A tubby suburban dad watching hunting and adventure shows on TV and wondering could I do that? This is the chronicle of my adventures as I learn to learn to Forage, Hunt and Fish for food that has lived as I would wish to myself - Wild and Free.
Showing posts with label bloggers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bloggers. Show all posts
Wednesday, 17 June 2015
Memory Collector: Hunting In Alaska
Regular readers will know that one of my favourite bloggers and to me the outdoorsman's outdoorsman is that Rifle-Sage of the north, Hodgeman. I've been reading his blog for years and if you want to read real practical advice about hunting, firearms, and kit he's your man.
Some pals of his have made this film about their mutual friend. Poignant without being folksy this is great storytelling. its a window into the way of life of a hunter-contractor who always wanted to live, work and hunt in Alaska as he hunts that symbol of the north, Barren ground Caribou. Seems like a happy and contented guy.
More soon
SBW
Sunday, 20 July 2014
Another Safari In Scotland
Been a while since I've been north of the border: Elfa wanted to go, the kids are on holiday with their mum, we are as usual snagged on freeholder connect at the job site, and sentimentalist that I am, I've had an Andy Richardson shaped hole in my life since the last visit. So this missive comes to you from the rolling fields, and sand dunes of Fife.
As is so often said, holidaying brings out the worst in people. We've served each other with divorce papers several times before we make it on to the train. One drama leads to another but eventually we're off and I fall into a fitful sleep as the train shudders northwards. Somewhere nearer to London than Edinburgh, and nearer to sleep than wakefulness, I was idly daydreaming of the great days of steam when I realised the huffing and puffing was intact the Evil Elfa still expressing her displeasure. Reluctantly, I open my eyes to find that she actually had a valid reason this time, her face is swelling up. She looks like she's saving a gobstopper for later. I am ,by nature, quite a caring person. Annoyingly Elfa, by nature, is the worst feckin' patient ever! Really, you know those stories where the nurse went mental and shoved the hospital trolly, patient and all, into a laundry cupboard and left them there over the weekend? It turns out there is a limit to human endurance, I can now see why nursey would. [But not why nursey would come back after the weekend]. Within the hour the gobstopper is the size of half a golfball.
Andy has it that we should investigate the mouth of the Eden, and armed with lures so secret they shall not be photographed and the obligatory over-priced slices of Mackerel we leave the truck in the golfers car park and walk down the dunes to the estuary. For some reason Elfa has elected to follow that rule of fieldsports observers - she has waterproof boots [bought for the trip] but wears trainers. WTF?
Flounder tactics are the same up here; tiny strips ofsushi [sorry bait the price confused me], small hooks and barrel-shaped weights that roll along the bottom. Cast into the tide and allowed to bounce their way across the sandy bottom.
The score at half time: we did see some one very impressive Sea Trout jump and several smaller splashes, I landed a couple more Flounder. Next time I fish this mark I'll bring a crab rig as my bait got chewed a few times by little fellas.
More soon
your pal
SBW
PS For Me and Andy's adventure with the TV people click HERE
As is so often said, holidaying brings out the worst in people. We've served each other with divorce papers several times before we make it on to the train. One drama leads to another but eventually we're off and I fall into a fitful sleep as the train shudders northwards. Somewhere nearer to London than Edinburgh, and nearer to sleep than wakefulness, I was idly daydreaming of the great days of steam when I realised the huffing and puffing was intact the Evil Elfa still expressing her displeasure. Reluctantly, I open my eyes to find that she actually had a valid reason this time, her face is swelling up. She looks like she's saving a gobstopper for later. I am ,by nature, quite a caring person. Annoyingly Elfa, by nature, is the worst feckin' patient ever! Really, you know those stories where the nurse went mental and shoved the hospital trolly, patient and all, into a laundry cupboard and left them there over the weekend? It turns out there is a limit to human endurance, I can now see why nursey would. [But not why nursey would come back after the weekend]. Within the hour the gobstopper is the size of half a golfball.
One for the Tackle Tarts
Flounder tactics are the same up here; tiny strips of
More soon
your pal
SBW
PS For Me and Andy's adventure with the TV people click HERE
Saturday, 18 January 2014
Deer Hunting In Paris: Book Review
Gotta flash this one up to you. A while back another former vegetarian Paula Lee got in touch saying 'we have some mutual friends and you might like my book'. I do, a lot. She is very very funny.
Deer Hunting in Paris: A Memoir of God, Guns, and Game Meat
Paula grew up in Maine, which has it's own Paris [who knew?] and lives in Paris [actual Paris], She lives the life of a european academic, she's got all the enthusiasm's of the ex-pat, knows where to eat, and all the cultural sights. The book really captures what its like to live in a foreign city, seeing all the things that are invisible in our home town's. One afternoon, sitting in the sunshine she's surfing a dating site 'for a friend' and sees a guy who piqued her curiosity, and happened to be from a few towns away from where she grew up.
Having moved an ocean away to take up the life of a european intellectual, the book is a record of her adventure rediscovering rural american life with her new boyfriend, who isn't above teasing his 'city-fied blue state girlfriend' . Some very funny scenes follow.
Paula leaps off the page, with her stories of a childhood being a minister's daughter as her korean family make their version of the american dream in rural Maine. Being a bit 'bookish' [to say the least] Paula also peppers the pages with snippets from some very obscure old books on hunting and eating. Through the accident of love she revisits her childhood through the eyes of a more worldly traveler. And its fucking hilarious.
Here are a few snippets from one of our emails conversations.
SBW: What's the best piece of 'woodsman's lore you've picked up?
PL: ...The part I liked best about that outing was Patrick smelling the snow to determine how old the rabbit tracks were. I am still not sure that technique works. He and his brother, my boyfriend John, love to try and convince me that certain "woodsman lore" is for real when it's actually just them making sh*t up.
SBW: In your book I get a sense of a very busy childhood - lessons, chores, work, the church etc Did you always have a wanderlust for travel? And why Paris - probably the second most 'up itself' city europe has to offer?
PL: Every girl wants to go Paris. It's just a question of "which" Paris: foodie Paris, fashion Paris, arty Paris, romantic Paris? I ended up with ratty Paris, which was just fine with me but I don't think it's good for tourism.
SBW: There's a great moment where you seem to see your own anthropomorphism; Homer the dog is either 'got' by coyotes or kidnapped - your new family don't seem that concerned by the fate of a working dog and not very good one at that - but you're still ' but its Homer!' imbuing him with personality, how did that change?
PL: Until I'd met Patrick's pack, I'd never experienced hunting dogs that actually hunt. They're like furry space aliens with wagging tails. Who knew that beagles thrill with doggy joy when there are real rabbits to chase instead of tennis balls?
SBW: In my experience the french are a lot more 'whole animal' than the English, with some americans in between and lots of your fellow countryman even more squeamish than the english, how long did it take you to adapt?
PL: Never understood the squeamish thing. I'll put it this way: for Christmas, John bought me muck boots to wear when shoveling manure, a new skinning knife, and a meat grinder to make venison sausage. I was very happy.
SBW: Why do you hide 'Guns and Ammo' on a church day?
PL: Can't hide the actual guns.
SBW: Looking from the outside the 'culture wars' between americans who can read and americans who watch Fox seem laughable how would you describe them to an overseas observer?
PL: Well, I argue with the Fox News people and John reminds me that they can't hear me, being on television and all. So I guess that it's in a nutshell: a liberal trying to debate with talking heads who don't care what I say, and a conservative reminding a liberal that you can't change reality by yelling more loudly.
SBW: The "sighting my rifle' story is very good, you capture the moment very well, have you thought about buying him a laser bore-sight?
PL: What he really wants is a tank. You can get them on the internet.
SBW: My GF calls internet dating 'shopping for men' I loved the idea of you browsing on behalf of a friend and finding john - have you ever found anyone for anyone? I ask as a GBF found me for my GF.
PL: See: "Tank." You can find just about anything on Amazon. Including frozen whole rabbits.
SBW: Does john ever come to paris to visit you, and does he hunt in france?
PL: John came to France. And to England. He didn't come to Korea. Poor guy finally got so exasperated by my month-long disappearances that we broke up. Then I came back; we had a huge row, and after a Bonobo-monkey-like negotiation session we resumed our relationship. It would be a thrill to hunt in France but have no idea how to arrange that. It's difficult enough to arrange in Massachusetts (a blue state made up of "readers," very anti-hunting).
SBW: When we were emailing about these questions you were skinning a 6 point buck with one hand and texting me with the other, and in the book you express an unfulfilled interest in tanning, have you learned to brain tan?

SBW: I used to see a blogger from Massachusetts and she characterised / mocked the bostonians for including the word[s] 'wicked-awesome' in every sentence, was she being unfair?
PL: It is a wicked awesome place except for the Massholes who live here.
You can find her book on Amazon HERE
This post was brought to you, by me and the lovely people at Grammarly, I use Grammarly's free plagiarism checker because encouraging people to do their own writing instead of plagiarizing will make them better writers, I think of it as an act of kindness. It's also 'wicked-awesome' for confirming citations, which can come in very handy.
More soon
SBW
Friday, 10 January 2014
Dude You're Screwed. With Pathfinder Tom
'Tomahawk is a snaggle toothed, piratical, bacon eating, cigar smoking, borderline alcoholic, that travels the world, exploring wilderness areas and seeing the sites. He can often be found in 3rd world bars telling drunken "I was there" stories to impress tourists.' - from Tom's blog
Been a while since one of the gang appeared on TV, this time its the blogger known as Pathfinder Tom showing us how its done on a show for Discovery called 'Dude You're Screwed'.
The premise is a simple one; a group of survival experts gather together and take it in turns to kidnap each other, with the kidnapped guy being dropped off in some inhospitable terrain, and having to find his way out. His progress may or may not be hindered by some stuff the others have 'gifted' him to carry along. The show manages to avoid the stunts and sensationalism or earnestness, and instead has guys who know their shit and are having a laugh out MacGyver-ing each other on a lads weekend away. Kind of Bushcraft-TopGear?
Tom is cast in the role of the group's 'wise old guy' or Zen-sage. Who does less to achieve more and wins without competing. All whilst lugging along; a bunch of flowers, some anti freeze, and golf bag, that the other contestants have chosen for him.
I was pleased to see 'wise' as one of the characters the producers had chosen, we've seen military-guy vs earth-guy on these shows before so widening the casting made a refreshing change, for once even that great stereotype of american TV 'British-guy' wasn't of the Hugh Grant mould. Of course the difficulties inherent in filming mean that there is a staged quality to some of the scenes, but I massively prefer that to stunt-cam style where voice overs saying "here's one the production crew got ready while I was still asleep in the hotel" have to be added later. For me by being honestly fake the show was better than those who have tried to fake honesty. So far, so zen.
Followers of Toms blog, will know that while the rest of us are [to varying degrees] playing at it, Tom lives off grid well over 300 days a year. He does a bit of contracting, teaches at Jack Mountain Bushcraft School, or guides, but for the most part he just seems to enjoy himself traveling and living off the land or from things dumped at the fringes of 'civilisation'.
While every other 'survival dude' on tv seems to have a bag, clothing range or knife to endorse, his survival knife is at least 20 years old and cost less than $20. Most of the rest of his gear is literally dumpster-dived. I've been reading his blog for years and I can't remember him once recommending any particular brand of anything, other than Johnny Walker.
Tom lives as near to free as you can - both feet in the wild, and just a toehold in the modern world. Interesting chap, on TV he seems just like he does on the pages of his blog, which I guess is what this storytelling malarky is all about?
More soon
SBW
Wednesday, 2 October 2013
Hank Shaw's Duck Duck Goose
We've waited a long time for this, there are plenty of books about game cookery that have a few pages dedicated to wildfowl, but there hasn't been a single work that puts all the wisdom in one place. Until now.
I've followed Hank Shaw's blog Hunter Angler Gardener Cook since it's first post, we've conversed by email and in the comments sections of our respective blogs. I am an unabashed fan of his writing, recipes and outlook on food and hunting.
There are lots of johnny-come-lately foodie bloggers, and frankly I'd trust most of them to tell me about the ambience of the eatery more than the food, some of them are very experienced customers, no bad thing, its all part of the deal. But if you wish to 'know' your ingredients, you must have put in your 'dirt time' hands on with the soil, walk the earth, gather and hunt from its fecundity.
The GF - Elfa, drank, and sold a lot of wine, but for her to feel her education had begun she had to make seasonal pilgrimages to the vineyard, to walk away from a planned harvest knowing another few days sunlight would take the crop to another level of ripeness, then crush the grapes with her bare feet, before her connection to the wines could become an almost living thing. I've seen a lot of wines sold, but passion will out. It's easy to fake the sincerity, but not the deep connection to the repast you serve.
I'd like to tell you some underdog-tale of how Hank's blog started from small beginnings and grew, but no, Hank was already an accomplished writer when he made his first post. He'd worked as a journalist for many years, he'd put himself through journalism school by slaving at a hot stove and he's walked the forests, fields and beaches with rod and rifle, with gun and basket. His books could be seen as a confluence of that time and many many evenings spent between the stove and the bookshelf.
The book hits AMAZON right about now
The book tour has started, so you can meet and more importantly EAT with Hank - the details are google mapped HERE
You can follow Hank on Facebook HERE
More soon
SBW
I've followed Hank Shaw's blog Hunter Angler Gardener Cook since it's first post, we've conversed by email and in the comments sections of our respective blogs. I am an unabashed fan of his writing, recipes and outlook on food and hunting.
There are lots of johnny-come-lately foodie bloggers, and frankly I'd trust most of them to tell me about the ambience of the eatery more than the food, some of them are very experienced customers, no bad thing, its all part of the deal. But if you wish to 'know' your ingredients, you must have put in your 'dirt time' hands on with the soil, walk the earth, gather and hunt from its fecundity.
The GF - Elfa, drank, and sold a lot of wine, but for her to feel her education had begun she had to make seasonal pilgrimages to the vineyard, to walk away from a planned harvest knowing another few days sunlight would take the crop to another level of ripeness, then crush the grapes with her bare feet, before her connection to the wines could become an almost living thing. I've seen a lot of wines sold, but passion will out. It's easy to fake the sincerity, but not the deep connection to the repast you serve.
I'd like to tell you some underdog-tale of how Hank's blog started from small beginnings and grew, but no, Hank was already an accomplished writer when he made his first post. He'd worked as a journalist for many years, he'd put himself through journalism school by slaving at a hot stove and he's walked the forests, fields and beaches with rod and rifle, with gun and basket. His books could be seen as a confluence of that time and many many evenings spent between the stove and the bookshelf.
The book hits AMAZON right about now
The book tour has started, so you can meet and more importantly EAT with Hank - the details are google mapped HERE
You can follow Hank on Facebook HERE
More soon
SBW
Thursday, 4 July 2013
Driven Pheasant And Partridge In The UK
As part of my on going education in to fieldsports the blogger Shooter thought I should have a look at a traditional english driven game day. You should have seen the delight on Mrs Shooter's face when he asked her if she'd mind if I took her place at his side being his 'loader'. Having brought her beloved back alive from the first trip she was mysteriously and unexpectedly 'unavailable' a couple of weekends later.
I met up with Shooter at his place in the far far 'burbs, by the time I arrived it was late so we both turned in. Shooter cant sleep the night before a shoot and I cant sleep at the temperature he sets his heating to, so each of us is up half the night trying not to wake the other. Several times I hear Shooter shuffling about, between my fitful sleeps and torrid dreams of being trapped, sweating, in a bed full of very fat women with webbed feet - seeing as we are going to Norfolk this perhaps shouldn't be surprising - between the over-upholstered, semi-aquatic dreams and being awoken by thirst I find the time to read most of the fascinating The British Boxlock Gun & Rifle by Diggory Hadoke. Great book, crap nights sleep.
Despite both being up over an hour before our agreed time somehow we still manage to leave late. We spend the journey discussing adventure writing, recipes, firearms and seeing as it's where we are going telling our Norfolk stories.
The most windswept of English counties, a place long known for its flat damp landscape, religious fanaticism, poor transport links, and inbred locals (I dont know if they really have webbed feet but its a commonly held belief) . It's also the home of the worst pizza I have ever seen. Tuna mayo UNDER melted Cheddar cheese. Not an experience I could recommend. Shooter seems to have enjoyed himself on his trips though. To him this is the fabled land of Partridge and Pheasant. Of driven shooting. A land he first imagined from the pages of books in his Grandfather's study back home in India. A land of dreams come true.
Driven Shooting. Nothing gets the Anti-Hunting brigade frothing at the mouth like driven game, so naturally I was keen to see what all the fuss was about. I've been to shoots a few times but this promised to be something very different.
The lads I have beaten for all chip in a couple of 100's per season to cover the grain costs, turn up for some fairly leisurely work days, and the more enthusiastic members of the crew spend a few nights shooting Foxes.
The beaters are either the guns themselves taking turns, or their kids. The bag is never impressive but a lot of competitive barbecuing goes on, a good time is had by all. There is no dress code, no one has a gun that cost more than a weeks pay. Most people have guns that were less than a day's pay. Simples.
Traditional Driven Shooting is something very different. All the numbers are much bigger. This is the other sport of kings, aristocrats the world over have this as a passion, it takes a lot of manpower for a very small number of people to shoot a very large number of what are essentially managed wild birds/ free- ranging farmed birds. Which perhaps has something to do with the strong feelings it evokes in the anti's.
To cut a long story short its a more expensive [and less hair raising] version of the French Battue, that most egalitarian form of hunting. Except it's big on pageantry and ritual, and is only egalitarian in the sense that anyone happy to drop the best part of a grand and up [way up] for a days entertainment can do it.
A line of Beaters 'Beat' (Battue) the cover and animals and birds break cover and come flying and running towards a line of people with guns, in France its Boar, Deer and Hare, here its Pheasant and Partridge with strictly enforced rules against shooting game on the ground. The only exception being that no gamekeeper can endure a Fox to live, so they're shot on sight by the Keepers and any armed beaters.
The French do driven shooting communally, the hunting committee dishing out the bag to all participants. Here the bag is sometimes the property of the shoot, sometimes belonging to the person who bought the day, the guns just get a token brace of birds to take home, and the rest goes to the game dealer to offset the days costs.
Driven game days are something of an anachronism, they take vast amounts of organisation and resources to turn a lot of birds raised, into comparatively few birds brought-to-bag. Over the season 40% of the birds 'put down' is good and 50% exceptional. The Pheasant and Partridge are raised in pens, defended from crows, stoats, weasels, and foxes. If and when they reach maturity there must be cover crops sown for them to mooch about in, they could be left to forage for their own food but need to be fed to stop them wandering off. When the season comes around a small army of Beaters are needed to get them airborne and another team, this time of Pickers Up, to collect any birds the guns have been able to hit and the dogs able to find. The whole spectacle takes place over a fair bit of countryside 'drives' are usually quite a way from each other so there must be a Beater's Wagon to move the troops about and everyone needs to be fed. All so eight 'guns' can enjoy a days shooting.
Everyone's money is good these days so you, or someone like me (except with money), can dress up as an Edwardian gent and be part of the fun. The estates, much like fine gun makers, are in the business of selling a dream. Just like Rolex they are selling a super-fine version of something quite basic. You can have a watch or a shotgun that does the job just as well for less than a days pay or you can have a superfine one that announces "I've arrived", letting you join the club of people who feel they need to let others know they've 'arrived'. If that's your kind of thing. There is a whole industry devoted to marketing this pagent of the edwardian sporting lifestyle with specialist driven shooting magazines full of articles about classic cars, fine wines and high end real estate. Their journalists have names like Tarquin and Arabella, they read like the society pages with coverage split between who was at whose house for a weekends shooting and how the latest oligarch and his stunning girlfriend have been welcomed into the local scene. Welcomed in the hope that Ivan and Natacha will bring some much needed cash.
The englsh class system is always entertaining to watch but I've never really felt I understand it well enough to explain it, to an outsider possibly the most puzzling part of the day's proceedings is the dress code. Why you need a dress code to stand in a field has never been adequately explained to me. 'Tweed and a Tie' was the instruction which kind of covers it but not really.
For the first outing I wore the only Tweed jacket I own, its grey and quite moth-eaten so wasn't really in the spirit of the thing. For part two I wheeled out my skip dived waxed cotton jacket, Shooter thought I'd had it from the year dot and that 'skip-dived' was idiom or understatement for 'I've had it a long time' nah I really did fish it out of a posh blokes rubbish bin next door to a building site. Its smell marks the wearer as a dog-bloke and it's proper dogeared, its the perfect way to blend in when visiting a world where history is everything - it really does look as though its already given several generations of service. No johnny-come-lately would ever stoop to such an attempt to ingratiate himself.
We manage to make up for lost time and rock up at a very handsome pile in the early Victorian style. The Guns assemble in their "shooting gent' outfits. Some people really going for it with the tailored tweed suits which vary from as older than me to brand spanking new razor sharp tailored tweeds. In patterns from subdued to clown-wear. I like the lairy ones myself.
The Guns are an interesting bunch, retired gents and farmers mainly, all greatly looking forward to their days sport. Tradition has it that a wallet of numbered sticks is passed round, the numbers drawn denoting the order in which the guns are lined up. Whatever peg the gun is one he'll be a peg further on on the next drive and so on.
On the other side of the class divide the Beating team wear the classic outdoor wear we'd all recognise, surplace Camo of more than one nation, mismatched with waterproofs held together with duct tape. While the Guns are having their fashion parade in green wellies, the beaters will be fighting their way through the cover in boots and gaiters. Everyone wearing a shirt and tie. Even me.
The Beaters wagon trundles off and we follow in another sport's 4x4's. There is a bit of tromping across fields to be done, Norfolk's thick clinging soil making us look like deep sea divers in leaden boots. Shooter and yours truly struggle to our 'peg' and the whistle goes to announce the start of the first drive. The rule is if the bird has sky behind it it's safe to take a shot. Shooter is very disciplined about this and exceptionally courteous in letting several which I would have shot, fly on to the shooting lane of the next 'peg'. At the next peg but one an older, and super petite lady in furs-and-wellies is a very tidy shot with a cloud of feathers in the airspace above her for most of the drive . Unlike myself Shooter is lethal with a shotgun. Pheasants and Partridge crash down behind us, twice delicious Woodcock fly past lamentably well out of range.
Each drive probably lasts about 30 minutes before the whistle blows. Trudge across the fields again and it's off to the next one. Sometimes the luck of the draw has us in the thick of it, sometimes were right out at the end of the line which dosent always pay off. The wind is like paint stripper, the mud is thick, we share a flask of Whiskey, and in the face of the wind attempt a shouted conversation about the aqua-dynamics of mud.
Four of these drives later it's time for lunch. Shooter and the other guns retire to the dinning room for their repast. I join the beaters and pickers up in a barn for a really sturdy soup and some sausages. The Beaters range in age from Twelve to late Sixty's and are drawn from all walks of life. Several of the young lads are in agricultural collage learning estate management and gamekeeping, the girls are very 'horsey'.
All kinds of people go beating, the common denominator seeming to be that they lived reasonably nearby. The day is it's own reward; a day afield, with the dogs, banter with the other beaters, and a couple of birds. Beaters dont get paid a lot for beating but its all part of the interconnectedness of rural life, deals are done, favours swapped and collected on. Once you've dressed for the weather beating is a lot of fun, and if you're a dog person it's a chance to see the dogs working which only the most cold hearted wouldn't enjoy. As one of the girls remarked it's "cheaper than the gym".
During lunch I met TBG (the boy genius) and TUK (Techno Under Keeper) both of whom were top company. TUK lives on the estate, gamekeeping at the weekends and running his IT business during the week. TBG is his mate's lad and the only person who has ever explained HTML to me in a way that even I could follow, and he's only twelve! Literally a boy genius.
TUK and myself wandered around the estate for a while, chewing the fat, and sharing our mutual fascination with shooting lore.
There are plenty of traditional anecdotes about the guns and keepers:
Famous Woman X (often Kate Moss or Madona) turned up at our shoot in Heels (I've heard this one so many times I doubt either of them actually ever spends a weekend doing anything else)
Eric Clapton is actually quite a serious shot although he is to be mocked for having guns engraved with his own likeness.
The keepers had to shoot the birds from behind the visiting americans/germans to flatter them that they were hitting any birds at all.
All scandawegens are lethal shots and have amazingly; well trained dogs and super hot wives.
Lord X [owner of the estate] is a hell of a shot, his father wasn't so keen, but you should have seen his grandfather, now that was as shot/sportsman!
Vinnie Jones is very polite and a very very good shot.
That woman from the posh shooting press is actually 'a rubbish shot despite what she says on her videos and £20,000 gun'. This view is to be seconded by one of girls adding 'The way she suddenly develops a slight lisp in whenever lord so-and-so is within earshot, tells you just what kind of woman she is'
At the shoot down the road the guns has a whip-round to buy Old Tom the beater a new jacket, never having taken the trouble to speak to him blissfully unaware that he sold one of his companies for 300 kergillian and is now holding out for a better price on the other one. Thinks the guns are getting the raw end of the deal, he just likes beating but wouldn't wear his good clothes to do it.
Then there's the ticklish subject of etiquette, you can actually pay to go on a course to learn this stuff. Mostly the advice is just "Try not to make too much of a ____ of yourself".
In London we just introduce ourselves by first name with the implication that anymore information would be a disclosure too far, but in the country that would be a serious breech of etiquette, some of the older guys [65+] still used the family name-first name form of introduction.
A shirt and tie must be worn at all times, no exceptions.
For readers overseas:
Toffs all know each other, or at least of each other; while gun nuts can give you chapter and verse on any obscure calibre you care to mention, football fans can give you a play by play reenactment of games that took place before they were born, toffs all know each others family, scholastic, and personal histories.
" 'Mayo' Pushbarrow-Handcart, Stowe, I rode Biggleswade minor to third in the nerd racing"
[Biggleswade minor denoting the younger of the Biggleswade brothers, Stowe is a private school, nerd racing is racing on nerd-back]
" Andy Maitland-Bell, Eton, weren't you the one in old Cruikshank's class who was caught with a jar of mayonnaise? Badger's brother?"
"Haw Haw Yes that's me"
Some of you will think I'm exaggerating, trust me, I'm not.
I met up with Shooter at his place in the far far 'burbs, by the time I arrived it was late so we both turned in. Shooter cant sleep the night before a shoot and I cant sleep at the temperature he sets his heating to, so each of us is up half the night trying not to wake the other. Several times I hear Shooter shuffling about, between my fitful sleeps and torrid dreams of being trapped, sweating, in a bed full of very fat women with webbed feet - seeing as we are going to Norfolk this perhaps shouldn't be surprising - between the over-upholstered, semi-aquatic dreams and being awoken by thirst I find the time to read most of the fascinating The British Boxlock Gun & Rifle by Diggory Hadoke. Great book, crap nights sleep.
Despite both being up over an hour before our agreed time somehow we still manage to leave late. We spend the journey discussing adventure writing, recipes, firearms and seeing as it's where we are going telling our Norfolk stories.
The most windswept of English counties, a place long known for its flat damp landscape, religious fanaticism, poor transport links, and inbred locals (I dont know if they really have webbed feet but its a commonly held belief) . It's also the home of the worst pizza I have ever seen. Tuna mayo UNDER melted Cheddar cheese. Not an experience I could recommend. Shooter seems to have enjoyed himself on his trips though. To him this is the fabled land of Partridge and Pheasant. Of driven shooting. A land he first imagined from the pages of books in his Grandfather's study back home in India. A land of dreams come true.
Driven Shooting. Nothing gets the Anti-Hunting brigade frothing at the mouth like driven game, so naturally I was keen to see what all the fuss was about. I've been to shoots a few times but this promised to be something very different.
The lads I have beaten for all chip in a couple of 100's per season to cover the grain costs, turn up for some fairly leisurely work days, and the more enthusiastic members of the crew spend a few nights shooting Foxes.
The beaters are either the guns themselves taking turns, or their kids. The bag is never impressive but a lot of competitive barbecuing goes on, a good time is had by all. There is no dress code, no one has a gun that cost more than a weeks pay. Most people have guns that were less than a day's pay. Simples.
Traditional Driven Shooting is something very different. All the numbers are much bigger. This is the other sport of kings, aristocrats the world over have this as a passion, it takes a lot of manpower for a very small number of people to shoot a very large number of what are essentially managed wild birds/ free- ranging farmed birds. Which perhaps has something to do with the strong feelings it evokes in the anti's.
To cut a long story short its a more expensive [and less hair raising] version of the French Battue, that most egalitarian form of hunting. Except it's big on pageantry and ritual, and is only egalitarian in the sense that anyone happy to drop the best part of a grand and up [way up] for a days entertainment can do it.
A line of Beaters 'Beat' (Battue) the cover and animals and birds break cover and come flying and running towards a line of people with guns, in France its Boar, Deer and Hare, here its Pheasant and Partridge with strictly enforced rules against shooting game on the ground. The only exception being that no gamekeeper can endure a Fox to live, so they're shot on sight by the Keepers and any armed beaters.
The French do driven shooting communally, the hunting committee dishing out the bag to all participants. Here the bag is sometimes the property of the shoot, sometimes belonging to the person who bought the day, the guns just get a token brace of birds to take home, and the rest goes to the game dealer to offset the days costs.
Driven game days are something of an anachronism, they take vast amounts of organisation and resources to turn a lot of birds raised, into comparatively few birds brought-to-bag. Over the season 40% of the birds 'put down' is good and 50% exceptional. The Pheasant and Partridge are raised in pens, defended from crows, stoats, weasels, and foxes. If and when they reach maturity there must be cover crops sown for them to mooch about in, they could be left to forage for their own food but need to be fed to stop them wandering off. When the season comes around a small army of Beaters are needed to get them airborne and another team, this time of Pickers Up, to collect any birds the guns have been able to hit and the dogs able to find. The whole spectacle takes place over a fair bit of countryside 'drives' are usually quite a way from each other so there must be a Beater's Wagon to move the troops about and everyone needs to be fed. All so eight 'guns' can enjoy a days shooting.
Everyone's money is good these days so you, or someone like me (except with money), can dress up as an Edwardian gent and be part of the fun. The estates, much like fine gun makers, are in the business of selling a dream. Just like Rolex they are selling a super-fine version of something quite basic. You can have a watch or a shotgun that does the job just as well for less than a days pay or you can have a superfine one that announces "I've arrived", letting you join the club of people who feel they need to let others know they've 'arrived'. If that's your kind of thing. There is a whole industry devoted to marketing this pagent of the edwardian sporting lifestyle with specialist driven shooting magazines full of articles about classic cars, fine wines and high end real estate. Their journalists have names like Tarquin and Arabella, they read like the society pages with coverage split between who was at whose house for a weekends shooting and how the latest oligarch and his stunning girlfriend have been welcomed into the local scene. Welcomed in the hope that Ivan and Natacha will bring some much needed cash.
The englsh class system is always entertaining to watch but I've never really felt I understand it well enough to explain it, to an outsider possibly the most puzzling part of the day's proceedings is the dress code. Why you need a dress code to stand in a field has never been adequately explained to me. 'Tweed and a Tie' was the instruction which kind of covers it but not really.
For the first outing I wore the only Tweed jacket I own, its grey and quite moth-eaten so wasn't really in the spirit of the thing. For part two I wheeled out my skip dived waxed cotton jacket, Shooter thought I'd had it from the year dot and that 'skip-dived' was idiom or understatement for 'I've had it a long time' nah I really did fish it out of a posh blokes rubbish bin next door to a building site. Its smell marks the wearer as a dog-bloke and it's proper dogeared, its the perfect way to blend in when visiting a world where history is everything - it really does look as though its already given several generations of service. No johnny-come-lately would ever stoop to such an attempt to ingratiate himself.
We manage to make up for lost time and rock up at a very handsome pile in the early Victorian style. The Guns assemble in their "shooting gent' outfits. Some people really going for it with the tailored tweed suits which vary from as older than me to brand spanking new razor sharp tailored tweeds. In patterns from subdued to clown-wear. I like the lairy ones myself.
The Guns are an interesting bunch, retired gents and farmers mainly, all greatly looking forward to their days sport. Tradition has it that a wallet of numbered sticks is passed round, the numbers drawn denoting the order in which the guns are lined up. Whatever peg the gun is one he'll be a peg further on on the next drive and so on.
On the other side of the class divide the Beating team wear the classic outdoor wear we'd all recognise, surplace Camo of more than one nation, mismatched with waterproofs held together with duct tape. While the Guns are having their fashion parade in green wellies, the beaters will be fighting their way through the cover in boots and gaiters. Everyone wearing a shirt and tie. Even me.
The Beaters wagon trundles off and we follow in another sport's 4x4's. There is a bit of tromping across fields to be done, Norfolk's thick clinging soil making us look like deep sea divers in leaden boots. Shooter and yours truly struggle to our 'peg' and the whistle goes to announce the start of the first drive. The rule is if the bird has sky behind it it's safe to take a shot. Shooter is very disciplined about this and exceptionally courteous in letting several which I would have shot, fly on to the shooting lane of the next 'peg'. At the next peg but one an older, and super petite lady in furs-and-wellies is a very tidy shot with a cloud of feathers in the airspace above her for most of the drive . Unlike myself Shooter is lethal with a shotgun. Pheasants and Partridge crash down behind us, twice delicious Woodcock fly past lamentably well out of range.
Each drive probably lasts about 30 minutes before the whistle blows. Trudge across the fields again and it's off to the next one. Sometimes the luck of the draw has us in the thick of it, sometimes were right out at the end of the line which dosent always pay off. The wind is like paint stripper, the mud is thick, we share a flask of Whiskey, and in the face of the wind attempt a shouted conversation about the aqua-dynamics of mud.
Four of these drives later it's time for lunch. Shooter and the other guns retire to the dinning room for their repast. I join the beaters and pickers up in a barn for a really sturdy soup and some sausages. The Beaters range in age from Twelve to late Sixty's and are drawn from all walks of life. Several of the young lads are in agricultural collage learning estate management and gamekeeping, the girls are very 'horsey'.
All kinds of people go beating, the common denominator seeming to be that they lived reasonably nearby. The day is it's own reward; a day afield, with the dogs, banter with the other beaters, and a couple of birds. Beaters dont get paid a lot for beating but its all part of the interconnectedness of rural life, deals are done, favours swapped and collected on. Once you've dressed for the weather beating is a lot of fun, and if you're a dog person it's a chance to see the dogs working which only the most cold hearted wouldn't enjoy. As one of the girls remarked it's "cheaper than the gym".
During lunch I met TBG (the boy genius) and TUK (Techno Under Keeper) both of whom were top company. TUK lives on the estate, gamekeeping at the weekends and running his IT business during the week. TBG is his mate's lad and the only person who has ever explained HTML to me in a way that even I could follow, and he's only twelve! Literally a boy genius.
TUK and myself wandered around the estate for a while, chewing the fat, and sharing our mutual fascination with shooting lore.
There are plenty of traditional anecdotes about the guns and keepers:
Famous Woman X (often Kate Moss or Madona) turned up at our shoot in Heels (I've heard this one so many times I doubt either of them actually ever spends a weekend doing anything else)
Eric Clapton is actually quite a serious shot although he is to be mocked for having guns engraved with his own likeness.
The keepers had to shoot the birds from behind the visiting americans/germans to flatter them that they were hitting any birds at all.
All scandawegens are lethal shots and have amazingly; well trained dogs and super hot wives.
Lord X [owner of the estate] is a hell of a shot, his father wasn't so keen, but you should have seen his grandfather, now that was as shot/sportsman!
Vinnie Jones is very polite and a very very good shot.
That woman from the posh shooting press is actually 'a rubbish shot despite what she says on her videos and £20,000 gun'. This view is to be seconded by one of girls adding 'The way she suddenly develops a slight lisp in whenever lord so-and-so is within earshot, tells you just what kind of woman she is'
At the shoot down the road the guns has a whip-round to buy Old Tom the beater a new jacket, never having taken the trouble to speak to him blissfully unaware that he sold one of his companies for 300 kergillian and is now holding out for a better price on the other one. Thinks the guns are getting the raw end of the deal, he just likes beating but wouldn't wear his good clothes to do it.
Then there's the ticklish subject of etiquette, you can actually pay to go on a course to learn this stuff. Mostly the advice is just "Try not to make too much of a ____ of yourself".
In London we just introduce ourselves by first name with the implication that anymore information would be a disclosure too far, but in the country that would be a serious breech of etiquette, some of the older guys [65+] still used the family name-first name form of introduction.
A shirt and tie must be worn at all times, no exceptions.
For readers overseas:
Toffs all know each other, or at least of each other; while gun nuts can give you chapter and verse on any obscure calibre you care to mention, football fans can give you a play by play reenactment of games that took place before they were born, toffs all know each others family, scholastic, and personal histories.
" 'Mayo' Pushbarrow-Handcart, Stowe, I rode Biggleswade minor to third in the nerd racing"
[Biggleswade minor denoting the younger of the Biggleswade brothers, Stowe is a private school, nerd racing is racing on nerd-back]
" Andy Maitland-Bell, Eton, weren't you the one in old Cruikshank's class who was caught with a jar of mayonnaise? Badger's brother?"
"Haw Haw Yes that's me"
Some of you will think I'm exaggerating, trust me, I'm not.
The second half of the day is another four drives, but we'll leave that and the rest of the tale for another post.
More soon
Your pal
SBW
Sunday, 21 April 2013
Fishing The River Usk Redux
I once read an interview with Mel Brookes, where the journalist followed him around London for the day, Mel told the same un-funny joke to everyone he met, but Mel wasn't for giving in, by the end of the day it still wasn't that funny but it was at least funnier than the first time.
Or to put it another way 'great work isn't written, it's re-written'.
With that in mind I've been working on my travel writing and, although I'm still smarting over the offering they knocked back, Sabotage Times have accepted another piece.
Longterm readers will remember when The Lighthouse Keeper and myself fished the River Usk last summer, I've retold the tale, some details added and some taken away, let me know what you think.
Your pal
SBW
Or to put it another way 'great work isn't written, it's re-written'.
With that in mind I've been working on my travel writing and, although I'm still smarting over the offering they knocked back, Sabotage Times have accepted another piece.
Longterm readers will remember when The Lighthouse Keeper and myself fished the River Usk last summer, I've retold the tale, some details added and some taken away, let me know what you think.
Your pal
SBW
Thursday, 28 March 2013
DeerLand By Al Cambronne
Over the last few years of blogging I've noticed a few names coming up in the comments sections of the more literate blogs, Al Cambronne being one of them.
Always one of the more thoughtful and informed commenters he's brining out a fascinating book on the intersection between people and deer.
For a taste of his writing have a look at his excellent blog or order the book its released next week.
Anyhoo off to work
SBW
Monday, 11 March 2013
Spencer Angeltvedt: Dishonest or Stupid?
"It inspires me everyday knowing that paris hilton tweeted and follows me!"
Spencer AngeltvedtEnter Spencer Angeltvedt actor, model and blogger. I too was young good looking and stupid once, time took care of young and good looking, stupid has been, if not cured, put into remission by engaging in debate.
Spencer was bold enough to write a comment on my blog post about Andy Richardson's goose hunting video, claiming he had stumbled across the video and been upset by its content.
Offence isn't given its taken
If you see a blog post that is titled with the words 'Goose Hunting' is reasonable to surmise that it'll contain content about the hunting of geese, right? Seeing as Spencer had taken the trouble to start a conversation with me I felt it would only be a matter of common courtesy to read some of his writing and respond. What a treat awaited me. In his post Do Hunter's Love Animals? Spencer treats us to a glimpse into the
'Well until I hear a hunter say he/she is going to track down the sickest and thinnest dear to end its suffering by killing it, then I will continue to know that they kill for fun and use excuses to justify it'
I was of course happy to oblige and wrote to him, confirming that part of our management practice is indeed to shoot and animals that are suffering due to genetics or as a result of injury. Sadly this wasn't good enough for brave Spencer and after a couple of days he deleted my comment.
On the same post Spencer implies that a man who has shot a trophy mountain sheep is in some way less virtuous than a woman who is feeding what are represented as wild birds. Spencer let me spell this out for you.
When an animal has reached the age and size where it would be regarded as a trophy it has passed its genes on several times, and is starting to decline in health, it will be forced away from breeding opportunities by younger males, it's worn teeth will limit its ability to gain adequate nutrition through browsing and its fate will be starvation, illness, being eaten alive by predators, or a mixture of the three. Meanwhile your claim that a woman feeding wild birds is a sign of her love of animals is misguided at best. By creating clusters of feeding animals she is also creating the ideal circumstance for passing disease from one bird to another. She's not evil, just thoughtless. Bit like Spencer really.
Spencer also likes to post ghoulish videos of animals being mistreated on cattle farms purportedly for the company Burger King, as regular readers will know my interest in hunting stems from my abhorrence of the industrialised food chain so I commented that this sort of behaviour was what had lead me to start hunting. Not inline with Spencer's already fully-formed opinions this too was promptly deleted.
I was delighted to see that one hunter at least has passed muster in Spencer's eyes - Gordon Ramsey - celebrity chef and hunter has been campaigning against the killing of sharks for their fins and in doing so has earned Spencer's seal of approval. My guess is that Spencer doesn't waste any time researching his opinions before posting them and is unaware that Gordon has killed and eaten quite a few of the luverly cweacherz that Spencer believes he is standing up for.
Amusingly it turns out Spencer has 'form' for this kind of behaviour. A blogger called The Wandering American has awarded Spencer 'Douchebag of the week'.
Amusingly it turns out Spencer has 'form' for this kind of behaviour. A blogger called The Wandering American has awarded Spencer 'Douchebag of the week'.
We are all born ignorant, staying that way is optional.
Your pal
SBW
Wednesday, 9 January 2013
Hunting Rabbits In The UK Pt1
I've always hated that 'coming home from holiday' feeling, so when my plane landed at Gatwick, (or Gay Wick as the spell checker on my phone calls it) I thought I'd use the opportunity to soften my landing by going rabbit hunting on the way home.McShug lives fairly near the airport, he and I have been trying to catch up for what must be about a year now. We've beaten Pheasants and Stalked Fallow deer together, but this time we're going for the most 'english' of shooting on the most english of 'permissions'.
Majestic 'Thetford Red' Stags on Lord Pushbarrow-Handcart's estate?
Nah!
Woodland stalking Roe Bucks with a David Lloyd .240's?
Nope
Sniping Muntjac from a golf course with a moderated .223?
Close
Parkland Fallow with a .275 Rigby?
Sadly not!
This time it's Rabbits with a sub 12ftlbs air rifle on the village cricket pitch! How English is that? There are loads of ways to take bunnies, James and I used Ferrets, but this is the way generations of English boys have honed their riflery and filled the pot.
The weaponry of choice for the day: McShug's rig is the Air Arms TDR in .22 and very nice it is too. Where most manufacturers give you a naff 'james bond' style briefcase from Air Arms the whole Take Down Rifle rig fits in it's own neat backpack with space for your 'pod and tin of pellets. I was encouraged to note that the moderator/silencer is a vast improvement on the one that came with my older Air Arms S400. AA rifles are fantastically accurate, and even with a hefty Harris bipod and a scope fitted the TDR is still a very light rifle, super short and point-able. Ideal for protecting a cricket pitch from the curse of the were-bunnies. One advantage of the takedown format is that if and when you need to leave the land you have permission to shoot on and use a public footpath to skirt round to another position, the rifle is easy to deactivate and conceal. I've often thought about getting one myself, but until my daughter made such a convincing start to her shooting career I didn't really have a excuse to buymyself a specially light, short air rifle. But now...
We breach the fence and getting on to the foot path that runs down one side of the oval make the trip round the outside of the permission, but by the time we're starting to stalk back the light goes and we head for the pub. Somewhere in my gear pile I have a gun mountable flashlight so next time Mr Bunny, next time.
On the drive to the pub where we pass though the flint villages of East Sussex. Where the chocolate-box cottages are built from 'faced' flint and McShug drops a most excellent local history fact. We pass, the now sadly closed, Hungry Monk restaurant that was the birthplace of the Banoffi Pie. Not something you see every day.
No rabbits were harmed during the writing of this blog post. Bah!
More soon
SBW
True Banoffi Pie Recipe HERE
PS Air Arms make some very sweet rifles, and are the UK seller of the S200 which is made with CZ and available in the US as the CZ S200. Very sweet especially for the price.
Majestic 'Thetford Red' Stags on Lord Pushbarrow-Handcart's estate?
Nah!
Woodland stalking Roe Bucks with a David Lloyd .240's?
Nope
Sniping Muntjac from a golf course with a moderated .223?
Close
Parkland Fallow with a .275 Rigby?
Sadly not!
This time it's Rabbits with a sub 12ftlbs air rifle on the village cricket pitch! How English is that? There are loads of ways to take bunnies, James and I used Ferrets, but this is the way generations of English boys have honed their riflery and filled the pot.
The weaponry of choice for the day: McShug's rig is the Air Arms TDR in .22 and very nice it is too. Where most manufacturers give you a naff 'james bond' style briefcase from Air Arms the whole Take Down Rifle rig fits in it's own neat backpack with space for your 'pod and tin of pellets. I was encouraged to note that the moderator/silencer is a vast improvement on the one that came with my older Air Arms S400. AA rifles are fantastically accurate, and even with a hefty Harris bipod and a scope fitted the TDR is still a very light rifle, super short and point-able. Ideal for protecting a cricket pitch from the curse of the were-bunnies. One advantage of the takedown format is that if and when you need to leave the land you have permission to shoot on and use a public footpath to skirt round to another position, the rifle is easy to deactivate and conceal. I've often thought about getting one myself, but until my daughter made such a convincing start to her shooting career I didn't really have a excuse to buy
The ground is small but perfectly formed, lovely mown grass to entice the bunnies and hedgerow on all four sides for them to burrow under, with big open fields on all sides. Perfect.
We drive on to the rough stuff outside the oval and start setting up and glassing the hunting ground. Straight away there are two rabbits in a stalk-able position about 150 yards away, a little more glassing the hedgerow and we sight another only 50 yards away and in an even better position! As we take the first tentative steps, there's a rustle in the hedgerow and a chump walking a dog blows it for us! That 17HMR is starting to look like a good idea, but this is Rabbit hunting rather than rabbit shooting - the stalk to within 35 yards is the name of the game, sadly some vegetarianism sometimes comes into it.
We breach the fence and getting on to the foot path that runs down one side of the oval make the trip round the outside of the permission, but by the time we're starting to stalk back the light goes and we head for the pub. Somewhere in my gear pile I have a gun mountable flashlight so next time Mr Bunny, next time.
On the drive to the pub where we pass though the flint villages of East Sussex. Where the chocolate-box cottages are built from 'faced' flint and McShug drops a most excellent local history fact. We pass, the now sadly closed, Hungry Monk restaurant that was the birthplace of the Banoffi Pie. Not something you see every day.
No rabbits were harmed during the writing of this blog post. Bah!
More soon
SBW
True Banoffi Pie Recipe HERE
PS Air Arms make some very sweet rifles, and are the UK seller of the S200 which is made with CZ and available in the US as the CZ S200. Very sweet especially for the price.
Friday, 23 November 2012
DeerStalking: The Search For Muntjac
Trigger jerk: and it's sighted 1 sq high at 100 yards!
Shooter: "I've got some stalking! and one of my radiators won't get hot. What should I do?"
SBW: You had me from stalking, I'm on my way
Because this report comes to you from the real world, not from the fantasy land where rich plumbers exercise their R8's on their way to exercise their R8's mid-week, it was more like "I'll be there soon, to soon-ish, early next month, or how's the month after that for you?" Eventually the day dawned, the radiator got hot, Mr Mercedes joined us and we set off for an evening stalk.
As usual we were plagued by bad omens and incompetence:
Shooter (driving): coming up on the left there's a field with a herd of Fallow, every time I go past, if they are there, I dont get a deer.
SBW and Mr Mercedes: Groan
Shooter: Look! loads of them!
Mr Mercedes: Groan
SBW: Jinx
The ground is a 300 acre walled (but not gated) estate to the north east of London, in an area we'll call Campo de Muntjac. It's home to some Roe and lots of Muntjac. The chaps who run the outfit are very friendly and funny lets call them The Keeper and his pal The Rumbler.
On a short drive across the we startled a small deer, and as we set up the shooting bench we disturbed a Roe. Hmm maybe we've swerved the jinx?
On the estates you're required to prove your proficiently with a rifle before stalking, on your first visit if you weren't asked to I'd take it as a sign of a poorly run outfit. At Campo de Muntjac they have a 100 yard range. Its traditional to make disparaging remarks about ones accuracy and eyesight before shooting. There'll be a good natured understatement competition, and you take your place at the bench. In the US I've been handed a rifle with the words "its hot and ready to rock" in the UK I just cant imagine anyone doing that. The Rumbler set his Howa up on the bags bolt closed on an empty chamber and I took my place at the bench, Mr Mercedes had already shot his super tight group and Shooter was telling The Keeper that I'm a famous blogger, no pressure then.
My sighter was within the 'ring of death' so I ploughed on with the second a definite improvement, the third looked better at first sight but is actually a square low as The Rumbler has sighted his rifle one high at 100 yards
As usual in england while the whole thing is deadly serious, due to our laws against earnestness no one can acknowledge that. As my group had tightened with each shot the guys were well satisfied and proceeded to regale me with the traditional tales of the German/Scandawegen/American who was here last week/ month who was SO bad even thought his rifle/scope cost SO much. Formalities out of the way we split up to take our seats, Mr Mercedes saw another Roe as he was taking his place.

As The Rumbler and I were setting off, who should reappear but our pal Shooter or "bolt-less" as he's also known. Made it all the way to his seat, without the bolt for his Remy. How we laughed.
Our highseat was pretty luxurious, it even had a roof. The Rumbler and your pal settled down to watch the wildlife, after a while there came a strange rumbling sound, like a brewery really. I ignored the first few but after a while I started to snigger and looked round, The Rumbler, for it was he, looked almost apologetic for a moment, but the couldn't keep a straight face either. Much sniggering ensues.
SBW: Are you hungry?
The Rumbler: I ate before I came out
SBW: Have some Chorizo it might settle your stomach
Our picknick was interrupted by the sound of a Muntjac's bark, and coming towards us too! We both glassed and glassed, I offered up a few prayers but Mr Muntjac decided against visiting our clearing and buggered off.
Shooting light faded fast and it was time to make for home. The Rumbler worked the bolt, so we could exit the highseat with an empty chamber and fumbled the round which promptly slipped between the slats of the highseat's floor. I've done this before and I cant tell you how delighted I was to see someone else make the same mistake (mine bounced off the metal rung of the ladder and The Bambi Basher was without mercy in his mockery).
As The Keeper arrived he was greeted with the sight of our butts in the air as we searched the grass under the seat for the dropped round.
The Keeper: You two look as though you're having fun
The Rumbler [pointing at his stomach] Its been awful, terrible rumblings
SBW: I had to give him some of my sausage
The Keeper: Whoah! too much information!
More soon
SBW
PS be sure to check out Shooter's blog HERE
Monday, 10 September 2012
Fishing The River Usk Pt2
After packing and re packing my kit we finally left London for the first part of the trip, we were to stop off in Cardiff (the capital of Wales) to spend the night with old friends. Cardiff is an amazing city that's still in the grips of a massive regeneration program where the bay has been reinvented as a leisure destination, sadly that means the usual chain restaurants, but the setting is nice.
Somehow on the way home from the pizza and beers I acquired a Sombrero.
The next morning we set off proper, driving up into the hills of Brecon. The countryside offered it's usual delights, roadkill, people who thought leaving the car's hand (aka parking) brake on would be prudent, people who thought if they got there quick enough they'd be up for a prize, and farmers who just like to shower the road with shit because they can.
For our first night we camped in the garden of Pen Pont a very nice country house that has evolved over the last 350 odd years with each generation adding wings, annexes, and remodelling to suit their needs. You can stay in the house which looks lovely, we were on a more restricted budget so it was camping for us. For those of you with an interest in traditional architecture you can find a very good history of the house and the family HERE

How's that for Bushcraft?
Unable to find the other old approach shoe that I'd earmarked as a temporary 'wading boots' I'd chosen a pair of Neoprene stalking wellies as my footwear, if I'd set out to provide The Lighthouse Keeper with a high comedy moment as I slipped from rock to rock before plunging into the depths they would have been the perfect choice. Not my intention, but he seemed well-pleased with the outcome.
Now shivering slightly in the dying light I wasn't going to let a soaking dampen my spirits or dull my enthusiasm so I paused to tie on a new fly and watch TLK casting, I was just admiring the fluid motion of his back cast when I was stung on the back of the head, as my hand instinctively rose to the afflicted area, a sudden searing pain was accompanied by the amusing sight of TLK suddenly stumbling forward into water deeper than the height of his 'waist waders'. The forward motion of his cast had been suddenly interrupted by the line snagging and then snapping causing him to lose his balance. By this time my hand had reached the back of my head, where I found his fly neatly embedded, its broken tippet hanging down my back.
With the score for the afternoon at:
Soakings 1.5
Fly strikes on other anglers: 1 [direct hit]
Fish hooked 1
Fish brought to the net 0
We called it a day, heading for the relative safety of the campfire.
More Soon
SBW
Saturday, 8 September 2012
Chad's Querencia
We know him as Blogger, Bird hunter, Dog bloke, and Ditch fisherman. But in another life Chad would be the enigmatic [read grumpy] proprietor of a second hand book shop: but not just any second hand book shop, this book shop would be within moments of fine, fine, Trout streams, some of which would be blessed with runs of Sea Trout and Salmon. Deer Stalking would be on the doorstep too, with long seasons for ghostly Roe, and a never ending season for Muntjac. Rabbits and Squirrels could be taken any morning, as the shopkeep turns helpful pest-controller on his morning constitutional. Did I mention the micro-brewery, but a few footsteps away?
Well Chad I've found it for you, Hay-on-Wye is the town for you.
More soon
Your pal
SBW
Well Chad I've found it for you, Hay-on-Wye is the town for you.
More soon
Your pal
SBW
Saturday, 23 June 2012
Woodcock Recipe
At the end of the season we had one of our all too infrequent 'Bloggers Armed Ramble' where The Bambi Basher, Mc Shug and your pal SBW took a walk in the woods, giving the dogs one last romp and taking potshots a Tree Rabbits and Woodies. As we were about to call it a day, with nothing in the bag, McShug produced this beauty from his game pocket saying" You said you'd always wanted to scoff one - its had a week, pongz a bit" and I became the proud [if slightly smelly] owner of a Woodcock.
The Woodcock had been hanging for week when I got it, I hung it it until that well known barometer of ripeness - more than one flat mate asking about the smell - announced it was freeze-it or eat-it time. In old Blighty legend has it that a Woodcock should be nailed by the beak to a post in an out-building and only cooked up when the body falls from the head. Sadly that's about two weeks longer than the flat mates patience, so mine was ripe but not maggoty. I saved the head for an art project, but when roasted the birds skull should be split in half and using the beak has a handle the roasted brains should be sipped from the halved skull.
The Woodcock is an almost mythic gamebird, after a solitary migration in early November they over-winter in woodlands, living in a scooped nest on the ground and feeding mostly on earth worms, until the frost hardens the ground when as needs must they eat seeds and berries. In a very harsh winter even visiting bird tables.
McShug took this one with 'the wife's 20g semi', and over the years I've seen a few versions of the 'woodcock gun' all short-barrelled fast-to-the-shoulder shotguns, with Berretta even making a specialised set of rifled shot-dispersing barrels for their Ultralight [mmmmm want]. As bursting from the ground cover a Woodcock famously zig-zags though the woods at alarming speeds they are often many many outings and indeed cartridges to the bird. What has to be the most exclusive of shooting organisations is dedicated to this elusive bird. Since 1949 the Shooting Times Woodcock Club has welcomed members ONLY when they have pulled off a 'left and a right' without taking the gun from the shoulder, and done so in front of two witnesses.
With its well deserved reputation as the ultimate gamebird I wanted to savour the full experience, the bird seasoned with just salt, cooked whole and served 'old's cool' with its guts as the seasoning.

Perhaps a little over cooked - rescued from the oven after 12 minutes, still pink and bloody

The guts are very very strongly flavoured, a potent, forceful taste of the woods, they wont be to everyones taste, think of them as a woodland caviar.

Thigh and breast of woodcock, Black pudding [aka blood sausage aka Boudin noir], roast aubergine and browned halloumi, and for the dipping sause a reduction of pan juices with unsalted butter and woodcock guts.
Lots more to tell, just little time to tell it
SBW
With its well deserved reputation as the ultimate gamebird I wanted to savour the full experience, the bird seasoned with just salt, cooked whole and served 'old's cool' with its guts as the seasoning.
Perhaps a little over cooked - rescued from the oven after 12 minutes, still pink and bloody
The guts are very very strongly flavoured, a potent, forceful taste of the woods, they wont be to everyones taste, think of them as a woodland caviar.
Thigh and breast of woodcock, Black pudding [aka blood sausage aka Boudin noir], roast aubergine and browned halloumi, and for the dipping sause a reduction of pan juices with unsalted butter and woodcock guts.
Lots more to tell, just little time to tell it
SBW
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
The Mindful Carnivore Book Tour
You know those blogs where the writer raises some question about food, animals, or human relationships with nature, and engages readers in an interesting conversation? Well, our pal Tovar Cerulli has started a lot of these conversations, and written the excellent book "The Mindful Carnivore" which I have read, thoroughly enjoyed, and shamefully not yet reviewed yet, is takin'it 'on-da-road'. Yep you can meet the blogosphere's hunter/philosopher for yourself! If I had the cash I'd fly out to join in the fun, every event promises to be one of lively debate, and inspirational mindfulness. With your chance to pick up a signed copy
- Denver, CO: Thursday, May 10, 7:00 pm at West Side Books
- Berkeley, CA: Monday, May 14, 7:30 pm at Pegasus Books Downtown
- San Francisco, CA: Tuesday, May 15, 7:30 pm at The Green Arcade
- Seattle, WA: Thursday, May 17, 7:00 pm at Elliott Bay Book Company
- Omaha, NE: Wednesday, June 13, 5:45 pm at Soul Desires
Hopefully he'll get down to Texas and we can arrange a side-by-side picture of him and the LSP.
More Soon
SBW
Saturday, 31 March 2012
Shooting Clays - A Lesson Or Two
The very first day the clay grounds take delivery of those barn door sized clays,
I'm going to be lethal! Honest.
This week Shooter and myself set off in search of the elusive obvious - aka went to do some clay shooting. After last summers debacle in the pigeon fields of Fife my confidence with a shot gun was at an all time low. Shooter had once told me 'I don't play favourites if it goes bang I love it' and I'd confessed to him that I'm a total lummox with a shot gun.
Being the optimist that he is he graciously retorted " I cant believe that; either you are lying, very modest, or you've never been taught how to do it". Any sunny afternoon in the country is better than one in the city, and buoyed by the thought that if I couldn't break any clays I'd at least be able to chip Shooter's optimism I joined him for an afternoon at the A1 Shooting Ground.
What Shooter thinks he's going to need a score card for I'm not sure?
His modesty makes a very poor disguise-Shooter smashes them up
Shooter works tirelessly with me on the basics, and all of a sudden the clays start to break. But then I lapse back into thinking about it. Doh! Every clay that breaks is another example of the beautiful Zen of shooting, if Shooter distracts me while the clay's in the air I shoot it, left to my own devices I try aiming like a rifle and miss, sometimes by miles!
Claudio and Teresa Capaldo have a really nice set up: 40 acres just inside the M25 (london's beltway). There's none of the moodiness I've seen at other shooting grounds, a really friendly place. Claudio is an Olympic coach and while I watched him give Shooter a few pointers I could see why. I've known a few experts over the years and watched them struggle to reveal what is painfully obvious to them, to students who clearly aren't getting it. An expert coach is a very different thing to mere coaching-from-an-expert. When you see the real deal in action its striking just how little they have to do or say to get the penny to drop. The Northern Monkey and myself once went to shooting ground just outside York and received some of the worst tuition I've ever seen, when we arrived we could both break clays, when we left neither of us could, if we'd paid to learn how to dispirit newbies it would have been a bargain.
Watching Claudio handle the gun was something of a revelation to me too. For a start he puts gun-to-face-then-to-shoulder rather than shouldering the gun then planting his face on the stock. The whole movement seemed more lively and fluid. His 'ready stance' was also more lively, the bead (a shotgun's front sight) always kept at nose level - this made the gun jump to his shoulder as though it was on elastic.
This is the moment when the penny drops: you can see the look of revelation on Shooters face - with very few words Claudio shows Shooter the elusive obvious
I have heard this explained a few times but there was something about the way Claudio says 'it shoots where you look' then with a few words brings the connection between gun and body into conscious awareness, setting up an anchor for Shooters's grip on the forend so his hold would become consistant. 'Fingers lower on the pistol grip, when you get home get a screwdriver and move that trigger much further back' With these simple pointers Claudio changes the whole way the gun sits in relation to Shooters body.
The whole exchange can't have lasted more than 90 seconds. If I'd known how marked the change would look I'd have taken before and after photos.
Thanks to Shooter, a great day out, and an interesting lesson in how to give a lesson too, I'll defiantly be going back for some coaching from Claudio.
If you've got any pointers or advice please leave a comment.
More soon
Your pal
SBW
Friday, 30 March 2012
At Shooter's Place
Now that's something you don't see every day!
Popped over to Shooter's place yesterday on the way to the shooting ground to
Once you step though the door of his unassuming suburban home you meet some evidence of his grandfathers hunting adventures. I don't know about you but I've never seen one of these before. Maybe I've led a sheltered life?
As ever lots of great tales were told, he introduced me to 'Lemon, Lime, and Bitters' [a most refreshing drink] and took me to the A1 Shooting Ground all in all a great afternoon. Thanks mate.
More soon
your pal
SBW
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
Wave goodbye To The Norcal Cazadora
Just a quick one to let you know that Holly AKA The Norcal Cazadora has hung up her hat and posted what she says is her last post. Crying shame. The blogosphere was richer for her writing and now poorer for her departure. Drop by and thank her for her efforts if you get the chance.
In the meantime here's an old one from me, that Holly mentioned being a favorite, where CMJ and your pal the bushwacker set off to do some scouting in Italy with unexpected results!
Esplorazione For Beginners Pt1

Well I've made it back in one piece, although sadly I must report that's more by luck than judgement.
In the meantime here's an old one from me, that Holly mentioned being a favorite, where CMJ and your pal the bushwacker set off to do some scouting in Italy with unexpected results!
Esplorazione For Beginners Pt1

Well I've made it back in one piece, although sadly I must report that's more by luck than judgement.
A week ago I met up with CHJ in the south London suburbs and we drove to the coast, just in time to miss the boarding of the ferry, so after a delightful two hour nap on the quayside we go on board. Fortunately CMJ is a frequent traveler on this crossing and marched us strait to the only bit of the ship with couches big enough to sleep on and I didn't wake up until we were already docked in France.
France soon passed and we were treated to an insight into the Belgian plan for European supremacy. Not for them the subjugation of their neighbors by force or even economic might. No their plan is far more fiendish. They welcome you to their little country and all roads take you through their capital, a place where war and a town planning department staffed by Ferrari owners have left them with the strangest mix of architecture.
Once you're there, there you'll stay. There is no escape.
Signage to Brussels is everywhere, clues as to how to leave are non existent. Those fiendish Ferrari owners are so contemptuous of escape attempts that at a T junction they frequently present you with two opposite choices of direction to the same destination. Being six in the morning there were no locals in sight, just angry foreigners driving every more erratically in their desperation to leave. Brussels has become the capital of Europe, not through superior fire power, force of arms or political machination, but by holding visitors hostage on their labyrinth system of ring roads. After two hours in the vortex we did achieve escape velocity and had crossed belgium in less time than we'd spent trying to leave Brussels.
The first good omen of the trip was in Luxembourg, a small country that i could easily have passed through with out noticing.
Feeling a little weary and compelled by natures call. We pulled into a lay by and watched a succession of well dressed women announce their embarrassment by using a strangely exaggerated gait to cross the picnic area in search of the relative privacy of the forest. There is a great French tradition, (I'm using 'great' in it's sense of 'often' rather than 'fantastic') of littering the countryside with unburied toilet paper, fast food packaging, broken drinks bottles and the scat of truckers.
CHJ had elected to have a nap in the car so I took a wander away from the murderous looking truckers, and desperate holiday makers and found my self at the top of a scree looking out over a small marsh that abutted some planted pine forest. As I sat on the scree and scanning the forest's edge, I just 'knew' that I was in the vicinity of deer. I cant tell you how I knew but I was suddenly sure if I sat still a deer would show up. Amazingly it only took a few moments, sitting clam and still with my eyes holding a relaxed focus on the middle distance, before my peripheral vision flashed up a movement in the bushes. A Roe Deer with 6-8 inches of antler was making his way from bush to bush in search of some tasty tips. The whoosh of traffic didn't seem to spook him, the wind varied blowing towards me of across the space between us. He kept feeding. After about five minutes I lifted one butt cheek and farted. He Looked right at me, I held still. An expression of 'I'm sure I heard something' flashed across his face and he went back to nibbling. I thought of you dear reader, and in the light of his unspookability, I thought I'd get get the camera from the car and take a picture to show you. As soon as I stood and silhouetted he was off.
There was quite a bit more to the tale, here are the other parts
The Bushwacker
Thursday, 22 March 2012
Weekend Reading: Welcome Shooter
Delighted to add a new voice to the blog roll, and following on from our meeting yesterday also award 'one of the good guys' status to 'Shooter' a most interesting new voice from the blogosphere.
Shooter hails from a long line of Indian shikar [hunters], with his grandfather being his main tutor and inspiration. He's only got a few posts up so far, but as you'll see he's getting into the swing of it and has an excellent turn of phrase down the pub, he's been collecting up his grandfathers hunting stories from the bygone days of Indian hunting so I'm expecting great things. We've made tentative plans to do some Rook shooting and tree rabbit hunting together in the next few weeks - more news as it comes in.
From the wit and wisdom of Shooter
"I dont play favorites: if it goes bang I love it"
"The .22 is a kitchen utensil, part of the process of getting food to your plate"
Posts I'm sure you'll like:
Confessions of a Serial Killer is a distillation of several conversations where he joins me in the ignominy of 'dinner party pariah' status. The Longest Noon where he hunts Chital deer in Australia and his epic adventure to hunt mountain lions in Utah - The Lion of Zion
Please leave comments on his blog, this guy has some great stories to tell, encourage him.
More soon
Your pal
SBW
Thursday, 1 March 2012
Leuku: The Knives Of Finland
In the pristine frozen north of europe where oily softwoods like birch and pine grow the Sammi people developed a form of knife known as the Leuku: long enough for chopping and light enough for carving this is the belt knife of the Boreal forests.
Perkele is a Finish blogger and outdoorsman who keeps us posted with his 'slowly updating notes about me, my life, outdoor activities, bushcraft, knives, survival skills etc..'
He's just posted an excellent review of the work of some Finnish blade smiths and a history of the Leuku form. Well worth a read.
READ MORE
More soon
SBW
Perkele is a Finish blogger and outdoorsman who keeps us posted with his 'slowly updating notes about me, my life, outdoor activities, bushcraft, knives, survival skills etc..'
He's just posted an excellent review of the work of some Finnish blade smiths and a history of the Leuku form. Well worth a read.
The way i see leuku, is that its a bigger knife, that was born in hands of saame people, who were back then, living a travelling life, and their knife was a about the most important tool, as it was expensive to get, as well as difficult to make back then. They didnt have, in most cases, anvils, nor a way to transport one always, so the rare people who had skills to make knives, became important part of society as well as good tradesmen. Ive heard that with one grown male reindeer, you could get two leukus, or two leukus and one womens leuku, if uou could get a bargain. Steels, were hard to get ,too, and the price of it was naturally higher than its now. They did not order leukus, i bet, like we do, with a phonecall or through an email, nor did they buy it from webshops. You had to travels for huge distances, with trading goods, to meet blacksmith or someone else who sold or traded knives and blades. You could not replace it in the true wilderness either, because the postoffices werent invented, so you really really had to keep your possibly only knife in a good safe and try not to loose it as it might mean the end of your life.
Leuku has been used in wast range of tasks, even before it "came" familiar to southern Finlands people. Its been used to skin animals, prep hides, gut, slice, chop meat, sliver branches off from the firewood, to butcher reindeerd, to build traps for birds, fish and big game like bears. They used it to carve icy and wet snow from sleds, pulks and harness of reindeer. Its not a lie, to say that if anything, leuku was a multitool of northern people.
READ MORE
More soon
SBW
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