Life has blessed me in many ways. Not least of all, by allowing me to live in, and enjoy the wonderful sport of, the Scottish Highlands.

The opportunities for the hunter here are enormous. Whether one wishes to hunt the woodland Roe deer - the Red deer Stag on the high open hills - or the Red Grouse on the purple Heather moorlands. I have and do, enjoy all of these wonderful sports.

 

One aspect of hunting which occupies a great deal of my Winter days, ( and those of my friends also) - is Pheasant shooting.

This activity can take several forms.

 

It may be a day of walked up, rough shooting - usually carried out in thick cover, with four or five friends, and their Spaniels and Labradors. On a day such as this, the hunters might perhaps shoot four or five birds each, and walk miles over rough country for their quarry.                     

Alternatively - the guns might be on a grand driven shoot, on an Historic Scottish Sporting estate, where the bag at the end of the day could number hundreds of birds.

Both types of Pheasant shooting are quite different - but both equally enjoyable. The hunter walking up his birds, with dog and gun, can say at the end of the day, that he has truly earned all the game in his game bag.

The driven Pheasant shooter on the other hand, stands on his/her peg, and has to contend with trying to hit high, sometimes twisting, curling birds - enough to stretch the ability of any marksman!

Personally - a great deal of my enjoyment of Pheasant shooting, comes from watching good dogs, work well. I always feel a tremendous thrill, whilst watching a dog flush a crafty old Cock bird, from thick - almost impenetrable cover - or from seeing a shot bird which all thought lost - retrieved safely to hand! At the end of the hunting season - these are the memories which remain with me.

Even though one is Pheasant shooting - unexpected bonuses might come ones way. Often a Wood pigeon will be taken, as a flock is disturbed from it's tree top roost. Or, a much prized Woodcock might be flushed from cover by a questing Spaniel, and driven forward to the waiting guns, followed by the warning cry of, "WOODCOCK!". This is a sound to set racing, the pulse of any hunter!

 

Even the most wonderful Winter day's sport must come to an end though - and when the dogs have been fed, and are sleeping and dreaming by the fire - the guns have been cleaned, and safely locked away - one may sit -feet warming before the crackling logs, and relive the experiences of the day.

 

Magical. Truly magical!

 

 

                 Bericht und Fotos: Julian Schmechel