Hungary Unleashed: Guns, Game, and the Spirit of Adventure

This year, as I sat across the table discussing the idea of new shotgun models with Gerri Coulter, the head of Manor of London Gunmakers, he shared captivating stories about wild bird shooting in Hungary. This sparked dreams of a distant world filled with dogs, birds, guns, and the locals' highly flammable liquid known as alcohol.

Minutes later, he extended an invitation to join his next trip there, and my response was an enthusiastic "YES, PLEASE!" Some months later, we found ourselves at Gatwick, attempting to check in our shotguns to embark on our journey. Unfortunately, due to the inefficiencies of a well-known British airline (which shall remain unnamed), characterized by a hurry-up-and-wait booking procedure, we missed our flight. However, they graciously accommodated us in the first-class lounge, allowing us to explore the complimentary bar and restaurant.

After a 7/12-hour delay, we touched down in Budapest. We hastily hopped into a cab and headed straight to our host's favourite city restaurant, where I met Peter a bear of a man with a thick black beard and rosy cheeks. I also had the pleasure of meeting Francis Buner, a senior conservation scientist for the GWCT who over the course of the trip showed me many things and constantly kept me laughing.

These two passionate countrymen had auctioned off the shooting trip at a GWCT charity ball a year earlier, and I was fortunate enough for Gerri to win the bid. The following morning, following a delightful meal and my first sip of tokaji wine, we enjoyed a brief tour of beautiful Budapest before heading to Peter's family restaurant and farm. The irony of Hungary's name and the abundance of food became apparent as we were greeted by a chef who had been cooking since dawn, serving us a 4-course lunch.

That evening, we returned to the restaurant to meet fellow guns and beaters for another four-course meal, featuring Venison Tartare, soup, wild boar, ample wine, and eventually as we chatted about hunting trips in broken English I sampled of the some locally brewed moonshine.

The morning of the shoot arrived, and I awoke hours before my alarm, akin to a child on Christmas morning, filled with anticipation for an incredible day of sport. My only previous experience with wild pheasants was a week earlier when I went shooting with my long-suffering friend Jonny Carter.

After a quick breakfast at the restaurant, we met there keeper who was casually drinking a can of red bull which made me think of any other English keeper and hastily hopped into vehicles and headed out to the farm for the first drive. We walked to the first drive through a landscape resembling a wet version of Salisbury Plain, eagerly awaiting the first birds of the day.

It didn't take long before a cock bird broke the tree line, foolishly heading towards Gerri, who skilfully downed him with one barrel of his Manor sidelock. Minutes later, I spotted a speck in the distance flying from a tree belt towards me, gradually gaining altitude. Despite having one of the world's best clay shooters, Andras Varga, positioned next to me, I managed to hit my target with what felt like a busload of lead.

The day unfolded with drives featuring high-quality game. The efforts of Peter and his gamekeeper over the past few years were evident, with sightings of Water Rail, Hen Harriers, and other farmland birds. The emphasis here wasn't on bagging large numbers but on camaraderie and the opportunity to explore this exceptionally unique countryside.

After six fantastic drives, we were led to a square made of evergreens and yew branches, where the birds of the day were carefully laid out. Three local horn blowers arrived to play for us, evoking a deep sense of respect for the game. This led me to reflect on our own practices. At the ceremony's end, we shook hands with all the beaters, expressing our gratitude for their hard work. I was even offered the chance to try a traditional European hunting horn, thinking it couldn't be too difficult after recently winning our local hunt's horn-blowing competition. I was wrong; these horn blowers are true musicians, each animal having its own tune.

Once again, we returned to the restaurant for another four-course meal, this time featuring Donkey steak. We chatted, drank, and celebrated a day that will forever be etched in my memory.

I left Hungary with new friends, cherished memories, and an extra inch on my waistline, along with the determination to initiate something special here in the UK.