Seasons End
Friday night in the life of a busy underkeeper is one for rest. For he knows in the morning the mad chaos of a shoot will be drawing near. The hours of this pre-shoot evening pass slowly and then fast as one drifts in and out deep thought of how tomorrow will pan out, the worry, the excitement and the camaraderie all to come for sure.
The night ends with a final flick through the mind to plan out how the day should go, all aided by a glass of Single Malt to calm the spirit and send the busy keeper into a distant slumber from which he will wake a few short hours later.
He drifts off with images of past seasons flickering through his mind as if savoured for some unknown reason.
As his eyes begin to close, consciousness comes racing back to the fore as the keepers work is never done. The dogs, which make or break the Shoot Day need their last check and one last run before bed time. They will need their rest, a busy day awaits them.
The tired keeper, tired from all the other bits and pieces which keep alive the aches and pains, returns to his chair, takes one last small and fruitful sip of Oban Special reserve, lays his glass gently back on the table and turns to look at the first step up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire.
After five long and tiring days getting to grips with the mundane minutiae of things to do around this place, each step I took revealed a new creak and click.
The last step seemed forever away and the cool and comforting thought of a bed was even more so as I slowly and almost painfully trudged up those few final wood clad steps.
No more doors to open, the way was clear just to fall from my feet and land in the position I would stay until five o’clock the next morning. Slumberland was now not so far away.
A nights sleep seems like seconds when you are tired and full of bruised muscles. Before you know it, the alarm is ringing pungently in your ears trying its level best to give you an early dose of Tinnitus, the moans and groans that emanate from the still half conscious Being that is wriggling on the bed covers.
But then, the thought of the start of a day’s shooting suddenly rushes to the front of the mind and with that the eyes open for the first time on Saturday. A January Saturday at five thirty is not exactly oozing light. The street lamp is still on, the birds are not quite awake yet, but you know that four other people, your colleagues are all thinking the same thing, they are up too, readying themselves for highlight of the week.
Sitting there in the darkness, propped up in bed, the keepers mind starts to wake and to go through that invisible itinerary which he can ‘see’ in the corner of his mind.
Before he knows it he is up and adam. The Tweeds have been pressed and brought back to lustre, the Wellingtons have been cleaned, the hat brushed to perfection, with not a single thread pointing in the wrong direction. Breakfast, a high energy choice for an already tired keeper to keep his legs striding until at least three this afternoon, what else but a bowl of Porridge to keep the heart and muscles happy.
At the table, still alone in meek morning with the light just starting to appear on the horizon, he ponders over last time, a beautiful day, birds flying high over the guns, the atmosphere was second to none in his career. He knows today will be different for today is a Keeper’s day. The chance for the hard working men and women from the now nearly past season to take their rightful and thoroughly deserved place on the pegs. The team today, would be made up of three keepers along with some of the beaters including this tired keeper still sitting at the table gradually making the porridge disappear.
I rise out of the chair, pull my jacket off the back and pull it on over my Pheasant spotted tie and subtly coloured checked shirt.
Upstairs is the next move, into the gunroom.
This room is full of all the little things which one has gained in his shooting career.
My trophies and awards, my bits and pieces which accompany me on shoot days, pictures of my Gundogs on the walls and there in the corner, stacked up and bolted is where the most precious things of all are waiting. My Guns.
I take the few steps over to the corner with my keys clanging as they are pulled from my pocket.
Top one, Clunk, Bottom one, Clunk. The satisfying un-oiled groan of the hinges as the door swings open. Then the smell of burnt powder fills the air around me and puts a small smirk on my face. I look at the humble collection and think to myself, “Which one for the last few then?” I ponder there for a while with a few questions in my head, O/U or S/S?, 12, 16 or 20?
Something unusual I think. I reach in and pull out the oldest addition to the cabinet, one which I grew up with and one which I treasure. This is Father’s gun and before that, Grandfather’s. A 16 bore Hammer. The name, W&C Scott is delicately embedded on the action. The wood is plain but excellently finished and the barrels as shiny as the day they left the factory gates.
I slide the top lever over, the still crisp action opens and the barrels fall. Empty. As I knew it would be but just to be on the safe side. Then I pick up a slip from the side of the cabinet and gently insert the gun. Well, that’s the gun sorted, now for cartridges, another few questions to be answered.
I walk over to a large cupboard and pull open the door, inside is all manner things, shot and shell. I rummage through the various boxes of all bores and types you can imagine. Then I find what I’m looking for. Four boxes of Eley Grand Prix. 26g No.7.
The time proven and favourite cartridge, one which has not yet let me down.
I pick up my cartridge bag, open the soft, brown leather flap and empty in the one hundred cartridges, I fasten the latch and now I am ready for what the day will throw at me. The gun is collected from the corner, slung over the shoulder and I begin my trudge back down the wooden hill.
Gun and cartridges safe and sound in the Landy, only one thing remains.
Perhaps the most important to the making of a shoot day. The Dogs. I open the creaking, old back door of the car and then the dog box which has seen better days.
No spaniels today, the master is shooting, not beating, it’s the Labs turn. Two Blacks.
I slide the bolt open on the kennels and out come the dogs. Tails wagging like Rotor blades. “Heel!” and they calm down. I slowly walk back toward the Landy, stopping a few feet from the back, “Get In!” and they both jump up into the car. Good as Gold as normal.
Finally I am ready to leave. Back door of the truck shut tight and in I jump and off we go, the few minutes which it takes to get there go slowly but surely as this route is one which I travel everyday of my life.
Next stop is the Pub. The car park is full of various vehicles from a diminutive Mini to an Audi Q7, which I affectionately think to myself, would be no good for a hard nights lamping Foxes. I swing into a space, jump out and open the back door for the dogs to keep cool and walk casually into the Pub. No paying customers to deal with today, this is a day for the people behind the scenes the ones which I know intimately.
The atmosphere inside is warm and friendly. There is a proper fire blazing in the corner and the Guns and Beaters are warming the cockles on this cold winter morning. “Aye, Aye, here he is the man himself”, one of them shouts out as I walk in, a testament to the friendship which all of these people share, we know each other inside out.
Now what comes next on the typical shoot breakfast? Oh, how could I forget. Bacon Rolls all round. What an excellent start to the day. As they are gobbled up, we chat over the season which has just gone with a slight sense of sadness that one is over for a while but then again, another will be coming around before they know it. We compare the shooting which has taken place with the odd quip about how the Guns will perform today, as whoever shoots badly today will be told about it all the way to the same time next year.
We finish up and the Head Keeper, my impetuous superior, stands up and announces, “Right lads and lasses, nows your chance, enjoy and make the most of it. I hope you have a good day, you all deserve it. Good Shooting and lets go!”
And with that the screech of chairs scraping the floor and coffee cups hitting the table is almost deafening as we slow march outside to the vehicles.
The shoot is only a few minutes and away and in no time, the farm yard is full of trucks, dogs, people and Guns.
The safety briefing goes ahead as ever, no matter how familiar we all are with this ground and we all listen as we would on any other day, intently and carefully.
As usual, the underkeeper takes the Guns to their pegs and the beaters and dogs follow the Head Keeper. Off we go, no 4x4s all on foot, the way it should be.
The 16 bore is attracting attention now. “How many you going to hit with that peashooter then?”, “You sure your going to be fast enough cocking those Hammers!” All shrugged off and all told to “Wait and see”.
We arrive at the first drive and are all in place ready to go when the Horn sounds in the wood that stands in front of us. This old keeper is on the mid-left of the line, the gun is broken, loaded, closed and cocked. Ready to go. But I have a surprise in store.
A pair of cartridges which will make heads turn. Black Powder. The first bird flutters out, high and mighty over my neighbour, a good friend of many years and a loyal beater. Bang, Bang, Miss. Laughter erupts down the line. “Next time Mike, Maybe”.
Next bird is my turn. High above the trees, it soars and into the shoulder goes the veteran and Boooom! Orange flame, plumes of white smoke fill the air. And a falling bird. Thud! A fine cock bird slaps the wet grass. “You trying to blind us with that smoke!” One of them chuckles to me.
The next few minutes are filled with bangs and booms. The 16 barks again with the last of the Black Powder, and yet another bird falls. Not bad for a 120 year old gun.
The first drive of just three today is over. Many birds are down but also many just saluted and gone by untouched. The labs are busy, watching, retrieving and bringing to hand. They know the routine by now. They’ve done it all before. The tally for the drive was twenty eight but no one gave the slightest care for the size of the bag. We were there, in the countryside which we all know and love, enjoying a few hours of relief with the people we have been working with for the last four months. With all safely gathered in and any runners picked and dealt with, the game cart trundled along to pick up the bag. We guns huddled together, having a chat, some having a smoke, laughing and joking, and also congratulating ourselves on a good first drive with some great shooting.
The beaters are behind the scenes, already making their move to the next drive of the day. The guns, led by myself again, begin to slowly trudge across the wet grass and on to the pegs of the next drive. This time, we are all placed around the bottom of a hill, on top of which there is a small wood and a strip of cover crop. The highest and most testing of all the birds on the shoot come from this drive so it would be interesting to see the outcome. All the guns were ready, this time I was way out on the far right in a dip. Any bird over this way now would take some shooting!
The blast of the Head Keepers horn echoes throughout the valley behind. The tension could almost be felt on this drive, the guns anticipating the first bird, to be missed or brought down? And hoping it doesn’t come over them.
Then, out from the heights of the summit of the hill, a bird flutters out of the Kale, rising all the time, high and mighty, spectacular, heading right for the centre of the line. The gun on the peg, another old friend and a fine shot, has his eyes fixed. His gun flows into his shoulder, swings powerfully through the path of the bird and he lets fly! What a shot, the bird crumples in mid air and plummets to the ground with a deafening thud as it smacks into the trees behind the line. A short and quiet round of applause echoes down the line. Not too loud or the other birds will be heading straight back to safety. Within a minute the line is amass with shots, singles and doubles, some only saluting these sky scrapers and then the relative few that connect.
Some fine shooting in action and I cant help but admire the scene. My turn comes next. A superb cock-bird is soaring and curling in my direction, in full feather, tail fanned out and hunkered in flight. The veteran once again flows gently into my shoulder with my eyes still fixated on the bird. A gentle squeeze on the front trigger lets loose the small but effective load and…….Miss! How or why, who knows, I know only to try again with the other barrel, the bird now just about over my head, I swing well in front and jerk the trigger harshly backwards. This time those small pellets have hit their mark, the bird is heading to the ground, falling fast behind me.
The Lab marks it, as do I, and I send her straight away, fearing the worst that it is a runner. After a minute or two of searching I feared the worst but Oh no, Gem emerges from the trees, bird in mouth and delivers it to my hand, dead as a doornail.
Firing is still erupting down the line, many having the best shooting they have had in a long while. Another came over me, this time a more modest bird but still testing in anyone’s book. I let it come ‘til it was over my head, swung a “12 Bar Gate” in front and Bang! The hen folded in mid-air, no need to send the dog on that one but before I had the chance to open and reload another was over my head, curling violently to my right. Bang! And the same again, the old gun was doing me proud, the centuries of engineering in this piece were paying off, back where it belongs, under the high ones.
With a slight sense of both relief and sadness the keeper sounded the Horn and the drive was over. The beaters began to emerge from the cover crop and down the hill.
Labs, Cockers and Springers were all over, doing what they love, whistles bringing them to attention and guiding them in the right direction. As I watched, I thought, “What a pleasure”, to watch these dogs out in the field doing what they were told and the result was some fantastic dog work, this is how you train and use a shooting dog, not on a Field Trial, where everything is controlled within a system, they are not real dogs, not dogs which would be at home here, they are out of place and coveted to such a degree that the owners have lost their sense and understanding of a shooting dog, they have Robots not dogs.
As the last of the birds were brought to hand deposited with the game cart, I walked over to the beaters and thanked them for their work this far and reassured them that they are not forgotten by those in front and under the birds. After all, without them, there would be no birds over us and nothing in the bag.
Time for a mid-morning snack before the final drive. Sandwiches, pork pies and unless I’m much very mistaken caviar, I may be wrong, strange thing to bring on a shoot.
A laugh and a chat, a merry quip and even some gentle rib tickling were all there as usual, a sign of like minded people enjoying themselves. Our break was over in a flash. Soon enough I had the guns once again following me to the final foray of the day, we did not want anymore shooting, three drives with friends was more than enough for us. And three good drives would outweigh any number of mediocre ones.
The 16 was once again being admired, and after its performance, in a slightly more positive light, “How old is it?”, “I bet some birds have fallen to that.”
The next drive was a fair trek, even more so for the beaters so we had plenty of time.
I asked the guns to keep quiet as we approached the small wood for the next drive as there was a small pond in the centre. “If you’ve got Duck shells boys, put ‘em in here, might be an odd one still there.” The guns put out in near silence, we waited in the bleak light that already, was showing signs of failing. I could just about hear the beaters in the distance. I drew back the petit Rabbit Ear hammers over two Bismuth shells and waited.
My Turn! Through the mass of firs in the bleak light came a startled and certainly shifting Drake, I swung the 16 into action once more and took him well out in front, a very satisfying slap as he hit the deck. Not seconds after, a Pheasant was on my line too, I did the same, well out in front and another bites the dust, (or grass). A right and left of Mallard and Pheasant, one to go in the gamebook as a first.
Another Mallard rocketed out after my two shots, right into my neighbours line, he brought it down with a fine shot overhead and a brace of them lay ready to be picked.
The next quarter of an hour was filled with a furore of shots all the way along the line, everyone was getting some superb shooting and thoroughly enjoying it to boot.
I brought one more to the ground, a fine, rotund cock-bird, my last until November but I wouldn’t have wanted it to be any other. It had rocketed out of the wood, flown over my head, missed with the first barrel and eventually caught up with well behind only to drop into a bed of reeds dead as a doornail. All this shooting today from a gun more than a century old and light, small shotted shells. To the misery of my fellow guns shooting heavy No. 5’s.
I sent Gem on her last retrieve of the day, snuffling around in the reeds, occasionally looking back to me for a signal, but only the one she needed. “Go Back!”
Trotting back she came, looking all smug, more than likely her last Pheasant before
November too, brought to hand and delivered and then I did the same, delivered it to the Game cart.
As all was safely gathered in, I looked around the old place, wandering what it would be like come November when we do it all again. Dogs at my side, I remarked quietly to myself in a moment of sheer nostalgia, about all those who have stood in my place before me and that we are still going and by the strength of today, going strong.
But my nostalgic pondering was short lived with a tap on the shoulder. My head Keeper, “Nice play” he said, “Another day I have no complaints about.” I thanked him for the day and the beating for which we were all indebted.
“Not at all, what I do best!” he said. We stood around the Game cart remarking on the previous few hours and the previous season once more, the occasional bursts of laughter ringing out when someone mentioned an easy bird missed with both barrels only to be shot by his neighbouring gun, something we call a “Two Fingers”.
A unanimous decision was proposed and seconded by all. Back to the local. Our last chance to enjoy each others company for a while. Trudging off once again back to the yard through the muddy, wet and lazy green fields, the jollity continued.
Back at the trucks, all was packed away, Wellies, Dogs and Guns. The old 16 had seen its action for a while and went away. The final tally for the day hardly seemed to matter but was forty brace of Pheasant and one of Duck. We all said our thank you’s to each other, tipped the Head Keeper for a great day out in some beautiful countryside and that was the end of the formalities. Off home to unload first then the pub.
The drink flowed liberally all night. Whiskey here, port there and from nowhere, a Gin and Tonic. That was the end of my ante-Shoot frivolities. I stood, shook hands with everyone and bid them a fond farewell. I knew I would see them all individually soon enough but collectively, I had a great sadness.
Home is not far away, with the dry, and now starlit night, I took a pleasurable walk home which seemingly took no time at all. The last round of chores for this keeper before any thought of re-climbing that wooden hill. The dogs had their last check for the night, all locked up safe and sound. Boots off and put in their rightful corner of the outhouse. Jacket hung up to air. And finally this old keeper climbed those final few steps of the day, the few steps back into a restful few hours after a long and very draining day. Up at five yet again the next morning he thinks. Having climbed into the oh so welcome bed covers, he closes his eyes and just reflects on the day. The silent but everlasting pictures flashing in his mind. Some fine shots, some fine dogs but the lasting and ever potent last thought in his mind are the Fine people who make everyone’s day one to remember and one to reminisce about at some future date, perhaps to one’s grandchildren.
Anon