Shooting Times & Country Magazine
A full house of speeds, angles and distances
An afternoon on the pigeons defies expectations, giving Tom Payne a thorough workout while helping a farmer friend protect his crop
My profession takes me everywhere during the shooting season. Whether I’m instructing in the field, controlling pigeon numbers or enjoying a driven day, I certainly put the miles in. With the grouse season going fairly well, I’ve been making regular trips to the north, all while fitting guns and teaching in between. However, my hectic schedule means I haven’t had too many opportunities to get out on the pigeons.
That being said, I will try to get out as and when I can. With the harvest being so incredibly early this year, I managed to get the bulk of important outings done. I recently returned from two good days on the grouse and was keen to get back out on the woodies. As luck would have it, a local sheep farmer and good friend of mine, Nick, had been getting increasingly worried about his crop. With the lack of hay due to dry weather, Nick had decided to drill a few hundred acres into stubble turnips for his sheep to graze on through the winter period.
Worth a shot
On my return, I promised to have a look at the situation. As Nick feared, the old pea stubble that had been drilled was drawing slightly too much attention from the local pigeon population and he was eager for me to thin a few out. A quick recce the night before showed that the ground was not heavy with activity, but it was certainly worth a shot. When there is no guarantee of a bumper bag, it is often worth showing willingness, aiming to take a few birds for the pot at least.
I finished an early gunfit in the morning and made my way out to the fields. Still sporting my chinos and a pair of RM Williams boots,
I planned to stand in the corner of the field and flight a few of the birds. My expectations were limited. I tucked myself in behind a small round pea straw bale, with part of an old stone wall and a healthy hedge in front of me and around to the right. I placed a full bag of Hull High Pheasant
Extreme cartridges on the bale and prepared myself for a shot. I hoped.
There is something quite enjoyable about going out with a gun and bag of cartridges. Sometimes going back to basics, without having to worry about setting up, is relaxing. Surprisingly, there was quite a good stiff breeze, which was not forecast the night before. Within five minutes, I could see a low-level squab through a gap in the hedge. It battled its way across the field, trying to get under the wind. I had a feeling it was going to try to make it to the belt of trees on my left, so I positioned myself accordingly. The squab came through, about 15 yards high and 30 yards out, staying true to its line and making for a straightforward first shot.
“Sometimes going back to basics when shooting is relaxing”
Different proposition
I was surprised to see the numbers of birds hanging around in the trees surrounding the field and through the valley. They didn’t panic at the first shot, instead gently gliding downwind in small packs. As you can imagine, I was thinking that this would be a very different afternoon to the modest one I had originally planned.
I took the squab and placed it in front of the hedge, with its wings slightly outstretched, to act as a bit of a draw. No sooner was I back behind the bale than a group of five appeared over the belt of trees to my left. One stayed close to the hedge line and with a puff of feathers the second bird was on the clicker. As I reloaded, a single bird appeared over the ash tree further up the hedgerow. It emerged up to my right like a single partridge, straight as an arrow. The High Pheasant 32g No 5 shot had no problem and number three was in the bag.
I’d taken three birds, at three different angles, with three shots. It was decision time — should I go and get my hide or carry on as I was? I took the lazy option. The birds
I had shot so far had shown little concern at my presence, so I felt fairly concealed and had no reason to change things up.