We had, in early April, a couple who came to stay for a wedding. Nothing to do with us. We weren't even going to it, but the parents of the bride were billeting various semi-distant relations around the countryside and we had rashly volunteered, pr
obably late at night, to take in any waifs and strays, not for a moment imagining we would be taken up on the offer. Much to our glee the couple in question came off the London flight completely ill-equipped in the clothing department for so much as getting from the terminal to the car.
Within 20 minutes of arrival she, a Keira Knightley lookalike dressed for the Caribbean, had virtually climbed inside the top left oven of the Aga to keep warm and looked utterly miserable. He being a man and British floated polite questions of the "Do you get much snow?" variety, indicating he thought it was bloody cold but was too well brought up to say so.
As it happened they, of course, were not half as bad as first impressions suggested and we all became quite matey. It turned out somebody's mother's golden retriever in Leicestershire was related to our golden retriever Mango, which meant dragging out every relevant document ever issued by the Kennel Club since 1937 (I think it was the owners who were related really, but it was golden retrievers that provided the clue).
They ended up cocking up the flights back and were stranded for most of the Monday. But during the course of conversation Adrian, for it was he, said he really didn't have the temperament for fishing and wasn't it a pity that shooting only happened in the winter.
There's always pigeons, I said, not particularly considering the subject. Pigeons? he said. Do you shoot them at this time of year? It is a rum thing, as I said to Mango later, and Mango agreed, that there are apparently quite normal people living in our great cities who enjoy their shooting, know quite a lot about it but only ever get out with a gun during the game shooting season.
Pigeons for Adrian were added extras during a pheasant drive. He had never considered making them the sole object of his sporting interest.
So, handing him a son's Spanish Black Sable 12-bore, which I rather covet, we headed for a neighbour's rape field and put out the V-formation of decoys and hid in joint-crunching motionless silence in sparse bits of undergrowth behind some mail-order netting – and waited. The first bird came in to complete silence as both of us were day-dreaming.
They have this habit, pigeons, of appearing from nowhere. And then they did start coming. Adrian, once he had the measure of waiting until they had their flaps down coming in to land rather than trying to shoot everything that came in range, began to connect. He spooked a good many by revealing himself too soon. We went home elated with nine for an hour-and-a-half's work, which was unspectacular but absolutely fine.
When it came time to leave us, Adrian, who could not be found, was discovered packed and sitting on his bed, completely hooked, devouring my copy of Shooting Pigeons by John Humphreys.
Pheasant shoots may be more sociable, we agreed, but pigeon shooting after stalking is as close as you will come to pitting your wits against a wild and wily quarry. And you can do it all year round.
arobertson@scotsman.com
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