Way out West (incorporating Way up North)

Glorious 13th.

First shoot of the season, and once again my little patch is filled with shiny late model estate cars. Actually, today's planned avian slaughter seems a bit more muted than previous occasions. Just four vehicles laden with tweed have set off up the track towards the delightfully named Fungle Road, an ancient drovers road that crosses the hills from Aboyne to Glen Esk. Although, as far as I can tell, there are no more than half a dozen guns, the quantities of wicker hampers, cool boxes, cases of beer etc, still require a pick-up truck to themselves.

Never having been on a grouse shoot, I can only assume that the modus operandi goes something like this: drive into the hills for half an hour or do, get set up to shoot things, shoot at things until the ones with a talent for survival have run away, stop for a little stiffener and maybe a bridge roll, move on and repeat in a new location, and continue to repeat until the food and drink runs out.

I'm actually quite fond of the grouse that hang around my gaff, even though they take off like startled bricks if I catch them unawares. I don't suppose it has penetrated their feathery little brains that they are actually much safer in my garden than out there in the heather; after a tipsy pheasant extinguisher mistook our telephone line for a long thin bird a couple of years ago the shoots have been very careful to avoid discharging firearms anywhere near to dwellings or wires.

The only thing I find difficult to understand is why a shoot is considered to be sporting? Grouse at least are wild, but they're not very clever and not very aerodynamic, pheasants, if possible are even dimmer and prefer to walk. I can see the attraction of a stroll in the hills, taking an occasional potshot when you disturb a bird, but standing at a post, while the birds are driven towards you seems a little pointless. I suppose if you have paid around £1000.00 a head to slaughter birds, you'd want some sort of guarantee.

It does occur to me that if the sporting pleasure to be gained from killing stupid and bewildered creatures is that strong, then maybe some sort of arrangement could be made with spent battery chickens; they've fulfilled their primary function, and could give one more service before becoming stock cubes or pet-food. It would be a lot less complicated than maintaining a grouse moor, rearing pheasants etc, and the survivors (for there would be survivors), could create little enclaves of top quality free-range birds to assuage the consciences of the guilty middle classes. A satisfactory result all round, I'd say.

posted by Lampy @ 8/13/2012 03:09:00 pm