Shooting Times & Country Magazine
Gamekeeper
With their speed and tenacious ability to evade the Gun line, grey partridges might just be the greatest challenge in the shooting field
OMark Fitzer is the head gamekeeper on the famous Holkham estate in North Norfolk ur first couple of shoot days have gone pretty much to plan. The birds flew well and the majority went where we wanted them to go, despite it being warm and bright. We were also able to tickle up one or two drives on the grey partridge; you can say what you like but, for me, there’s nothing quite like the greys.
Their will to survive in the wild is replicated by the same tenacity to evade the Gun line when driving them on a shoot day. Show them a gap in the beating line and they’ll exploit it. Let a covey drop into the cover in front of the Gun line and get ready, because it will be the beaters who see them next time they lift — likely enough straight back over their heads.
To see a covey lift and turn towards an experienced flanker, who stands his ground and waits for the perfect moment before he raises his flag, is an incredible view. With a flick of the wrist he can flag the approaching covey which, with lightning reactions, change direction to lift over the hedge and curl down the line to the awaiting Guns. As one gentleman described: “I thought it was the bloody Luftwaffe.”
It is something that always makes me smile on mixed drives. I have watched Guns coolly and calmly dealing with good-quality Frenchies and pheasants, then a covey of greys envelopes them and they end up in a complete muddle. Wonderful shooting is a great leveller.
Over the years I have been fortunate to have seen, and worked for, some of the great exponents of the art that is shooting. It is wonderful to see the effortless ability of some of these masters. Having said that, as long as the Gun realises he’s had the shooting and the birds beat him, what does it matter?
Picking-up memories
“I have watched capable Guns in a complete muddle with a covey of greys”
Many years ago when just starting out in my career, I went home to help out on a shoot day where my father was the keeper. He asked me to pick-up on this particular drive behind number one. It was potentially the main drive of the day, and number one was a walking Gun along the outside of the wood. If you could pick a peg on this drive, this would be the one for both quality and quantity.
As I walked with Father across to the Guns who were gathered having elevenses, he stopped, looked at me, gave a large sigh and whispered, “Oh Christ, I’ve just worked out who number one is.” It was a lovely gentleman, a true countryman and probably one of the worst Shots I’ve ever seen. He really couldn’t have hit a barn if he was standing inside it.
The drive began and, like the diligent young picker-up I was, I followed well back behind number one in the forlorn hope that he might connect with something. Bird after bird presented itself beautifully and curled back over number one, and every time bang bang, another pheasant flew past me with not a feather out of place.
The wood we were driving had a steady curl to it, and as number one passed out of my sight I heard a single shot. I thought he must have had a misfire with the second barrel, but no pheasant passed me. I hurried forward, and as I turned the corner I could see a gun and a cartridge bag on the floor, but no number one.
I shouted, “Are you OK, Sir?” and with that a head popped up out of the ditch.
“Yes, yes, I’ve got one,” was the reply, as he scrambled about in the ditch looking for the bird. Not knowing what to say I replied, “Well done Sir, was it a good high one?”
“No,” he said, “it was a bloody good low one.” Not a lot I could say to that.