossed on my lefthand side, made it behind me and then emphatically plunged into the woodland below as I finally connected trigger pull and swing through on time. My first ever pheasant and a moment I’ll never forget.
despite my best efforts to expend cartridges I failed to hit one
Having broken the drought, I was more than happy to engage in a generous tipple of damson gin as the gun bus took us to the second drive of the day. All eight guns were lined out on a narrow track which divided the otherwise thickly wooded valley floor. It was a real test of gun’s snap shooting prowess and where I failed, Jamie next to me excelled.
The third drive of the day had us fanned out around the stream as pheasants periodically trickled out of the cover and I was able to take my second and third ever pheasants. We then marched off to elevenses with me wearing a grin I’d not been able to remove from my face since arrival at the shoot.
For an antipodean accustomed to grilling steaks over the campfire and washing them down with cans of lager when hunting, elevenses was an insight into a different world. Not only was the food delicious, and the addition of champagne to shooting a match made in heaven; but I had discovered a new favourite mealtime elevated above the mundane routine of breakfast, lunch and dinner.
As noted above, the fourth drive of the day was a sublime moment in my young sporting career. Thanks to the generosity of Jed next to me, the fifth drive allowed me the privilege of satisfying a long held ambition to shoot with a Holland and Holland. To then actually take a pheasant with it was the icing on the cake.
We finished the day with 103 birds in the chiller and team of happy guns. As we piled into the shoot hut we were blown away by the spread of food and drink our hosts had put on for us. Guns, beaters and hosts and sat around the same long table to enjoy a hearty meal, reflect on the day’s triumphs and tribulations and get to know each other. Having already made an impressive effort to steer us toward diabetes and coronary disease with the first two courses, our hosts then wheeled out a monumental cheese platter to finish us off. We ended the day having to be rolled back into the jeep and heading to a pub closer to home for a nightcap.
For days after I couldn’t stop replaying each shot of the day in my head before as I contently day- dreamed. We’re very lucky in Australia to have the opportunity to hunt deer on public land, pursue water buffalo across millions of square kilometres and shoot a variety of wildfowl and quail. All at a relatively low cost. What we’re missing in fieldsports, and what Britian excels with, is history, tradition and community.
I envy our American friends and their elk, moose and upland grouse but know nothing that side of the Atlantic could rival the depth of culture and community found in the English countryside.
Having since shot a couple of larger days on commercial shoots since, I’ve grown even fonder of my memories of that first small day on a family farm shoot. I couldn’t think of any better introduction to the wonderful world of game-shooting in Britain than that convivial local atmosphere.
Game shooting and other traditional British country sports are globally unique and we should all do whatever we can to defend them from the current political climate so that future generations can cherish the same experiences we have. I hope this brief note can serve of a reminder of just how many allies the British countryside community has across the Commonwealth.
Josh Gardner
Published by Vintage Guns Ltd on
