Sport As It's Meant To Be

As big commercial shoots come in for criticism, Patrick Galbraith goes back to the sport’s roots to visit a small country shoot

Say what you will but I don’t always wear a tie in the field, remember to fill out my gamebook, nor ever really use my side-by-side.

I am not a traditionalist and yet, as I looked down the line at well-dressed Guns, silhouetted against the clear Wiltshire sky with handsome dogs at their feet, I couldn’t help but smile.

It was one of those glorious days when everything feels right in the world. Behind us, a flinty field dropped away into a deep gully, and in front stood a quintessentially English wood.

Just insight, a little boy with a stick was advancing, a diminutive beater leaving no trunk untapped.

The majority of the beating line at the Field Barn shoot are related to members of the syndicate, with Gavin Atterton, whose father was one of the founders, keeping them in check.

Then a pheasant broke. I have never liked firing the first shot of the day, so I fixed it with an unfriendly stare in the hope that it would decide to make its escape elsewhere.

But its mind was made up and it soared in my direction. I pushed my gun up into my shoulder and fired 32g of lead just beyond the bird’s beak. It buckled and tumbled hard on to the dewy plow. Then, Lazarus-like, it stood up, shook itself off and ran towards the trees. It was a regrettable start to an otherwise perfect day.

On my right, Matt Fry was making very tidy work of some impressive birds. A number of them crashed down into the valley behind us, where an experienced member of the picking-up team was waiting.

“That was Oxdroves,” remarked Matt as we wandered up the hill. “Once upon a time they drove cattle to market along a track that runs through the woods.”

Poignant