A Glorious Day In Henry's England

Patrick Galbraith enjoys a day on a traditional shoot in Shropshire, where the birds are as testing as the landscape is beautiful

Staring down at my empty coffee cup I thought about a headline I’d just read: “One in five UK journalists earns less than £20,000.” I’m not one of them but still, the writing game is never going to be a big bucks sort of gig.

A month or so before, I was in a sitting room in Bridgnorth with long-time reader Henry Yates. I’m a Celebrity... flickered on the television in the background while we discussed whether socks should be worn inside or outside your breeks. Henry, a Purdey Award panel judge, had very kindly invited me to the Manor Farm shoot in Shropshire. “There’ll be six Guns out tomorrow — mostly local farmers,” he said, before embarking on an interesting digression about how much he approved of his granddaughter’s boyfriend because he shoots well and is said to be as skilful on the cricket field.

The following morning I stood at the end of the line, with an ancient wood behind me, a farmhouse out to the right and, on the left, a grassy slope leading up to some cover. Henry’s England is the sort of landscape I dream about while standing on suburban train platforms, on my way to work, wishing I were elsewhere.

Brought down

A hen pheasant suddenly appeared out of the brash up the hill and rose into the bright winter sky. Mr Poole, who was on the next peg along, leapt from his shooting stick, thrust his Best English sidelock into his shoulder and brought the bird down at his feet.

I had a successful drive, folding four birds in the air. “Just keep killing them as well as that,” said one of the pickers-up as we walked to the next drive, “and we won’t have any issues.” I assured him that such a performance was quite out of character and things would doubtlessly go downhill.