MANY YEARS AGO, I belonged to a small walkone, stand-one syndicate that shot fortnightly in the Sussex Weald. It was demanding ground, with small streams sunk in deep valleys while the woods were thick with brambles. Dogs were essential, and one of the rules of membership was possession of a suitable dog, though there were no stipulations as to how well trained it should be. On a normal Saturday we would usually have a dozen or more dogs out — mostly springers, but with the odd labrador and the occasional German shorthaired pointer.
The first day of the season was always one of the most interesting, not because of the bag (we seldom shot many birds in October, though we invariably picked lots of wild mushrooms), but due to the fact that it was generally the first day that new canine recruits appeared. These were the puppies that had been trained all summer and were now making their debut in the shooting field.
In many ways, these early October days were ideal for puppies to get their first experience of the shooting field, as there were never too many distracting bangs to get them overexcited, while the cover was still thick enough to slow them down. However, it was also obvious that certain members of the syndicate couldn’t wait to bring their puppies out for the first time, even though the latter may not have been ready in any way for what was a baptism of fire.
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