On the top of the hill....
The Keeper occasionally finds his way in; and no
doubt the local poachers wander through. But, keeping a watchful eye for these
gentlemen about their lawful (or unlawful) occasions, it is a good place to
meet for a chat. Discreet and shaded in
this forgotten corner, the brambles and saplings twist together; wearied trees
lean ever more towards the ground. For the hungry there are still a few
withered rosehips and aged blackberries. For the very hungry, on a mild day,
even a few bugs and beetles. But not today, the ground is hard and crisped with
an icing of snow.
Not that that has stopped a gathering taking place. The last day of the season is over, the sun
is low across the valley and the guns have fallen silent. Beyond the slumped wooden
five barred gate all is peaceful. The participants of this last day have
gathered in this discreet glade to review, with today’s busy drives still fresh
in their minds, how it went, what might be a good plan for next year, how
things could be done better; and of course, plans for the summer, the outlook
for the children, all the usual gossip that is mulled over when a group of
friends know they may not see each other for a while. Or ever again, perchance.
These are the survivors; these are the ones that
flew bravely and landed safe, the ones that flew high (or in some cases very
low) and avoided the barking guns. And the ones that sat tight in the dense
places as the spaniels snuffled about and the beater’s heavy boots and thin
sticks came breath-holdingly close. They
remember those who are not there this day; and will never be there again. Then the cheerfulness breaks through, they
are here and summer is a’coming. They roll and strut and nod.
Then, the sun sinks from sight, the light fades,
the cold creeps into bare feet. The distant threat of a prowling fox distracts
the crack and the crowd disperse, flying to roost in the trees or strutting with
nervous pattering self-importance along the wood edge to their chosen spot for
the night.
----
At the bottom of the hill...
The Keeper occasionally finds his way in here too,
and the local poachers wander through, each keeping a watchful eye on the
other. Watching these wary persons is a further delight for those who know this
to be a good place to meet for a chat. In discreet and shadowy corners the
beaters and shooters titter and gossip together; wearied fingers tip ever more
beer to the ground. For the hungry there are packets of crisps and a rack of ageing
dusty packets of pork scratchings. For the thirsty; a pint of mild, or couple
of local brewed bitters. Especially this day when the ground outside is hard
and crisped with an icing of snow.
Not that that has stopped a gathering taking place.
The last day of the season is over, the sun is low across the valley, and the
guns are making a lot of noise, five of them slumped against the old wooden bar. The participants of the last day have
gathered in this dusty old pub to review, with today’s busy drives still fresh
in their minds, how it went, what might be a good plan for next year, how
things could be done better; and of course, plans for the summer, the outlook
for the children, all the usual gossip that is mulled over when a group of
friends know they may not see each other for a while. Or ever again, perchance.
These are the syndicate members, they have shot all
the days and drives they could, taking birds that flew high, sometimes a little
low, every one noted by the yelping barking dogs. Oft times the birds fell in
dense wooded places so the spaniels snuffled about aided by the beater’s heavy
boots and thin sticks crushing the blackberry briars. They’ll all remember the birds shot this day;
rehearsing them through their minds again and again. Then the cheerfulness breaks through, it’s
been a great year and summer is a’coming. They roar and snigger and nod.
Then, the sun sinks from sight, the light fades,
the cold creeps into booted feet. The distant scream of a prowling fox dissects
the crack and the crowd disperse, climbing into the driving seats of Land
Rovers or strutting away to the car park swinging Porsche keys to convey them
away for the night.
---
Old George, the head beater, lives at the top of
the village and rolls away in the twilight toward a snoozing fireside and warming
tobacco. As he rounds the corner an old cock pheasant jumps up onto the bank of
the lane. They nod and wink.
“See you next season” they each mutter as they pass.
