Shooting Times & Country Magazine
By hook or by rook
How easy is it to shoot the famous ‘four and 20 black birds’ and is rook pie a ‘dainty dish’? Jamie Tusting is determined to find out
My three newly acquired Welsummers pecked avidly at the sourdough crumbs I gently tossed into the coop. This was my third attempt at a sourdough and the third failure. Somehow, I just don’t have the knack. The chickens, however, are thrilled that I am a terrible baker and enjoyed the bread much more than their usual layers’ mash. I had been sold the hens on the promise that they were on the point of lay, but it had been a couple of weeks and there was still no sign of an egg.
To me, if a hen is not going to produce eggs, then it would be much better being put in a pie, alongside some leeks and creamy mushroom sauce. My girlfriend, though, has made it very clear to me that these are pets and not to go in the pot.
It was just as the last morsel of bread was gobbled up that a rook flapped gently past, landing rather precariously in a lime tree nearby. The nursery rhyme Sing a Song of Sixpence popped into my head and I whistled it merrily as I returned to the house and kicked off my boots; wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before a king? I wondered if the four and 20 black birds referred to in the pie were actually rooks.
Typically, rooks nest in large colonies and lay their eggs in early March. By mid to late March, the young start to hatch and about a month later begin to fledge the nest.
Leap of faith
It is at this time of year that you began to see the fledgling rooks venturing out for the first time, where they become known as ‘branchers’. They start with little expeditions hopping up and down the branches of the tree around the nests, but still not quite ready to make that first leap of faith into the air.
The Glorious Twelfth of May is often cited as the perfect day to shoot the branchers, when they are of a good size but haven’t quite managed flight. Historically, rook shooting was undertaken as a social sport, with large numbers of people taking part. In the Victorian era, rook rifles were even developed specifically for the shooting of branchers, with low velocity rounds being used to kill the bird but not do too much damage to the meat.
If I wasn’t going to be allowed to use one of my unproductive Welsummers to make a pie, perhaps the next best thing could be rook. With a rookery in a small copse on the golf course next door, there are always plenty of birds around and the old lime avenue leading away from the house is where they seem to enjoy hanging out.
It started, though, with a rook on the lawn. I saw it from the dining room window, proudly strutting around, so I quickly got the gun from the cabinet and sneaked round the back of the house.
“The Glorious Twelfth of May is often cited as the perfect day to shoot the branchers”
Right-and-left
I wasn’t sneaky enough and the canny corvid took off and landed in a tree, where it clearly felt out of range and safe. Not so, however, and I shot at the gleeful rook, dropping it from the tree. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of some movement; a second rook had been startled by the shot and was making a speedy exit. I quickly levelled the gun and bagged my first right-and-left rook.
Millie, my ever-excitable spaniel, had watched the whole scenario unfold from her perch on an armchair in the sitting room and, on seeing the second bird fall, had come charging out of the house. She
is fully accustomed to doing exactly as she likes and so ignored my calls and promptly retrieved both birds.
As I looked around the lawn for my empty cartridges, a third rook came across the golf course to see what all the commotion was. Rummaging around in my pocket, I pulled out a cartridge, stuffed it into the breech and quickly looked up. The rook continued across towards me. I shot it and added a third to the bag.
With the bit between my teeth, I snaffled the cartridge belt from its hook in the boot room and set off for the little copse on the golf course. The head greenkeeper at the golf course is only too happy for me to shoot some rooks, as the damage they do to the course in the search of subterranean food is significant.
Fruitless persistence
I had a long-range shot at a pigeon as I trotted down the 12th fairway, not a golfer in sight. The rooks seemed to be gathered at the far end of the copse when I arrived and I crept down the side of the wood towards their gathering.
Evidently the rooks were on to me and they either floated around the opposite side of the wood, or disappeared back into nests high up in the tall horse chestnuts. I followed them and they simply moved around the opposite side again. I felt a little bit like Winnie-the-pooh on the search for the heffalump, doing laps of the little copse with fruitless persistence.
A change of tactic was needed and I crept in through the wood, using the tall cow parsley as cover. Millie was close to heel, knowing there was a game afoot. We got into position under the nests, and kept low and as hidden as possible. After 15 minutes or so, the rooks clearly decided that the danger had passed and, emboldened, began to venture out again.
After a few more minutes, there was quite a collection cawing and scrapping up in the trees above me. I had two carefully placed shots and Millie was quick on the retrieve. It might not have been four and 20, but I had enough for a little pie and I set off for home as the evening drew in.
I’d love to say I found a recipe in an old cookbook from the 18th century, but the truth is that once again the internet came to my aid. The recipe I found resembled a chicken and leek pie, with a mashed potato topping.
Sizzling rook
Into a pan went some onions, leeks and mushrooms, and they were gently softened for a few minutes.
The diced rook was added and fried until nicely coloured. I added a blend of spices including chilli powder, cayenne pepper and plenty of salt and pepper. The mixture was layered into the bottom of a flan dish and covered with lashings of white sauce, followed by a layer really well seasoned, creamy mashed potato. The whole pie was topped with a large handful of cheddar. In my book, the more mature the cheddar, the better.
After about 40 minutes, the whole kitchen was filled with the smell of gently sizzling rook. There are some smells you get in the kitchen, such as garlic cooking in butter or grilled bacon, that fill your nostrils and send joy through your whole body. Rook isn’t one of those smells.
As it turns out, it isn’t one of those flavours either. Despite my best effort at presentation, served alongside some fresh purple sprouting broccoli, it wasn’t a dish that gave me hearty and wholesome comfort, let alone a desire to clear my plate.
Perhaps I got this dish wrong in its entirety. Some believe that the nursery rhyme refers to the marriage of Henry IV of France to Marie de’ Medici in the 17th century.
Legend has it that live birds were put into pies and the showpiece of the wedding banquet was the birds flying out of the pie to the awe and admiration of the guests. The pie was actually eaten without any rook in it at all.
The pie I made would not have been dainty enough to set before a king, and certainly wouldn’t have been delicious enough either. In fact, it was a bit of a waste of good ingredients, but Millie seemed to enjoy her slice .
“It might not have been four and 20 black birds, but I had enough for a little pie and I set off for home as the evening drew in”