Young in the field

Editor Jonathan Young, before tidying them away, takes a lingering look over his season’s game cards, small reminders of tremendous days

THERE’S a scene in the Cumberbatch series Sherlock when Mrs Hudson bewails the habitual carnage of the great detective’s rooms. And I wonder why. Is this doughty housekeeper really so innocent of the state in which men habitually keep their inner sancta? Looking round my study now – guncases stacked in a corner, man-eating leopard staring balefully from the floor, sporting books about to avalanche off the shelves – I’m rather pleased that it’s tidier than usual and less fragrant since I found the dead mole the Sealyham pup killed and left as a present down the side of the sofa.

Naturally, the piles of papers remain untouched – how else could one find anything? – but the past season’s game cards have been rescued from an old fruit bowl, put in a marked envelope and stashed in the desk. Why does one keep them? I suppose it’s not only because they’re a reminder of happy days but also, collectively, a record of what it was like to shoot in our time. I hope, earnestly, that my son and his won’t be left marvelling, that they too will have the opportunities that we’ve enjoyed and gather game-card collections of their own. But I keep them, just in case, but not before reading them once more.

Each has its own story. That champagne day in September when our young men and their grizzled fathers walked the moors with three warm-hearted keepers, shot straight and watched the dogs retrieve faultlessly. We tumbled a fair few that day, mostly those old sinners that double back on driven days, and we only failed to pick one.

Wing tipped by a flank gun, it settled into leggy heather by the track that we approached with loaded guns ready to administer the coup de grâce. The dogs failed to find despite a lengthy search and we left reluctantly but in the knowledge that we’d done our duty.

Another card, a different day, with grouse clipping over a short horizon on a Force 4, two killed in front, a change of guns, a third killed behind but the magical fourth dipping its wing, my failure to react and the shot passing wide to the right.

Then a homelier one: a farmers’ day, the young in force, each safe and experienced. Now all working hard, they’re too old for boys and girls’ days, too impecunious to buy shooting, so this was a treat. But not as much

All vivid memories captured so concisely, along with friends old and new, jokes shared, the dogs equally loved if heroes or hooligans

as it was for their fathers to see them leave the low stuff, pick the best, shoot them with style and mark their birds carefully.

Now two cards from the same week, both telling of fickle fate. I’d drawn No 7 on the first and, it being a nine-gun day, stayed in Siberia for most of the morning. When I was No 4 my host decided on an ‘experiment’; it didn’t work and it was back to the birdless wastelands for me. My contribution to the final tally was minimal. But three days later, up in the Marches, the game found me on every drive, I was on form and I had, as my Devon mates say, my bum in the butter.

Next was an oddity, a day without modern guns, muzzleloaders only. It was blustery, a smidge of rain and I was using a

William Powell built in 1853, the same year The Field was founded. My loader was the splendid Clare, a muzzleloading expert who can ready both barrels in under a minute. Even so, you have to gamble: go for the long, high or tricky bird and perhaps miss – or wait for an easier bird. Either way, it’s a wait before you’re ready to shoot again. But that old Powell shoots so beautifully it seemed a shame to play safe so we (and it’s definitely a team game with muzzleloaders) decided to take on everything. Clare is a good-luck charm for me so, extraordinarily, we had a run of seven birds for 11 shots, including two high pigeon and a right-andleft at wild English.

The card with the most stories was inevitably the last, when a few of us have an armed mooch. No beaters, no keepers, up at 5.45am for morning flight, back at 6pm after evening flight. We managed 59 head of 13 species this year: the grey geese that all sailed high over the marsh excepting three small skeins that dipped into the wind and range, leaving some of their number to be packed into the Land Rover; the teal that came clipping in on last light, plopped down and departed, leaving no time for a shot; the one that wasn’t so lucky as it rose late from a splash; the woodcock that for no apparent reason came high and unnoticed over the left guns until a shouted “’Cock over!” woke them up and the bird was bagged; and my final pheasant of the season, a glory bird that came high and fast over the skeletal wood and which I caught on the beak; the preceding bird, almost as tall, which I missed cleanly with both barrels, earning a ribbing from my host.

All vivid memories captured so concisely on those small game cards, along with the names of new and old friends, the stupid jokes we share, the endless joshing, the dogs equally loved if they’re heroes or hooligans, the long journeys to experience different aspects of our wonderful countryside.

And that is what remains special about fieldsports: with every season’s passing there’s always something to add to our store of knowledge. But one thing never changes for me: the constant wonder that we’re all so incredibly lucky to enjoy such moments with our friends.