Same Game, New Rules

He might devour snipe on toast with greedy glee, but Tom Parker Bowles believes that modern game cookery, from wild-boar ragu to pulled-pheasant bao buns, is the key to spreading the love

THE fascination of shooting as a sport,’ mused P. G. Wodehouse, ‘depends almost wholly on whether you are at the right or wrong end of the gun.’ As ever, the great Plum had a point, but we live in a land of game—furred, feathered and finned. As the leaves fall from the trees and the vales, valleys and moors ring out to the crack of rifle and the shotgun’s blast, it’s a fine time to be alive.

In fact, there’s no place I’d rather be. Forget Thai beaches and pellucid Caribbean waters, the heady bustle of Hong Kong and Sydney’s eternal allure. Nope, I want to be in shirtsleeves in a Hampshire field as a flurry of partridge explodes from behind a well-trimmed hedge. Either that or gazing up at the treeline, the wind whipping my face, eagerly anticipating the thump and flutter of pheasants’ wings.

That’s not to say that I’m an expert in any way. Far from it. My shotgun skills are distinctly average, my aim more cracked than crack. Even the cock pheasant, surely the most doltish of British birds, soon works out that a path over my gun is the path to longer life. No, the joy of shooting is about the succour of good friends and a day spent al fresco, rather than some monstrous four-figure bag. Oh and elevenses, too: plump sausages, plenty of mustard and a cup or three of sherry-spiked bullshot. None of that Champagne nonsense. Ever. Plus lunch, a long, languorous one, well oiled with claret and the very best of British comfort. As for stalking, well, all that crawling through wet heather, with only a damp bap as sustenance, is not my idea of a fine day out—when it comes to stags, I’d far rather eat than dispatch.