I had been invited to a pheasant shoot in the English countryside not far from the Scottish border. According to my friend Jane, this invitation to a private shoot was a HUGE honour, and would give me an opportunity to see a slice of English life not experienced by most people. Jane had already shown me a few of these “slices”, a fox hunt being one, and I packed my bag for a stay in the countryside with a sense of both expectation and dread! Hoping I had suitable clothing for the shoot, I climbed into Robert’s car for the 80 mile drive to our destination.
Our host and hostess lived in a very large manor, and my heart sank when I noticed how everyone was dressed, the clothes in my suitcase could never hope to compete! Although casual, the beautiful silk blouses and cashmere sweaters worn by the women looked expensive as well as elegant. I doubted I had anything in common with them, I felt like a fish out of water, and although everyone welcomed me warmly I knew I truly didn’t belong. I tried my best to join in the conversation over pre-dinner cocktails, and as the drinks flowed I began to relax. When I say drinks “flowing” I mean it, the party consumed several cocktails before dinner, wine throughout the meal and brandy after the dessert course. When they started in on the scotch I wondered how on earth they expected to even get UP in the morning, let alone shoot pheasants!
Breakfast the following morning was a subdued, hung-over affair of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, which we ate at a long table in the kitchen while our hostess prepared what I thought she called “Bullshit” on the aga. This turned out to be consommé spiked with sherry, a hot drink to warm us throughout the shoot. When I asked why it was called “bullshit” the others howled with laughter, it wasn’t until later that I learned the beverage was actually called “bullshot”.
We careened through the countryside in land-rovers so fast that I had little time to admire the scenery. En route I was told that we would be participating in a “driven shoot”, meaning that the pheasants would be flushed out of the woods by several “beaters” with dogs. The beaters were men whose job it was to frighten the birds into flight towards the shooters, then to pick up the carcasses as they fell. My job as a guest was to stay out of the way, something I was only too happy to do!
The shoot was very much a “man” thing that day, the women stood beside their husbands as they took aim and fired at the pheasants with their long shotguns. Robert, a former games-keeper and a crack shot, appeared to be the best marksman of the group, and I watched in mounting horror as pheasant after pheasant fell from the sky. Except for the noise of the guns and the occasional shout of triumph everyone was quiet, allowing the men to concentrate on shooting, reloading and shooting again. I found it totally surreal, peasants scaring the pheasants into the air so that the wealthy could kill then, and began to find the bloody sport increasingly distasteful! The “bullshit” was a welcome distraction, it tasted vile but warmed my insides. It was very cold that morning and I was grateful for the hot drink, also for the cessation of the shoot for a brief period while it was consumed. I was also grateful when lunch was announced and we were taken to a pub for a hot meal, a sit-down affair of hot roast beef with all the trimmings.
I will never understand why Jane suddenly decided it was time to head back to Cumbria. Robert was obviously in his element, and was upset when Jane adamantly insisted that we skip the second day of shooting. Jane reasoned that I was leaving soon and hadn’t had a chance to really explore the Lakes District, there was still so much she wanted me to see. That is why we said good-bye to our somewhat surprised host and hostess and drove through the night with a very sulky Robert at the wheel. I suspect Jane realized that the shooting of the birds had made me feel sick to my stomach, or perhaps it had dawned on her that I felt uncomfortable trying to communicate with her aristocratic friends. Whatever the reason for our early departure, Robert was distinctly unhappy, it was obvious he would have preferred to stay for the rest of the shoot, and I felt sorry for him and a titch guilty.
We arrived home at 1:00 in the morning, and as we entered the house the phone began to ring. At the same time a policeman who had been posted outside the house made his presence known. My life as I knew it was about to be changed drastically.
Aloha Judy, I’ve really resonated with your last few, very well written stories relating to your visits to the U.K. Growing up as a member of the British working class I’ve always had a huge disdain for fox hunts and grouse shoots. They are a vestige of the Victorian era where the privileged few engaged in feats of over indulgence and cruelty at the expense of innocent animals while being supported by servile and enslaved staff. I see no benefit from this style of living for a modern caring and socialist society. What pleasure it brings the aristocrats with their rotting meat, ‘bullshit’ hangovers and outdated traditions befuddles me. Life has so much more to offer. Thank you for leading us on this examination of what really matters in this life. I’m sitting on the edge of my chair waiting for the next instalment.
I agree wholeheartedly Graham the pheasant shoot in particular was rather obscene….