Calling the shots

As the sun rises over a saw-tooth silhouette of pines on the horizon the only sound is the crunch of frosty ground underfoot. The bowed and broken autumn grasses are dusted in sparkling white, and the air, though still, is charged with anticipation as the hunter treads carefully, rifle broken over the crook of his arm.

But this hunter is not clad in high visibility jacket and orange cap. No, he favours tweed. A waistcoat and matching breeches teamed with claret knee-length socks and contrasting yellow garters. His weapon of choice is not a Browning nor Winchester but a rifle by James Purdey & Sons of London.

Yes, this is the rarefied world of hunting, English style; a sport at which only the very rich, very rural and very rural rich partake. Whether shooting pheasant, grouse or deer, these individuals have either paid handsomely for the privilege, or are lucky enough (and by that I mean born into the upper class) to own land on which they can engage in the slaughter of wee beasties. Ne’er the hoi polloi be allowed to pop the merest partridge!  

For the English proletariat the word hunting is one more commonly attributed to searching for a new house or retail bargain. And believe me both of these activities are potentially as dangerous as venturing into the countryside with a loaded weapon.

When house hunting, the individual soon realises that they are the prey, rather than pursuer, as multiple estate agents (realtors) attempt to sweet-talk or brow beat them into parting with stupendously large amounts of cash for a home smaller than the average bunkie over here. And, if you’ve ever been gazumped you’ll know the wound is jagged edged and slow to heal.

Bargain hunting, meanwhile, is downright lethal if you happen to be caught in a stampede such as was witnessed on London’s Oxford Street, recently. In a story entitled, Battle of Primark, the Independent Newspaper reported: “Public order broke down on London’s main shopping street yesterday as hundreds of bargain hunters scrambled into the new Primark store mistakenly thinking there was a half-price sale.

“Managers were forced to bring forward the official opening of the shop because of the crush developing on the pavement outside. As doors opened, shoppers tumbled over each other to be first to the bargains and fights broke out as they jostled for space. Primark’s management later confirmed that a security guard and shop manager had been injured in the melee.”

Fights! Between members of the fairer sex, no less! A jaunt into central London with my beloved for an afternoon of carefree retail therapy would never be the same again. I still shudder at the thought of being trampled underfoot by a herd of marauding bargain hunters!

But back to the real hunt. Canadians, by their very nature, are less concerned about the nuances of the class system and more interested in getting outdoors and having fun. And hunting it seems is a big part of that.

The romantic ideal of stalking a proud stag over field and glen in the first light of a frosty morn’ has been crushed somewhat by the roar of ATVs and my misty eyed musings of a titanic battle of wit and guile between man and beast tarnished by the knowledge that the trick is to feed the deer for weeks beforehand.

However, where the aforementioned English gentry are renowned for going on organised slaughters; taking down 100 birds and then having some poor serf discard of them in a hole in the ground without even smacking their lips at the thought of pheasant a la bohemienne or Highland grouse cakes, the Canadian philosophy is by and large one of kill it eat it, and, what you can’t eat share with your friends – twas with just such generosity that I was introduced to the wonders of moose, recently (I thank you Janine and Josh).

There are those against hunting both here and in England. And, in my native land I’d happily join with protesters to halt the excessive and wholly wasteful slaughter undertaken by the British aristocracy all in the name of fun. Here, however, in this young land, far less riddled with the pomposity of empire, if a fellow wishes to bag a white tail for the freezer I say good luck old chap.

And if there is any to spare, get in touch!