In some corners of rural England ancient traditions survive, if tenuously.
You may think of your local clergyman as
having a distinctly pink tinge to his dog collar nowadays, probably a
vegetarian, member of the RSPB, Grauniad reader; in short, not so much the
church militant as just Militant.
But in
or two remote counties, in upland parishes, the huntin’ shootin’ parson does
survive; a rare beast and a shy one, but a welcome figure among the sporting
cognoscenti.
This morning we are in Cumberland, the verge of the Lake District, beautiful
and wonderful shooting land.
Below an
ancient wood, lined across a steep wet grass field upon which a cow would have
difficulty standing with any degree of dignity, are an assorted – indeed the
word motley is probably not overstating it – line up of nine figures with
shotguns, eyeing each other surreptitiously.
That is, apart from one, whose eyes are raised, to heaven, you may think by
the dog collar above the secondhand Barbour.
The Reverend Julian Taggart. A sporting parson.
In fact, a parson newly inducted to shooting by the blandishments of certain
tweedy parishioners at various tea parties, post Morning Service coffees, and
(whisper it softly) a couple of excursions into the village pub, at his new and
very rural parish.
Large parts of that parish are in the ownership of a well preserved estate,
with a moderately well preserved proprietor, the 5
th Lord
Lowesdale.
We have met that splendid rural
magnate before, in his stately home, open to the hordes at £7 per head, guide
book and cream teas extra. But it is for its shooting possibilities that Lord
Lowesdale so loves his rolling acres, and today he is in his natural habitat,
in ancient and ill matched tweeds, hosting a local syndicate day.
Not that such a grand personage strictly
needs to host, but as the guns are local, and the head keeper is a close drinking
companion of at least two of the finer shots, mi’lord does not want any risk of
miscalculation of the 200 bird allowance for the day.
Here they are; three farmers, the local garage proprietor, our parson, a
rural estate agent, a local businessman, and two guests, one of them the bank
manager of the businessman, the other a nephew of one of the farmers.
We’ve met that nephew before as well, a local lad made good, a City banker
with a black Range Rover Sport and a house in Chelsea. Yes, it is indeed B,
born and raised in this very parish where his uncle still farms; and puzzles
over what exactly it is his nephew does in those far off glass towers.
B once spent an afternoon explaining it; his
uncle, more confused than ever, wonders where B keeps all those hog sides and
what a wheat future is, as opposed to wheat in a heap on the granary floor.
Lord Lowesdale surveys this line up somewhat dubiously and stations himself between B and the parson.
Between God and Mammon, he might
have thought, if he had that turn of mind.
His radio crackles, m’lord applies his whistle loudly, and the assembled
multitude look alert.
The Reverend Mr Taggart continues to gaze at the sky, not as you may think,
seeking the early high bird, but trying to remember everything he had been told
by his mentors at the pub and in his two lessons at the shooting school.
He is starting to realise that not much has actually sunk in and that most of what has is completely contradictory.
At the far end of the line the action begins; an early flurry, a couple of shots,
the nervous whinnying of a shaking spaniel.
The vicar frowns in concentration and moves
his feet. And then moves them again. And once more.
To the right of B a high bird drifts
across.
B swings onto it much too late
and misses with both barrels. Lord Lowesdale sighs deeply, though consoling
himself inwardly that that is one more for the family day next week.
Then a shout: “For’wrd”, calls of “Over, over” and from the wood sails a
convoy of birds, splitting and curling and curving and soaring and
swooping.
The shots ring out, cartridges
are ejected and busy hands stuff warming barrels.
The man of god looks eagerly to left and
right, thrusting the borrowed gun hither and thither. Then he spots a
possibility, a bird swooping rather than soaring, drifting low from the wood.
The gun is shouldered, the trigger is pulled, and Lord Lowesdale, who is
looking skywards, is surprised to find himself in a cloud of feathers.
The vicar sees another bird approaching him at head height to his right and
discharges the second barrel. This time it is B who is distracted by a cloud of
feathers rolling past.
The vicar fumbles
with gun (left hand), cartridges (right hand), pocket (fastened), ear defenders
(slipping over forehead), feet (tangled).
The noble host catches B’s eye and raises a bushy eyebrow. B raises both
of his in return.
They both survey the distant wood and hear that promising cackle of
pheasants rising.
Lord L takes two steps
back and at the same time calls to B in a stentorian whisper, intended to
convey a subtle hint further down the line: “That’s enough for a duvet; a
couple more and we can stuff the pillows as well”.
The vicar smiles beatifically at this shooting field repartee about which he
has heard so much, and swings his twelve bore across the wooded horizon.
B, thinking with that incisiveness that has
made him legendary in City dealing rooms, calls “Vicar, hang on a minute, you’re
shooting so well that we had better get a loader to help you”.
The beaters in front and the pickers up behind breathe a sigh of relief that
causes the few remaining leaves to tremble on the ancient trees. All is serene.
And by next season, after some coaching from the assistant keeper discretely
incentivised by a case of Lord L’s whisky,
the Reverend Mr Taggart will be pulling down
the high ones almost as well as his sporting parishioners.
