DECEMBER dusk, a young man and his terrier rummaging through thorny scrub at the fingertip of an unkempt wood and the fleeting silhouette of long bill and dark wings against half an ochre sun. A snap shot at best, but the bird folds soft as cotton and tumbles into the shadows as only woodcock do.
Wind the clock forward 40-odd years and I’m deep into the rocky, heathery heart of the far north-west of Scotland, having tramped for hours without so much as a chance. My spaniel has disappeared over the horizon, but the terrier is sitting patiently beside me. Bored of waiting for Sid to return, I pick up my gun and, as I take a step closer to the sea, a red grouse—magnificent in winter sunshine —erupts from the heather. As the gun jumps to my shoulder, I see the vivid red stripe above his eye before he puts 30 long yards between us, falling with a thump onto the sward.
Two shots I will always remember among thousands long forgotten. The setting for each, a landscape close to the heart—the first a wild, straggling wood where I was free to roam with dog, gun and ferret at youthful will, the second a terrain so rough and remote that I never came close to seeing (let alone meeting) another human soul during seven long hours on the hill. On such days, fieldcraft is paramount—the lie and contours of the land, the speed and direction of the wind must be constantly reappraised, for, without this knowledge, truly wild quarry will never come readily to hand. Both shots were also memorable for the dogs with whom I shared the sport—my first (and current) terrier, from a long line of flawless hunters, and a dear, scatty spaniel, which, like so many gundogs, has had his day and more.
この記事は Country Life UK の September 30, 2020 版に掲載されています。
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この記事は Country Life UK の September 30, 2020 版に掲載されています。
7 日間の Magzter GOLD 無料トライアルを開始して、何千もの厳選されたプレミアム ストーリー、9,000 以上の雑誌や新聞にアクセスしてください。
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