I had been invited to stay at a grand country house by a friend high up in the art world and in the City.
The occasion was a shoot, were the important and rich would set out in the morning after breakfast with their guns, loaders, dogs and wives.
The whole occasion appeared to be rather haphazard, but, in fact, was highly organised.
Breakfast in the “big house” was probably a little more elaborate than was usual. There was kedgeree, bacon, eggs, sausages, cold pheasant and partridge. Porridge, was there, too, for those who might like it, served with local cream.
My place in this jamboree of nature and slaughter was quite clear. I was a beater among locals, yokels and farm workers, but not quite, as I had orders to walk behind the beaters who rattled sticks on trees to make pheasants fly. I was to shoot any birds that cleverly flew away from and not over the invited “guns” but back over me (lucky birds).
We were a merry crowd us beaters from all layers of society and in great spirits.
We were to be traditionally correct by keeping our lines straight, under the orders of the head keeper.
The banter, tapping of trees and bushes with sticks, and voices urgeing birds to fly was all amid the delicious smell of winter woodland, of dead leaves and wet earth. It was just lovely.
The weather was cold and dry, as hoped for, and our dress was appropriate, being Wellingtons, heavy socks, jeans, sweaters, warm coats, and many outrageous hats that gave character to their wearers.
Our host was ahead in his large Range Rover and having trouble getting out of the muddy mire to firmer ground on the far side.
We beaters were perched on straw bales in a wagon towed by a tractor, behind the Range Rover.
We watched as our host’s car wallowed in the mud.
Then someone noticed that below us and to the side was a wire cage, and inside this cage was a bird - a lovely and exotic-looking dark bird with slightly curved reddish beak and large feet, one that I had never seen before. It was a water rail, now caught in a trap, set for the voracious mink that, during that time, and probably now, was killing off much of England’s natural furred and feathered wildlife.
We all wanted to relase that lovely creature, but we were under the head keepers orders.
At last, when our host reached dry land, he was told of the water rail and was furious that no-one had gone to free it.
The head keeper then arranged for someone to set the bird free, which ran away, flapping its wings and with its big feet hanging down, to live another day in the freedom of its boggy world.
A140
