Guns, Dogs, Beaters: A Comical Journey in the Shooting Syndicate

Guns Dogs Beaters, a cheeky look at a small shooting syndicate 

For many years, I have observed the antics of the shooting fraternity, the guns, dogs and beaters and the game; of course, it has been and still is a continuing delight to record some of the situations all find themselves in; I hasten to say I count myself in the ensuing pages.

Before you read on, I have to say that I take full ownership of any perceived definition of characters and that I have an excellent lawyer friend………. I think, but after this, maybe not too much longer.

How it all started 

So, how did this happen ? A quick resume of who I am.

I first appeared in a small village on the Nottinghamshire and Lincolnshire borders; my youthful beginnings of what I am about to let loose began here; my playground were the fields, woodlands, streams and rivers with the added interest of all that lived and survived herein. 

I had the advantage of, should I say, a rather large and fearsome gamekeeper who would always manage to make an appearance at the exact time that I was engaged in an activity that I should not have been in. That also can be the same as our local constabulary, who, by taking my ear, would escort me to the education establishment where I was supposed to be.

In those days, I was also educated in the art of trout fishing without the aid of a fly fishing rod, which our local constabulary officer took fantastic enjoyment in by providing him with breakfast.

I similarly learned the art of horsemanship; by stealth, we would arrive at the paddocks armed with sugar lumps and baler tyne, which, with a bit of ingenuity, would become a somewhat amateur bridle and having acquired a willing horse we would mount bareback and gallop off that is of course if we managed to stay on board, this without my knowledge at the time prove to be a massive education for the use in my future life.

At the grand age of 8 years, I had acquired my first rifle, a Webley .22 air rifle, which I became a crack shot with, knocking a good many rats at harvest time provided the ever-present Jack Russells didn't beat me to them. The subsequent acquisition of a sweet little 8-bore garden gun and as the years that followed, further additions were added to the collection, finally with my first 12-bore, a side-by-side AYA, which I still have, having travelled far and wide with and shot many other species, some that I with hindsight should have avoided.

So why this ranting?, after so many years of "field sports" and, as previously mentioned, my interpretation of the actions of many Guns, Beaters, Dogs and Game, it's time to see ( in my mind) these actions in a comical manner.

I will endeavour to illustrate the woes and tribulations as the shooting season begins, or should I say, ends. Many of those who participate in game shooting pack their bags, clean their guns, and set into enjoying the summer months, but for those who, like myself and others, it's only the beginning of the next season.

I belong to a small self-run syndicate on the Suffolk-Essex border; we do not have the luxury of a full-time gamekeeper, so it's down to the syndicate members to fill this vital preparation for the next season.

February brings its usual problems. It's not called February to fill dyke for nothing.

Equipment needs to be cleaned: bird drinkers, feeders and anything else our beloved Shoot Captain requires; pens need attention, new posts and netting and hundreds more tasks to complete by July when our pheasant friend arrives.  

With the way February goes, it provides ample chance for people to comment on the state of my means of transport, unlike those who have the comfort of sparkling Range Rovers with city tyres, which usually require the assistance of the much-aligned but loved. However, it is better to be up to date with your tetanus jabs before approaching said vehicle.

February also tends to be somewhat windy here, especially if it's an easterly blow, which tends to blow trees over, usually over the repaired pens, so you will hear the singing tones of chainsaws, which provide ample supplies of logs for those who have wood burners.

All this preparation is carried out mainly on a Saturday morning.

By 11.30, those working can hear the much-appreciated call; PUBs open, so we all retire to the local hostelry, much to my delight of my Labrador as he too is ready for cheesy chips.

April arrives, and it's time for the subs to be paid.

With luck and a fair wind, the cover crops will have been drilled, and a healthy crop will show that it's alive and well.

By mid-July, our birds arrive to boost up those that escaped the previous season and are now possibly too well-fed on expensive wheat to never again reach the highest of more than 3 feet. Still, the cock birds have made hay with the hens, so there is no need to waste energy trying to fly.

Now that the birds have arrived, the never-ending topping up of feeders is an essential requirement; they, to our shoot captain, are costing us a fortune in food.

But still, we all have the belief that this is worth it, so good gamekeeping is more of a priority now.

We have a good population of vermin that has to be controlled whilst the ever-growing amount of Bustards and Red Kites that are untouchable by law, which we abide by. 

It's not long before we begin the following season, which will no doubt bring more opportunities to illustrate the antics of "gentlemen in the field" Having said that, more ladies are shooting now, which can be embarrassing as most that I have witnessed often put other males to shame.

So, day one arrives, and all assemble in the farmyard. Shoot, Captain looks worried about how the day will evolve, pegs are selected, beaters assembled with a multitude of warring spaniels and other dogs whose linage is doubtful, but they are all welcome, well until the shoot Captains shout, "Who's that effing dog " as the award creature tears though the cover flushing the birds.

Let's look at the guns. Well, I'm going to move away for a short time to look at the types of people I have met, and I am sure that anyone who has got this will meet the same at some stage.

The Guns

Without being rude, but then again, I still believe a lawyer that I can count on to represent me. 

Therefore, I will endeavour to identify them

Firstly, the country boy, bought up to know the land and all that reside therein, most probably a farmer, gamekeepers son or daughter, usually more than the average gun after years of practice when not engaged with the incredible Young Farmers Club or to be correct NFUC probably the best dating club they could join.

Now my favourite group, New Money, has worked their way up in the city,

They arrive at the shoot armed with the most expensive guns and dressed in the most fashionable kit (usually with price label still attached) and supported by a desirable partner; fortunately, she is a better shot; unfortunately, this chap also is the one that arrives with the latest top of the range Range Rover complete with low profile tyres that at the sight of the most miniature pool of muddy water gets stuck (again ref Lawyer, not all are the same) but most. Now, those with 4x4 vehicles with much lesser linage have to spend time dragging super 4x4 out of the mud, sometimes requiring more grunt of a tractor.

 The syndicate members who arrive on time most do not expect to get a 250 bird drive, nor do their guests, but look forward to a great day out with good friends, guns, beaters, dogs, etc.

Lunch usually takes around two hours, but that depends on how long our Shoot Captains Cigar can last; at least we are treated to an excellent fair of culinary delights ( advertising shoutout Brundish sausages) and cakes along with a small amount of beverage, which by this time of day they have consumed enough to sink a battleship, so you can imageable what the afternoon will be like

Etiquette

Where to begin? Let's start with what to wear; unlike other countries, we tend to, on the whole, wear tweeds, plus twos or fours breeches; however, there are the odd occasions when the dress standards seem to go out the window, such as the gentleman who had been on holiday to Hong Kong arrived with his tailored shooting attire.

There appear to be several outfitters that are favoured by how much of a wedge of the folding currents the gun possesses; clearly, this is more as a statement, and I'm afraid that at times, I, too, have graced these outfitters, hence the expensive wellies from that well-known manufacturer, but well worth the Spanish inquisition by the one to be obeyed and other garments that suddenly appear in my wardrobe.

That said, most look suitably attired.

Etiquette 

In the field, it's polite to acknowledge the etiquette of the shooting line. Well, that is what should happen; however, this is not the way on most days; there are mistakes, usually ending up by shooting someone else's bird, but there's always an apology with a grin from the offender.

Generally speaking, most of the time, we tend to be polite.

Away days

These are the days when we become roving guns for the day.

Several larger shoots deliver more significant amounts of the game than we can show, but of course, at a premium price per bird, so it's better not to leave the evidence of a well-used chequebook that can require much explaining to certain members of the family.

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