Away with the birds

A Bloody Mary and a few liquid companions over lunch in London meant Eve Jones ended up with with some keen-eyed guns on Exmoor – and met her hero

I HAVE never shaken off the September feeling of going “back to school”. Perhaps it’s got something to do with hunting – a new season kicks in and as horses waddle in from their summer holiday, you realise from your perilously-stretched-about-the-bum breeches that your own lazy summer might mean a new school uniform before term starts. This September is less like going back to school as starting a new one for me. In a vaguely foreign country; with pidgin tongue.

You may remember my entrance exam to The Field was an affinity with wellies, an ability to discern a horse’s head from its backside. There was no paper on guns. I couldn’t have envisaged then that, two years hence, I’d be working with a shoot. And not just any shoot (I don’t like to do things by halves). When the offer to work with the Loyton estate presented itself, it was discussed over a speedy London lunch on my last day at my old job. I was so enthusiastic I accidentally drank a Bloody Mary and three glasses of wine with a predictably unabsorbent salad and rolled back to the office three sheets to the wind, declaring in very Tatler fashion that I had a new job and was off to Devon to shoot. I was sent on my way with a designer woolly jumper and congratulatory/ remedial packet of Polos.

I didn’t think of the practicalities of joining a Devonshire shoot in November, particularly when you live in London. Not the easiest strategy but it taught me the first big lesson: that running shoots is pretty bloody all-consuming for everyone involved. Angus Barnes, “the boss”, and I had an outstanding deal, however – one that promised me a day shooting for having enlightened him as to the dangers of using the aubergine emoji and other social media clangers, so on the last day of the season when I shot at Stuckeridge, I finally arrived.

For all you as familiar with your gun as your toothbrush, you might not remember how intimidating shooting was when you started. Being novice, in high-bird country and in the company of some properly talented guns, I was in half a mind to hop out of the Land Rover convoy and leg it back to London as we rolled to the misty valley for the first drive. Enter Biddy, my hero. If memory serves, Biddy walks around exuding heavenly golden light with a chorus of angels surrounding him. He is a about 12ft tall, loves Maltesers and was so unbelievably kind, patient and fun loading for me all day that at one point I did actually wonder whether he might be God. After a pathetically bad effort on the first drive (where, despite birds soaring over the firs ahead from the right and back down the valley behind me, I wouldn’t touch the trigger), Biddy patiently coached me to a respectable point, which wasn’t my imagination because his reactions were excellent, cheering and jumping about when my bird nearly took out the chap on the peg next to me. His achievement was to make me relax and reassure me it’s right to just shoot when you’re confident and to enjoy myself, which at Stuckeridge you’d struggle not to. He also pointed out that after lunch I was shooting with my leading eye closed, which somewhat muddied my form…

The only thing we disagreed on was his suggestion I get a gun and practise my aim along the corners of my sitting room; I’m not convinced the neighbours opposite are going to feel too comfortable so I’ve settled on a broom instead. Of course, it wasn’t just Biddy who was brilliant. My fellow guns were so supportive and great fun. Then there was headkeeper Spuddy with his team, the beaters, pickers-up, all so professional and friendly on the last day of what had been a long season. Chef JC Le Grande cooked us a lunch so tasty I scoffed three puddings.

My subsequent months with Loyton have been enlightening. Learning about the many layers to a day and meeting the teams that make such special shooting happen is fascinating. The months after the season closes are filled with the clear up and repairs, fencing and clearing woodland for release pens, sowing cover crops, maintaining existing drives and creating new ones. Then, when the chicks arrive on the rearing fields, a huge effort goes into their care as the countdown starts to next season. All the while they are selling next year’s days and running the shooting lodge through summer. No mean feat.

I met a keeper, Cookie, in May up on the rearing fields. “Some people say I was born,” he said, as he opened a shed to excited chirruping. “Others say I was hatched.” I suspect what Cookie doesn’t know about pheasants isn’t worth knowing. “I always say it’s a lovely job for keepers if it weren't for the pheasants,” said Cookie. “Because you’ve had three or four months chilled you think, ‘This is a great job’, but then the old pheasies come back into the game and it’s a massive amount of work. But when the whole field is full to capacity – and they’re all flying – it’s absolutely amazing and makes it all worth it. You think, ‘I’ve spent the past seven weeks getting them here.’ Every hour you can give to them you give to them and then they’re gone.”

That dedication is infectious. When you can see so many people putting in so much time for the precious days enjoyed by others, you want to do your part. If summer holidays are the downtime at Loyton, I’m glad I’ve done my pre-term reading. I’m fairly sure I’ve got the best tutors, so fingers crossed I pass the test.

A day’s shooting was promised for enlightening him as to the dangers of the aubergine emoji