My first day

Dylan Jones, better known as editor of men's style bible, GQ magazine, bags his first pheasant.

Where shooting is concerned, Richard Purdey had told me that pulling the trigger is only 5% of the fun, and having just been on my first proper pheasant shoot, I think I know exactly what he means.

Richard had invited me to Boughton, an estate in Northants that forms part of the Rockingham Forest. A magnificent medieval hunting forest that is principally a patchwork of ancient oak woodlands and open agricultural land. We were nine Guns, plus Jonathan Irby from the West London Shooting School (who was loading for me), various gamekeepers and fancy dan journalists and the judges of the Purdey Awards for Game and Conservation, as well as Richard himself. And to be honest with you I haven’t had so much fun with my clothes on since God was a boy.

I have shot clays on and off for about ten years, and having recently written various pieces for GQ and The Mail On Sunday about the pleasures of same, had been invited by Richard to attend my first proper shoot. Being a terrible ponce, of course the first thing I did was worry about what I was going to wear. I already had a shooting coat, a quilted waistcoat, a cap, windproof sweater and scarf, but had to borrow some breeks (tweed, obviously), some socks and a pair of gargantuan grain leather boots. Oh, and a gun. But as soon as I was kitted out I immediately felt at home, something that was exacerbated when I met the rest of the team for dinner in a pub the night before.

It’s extremely odd to suddenly be thrown into a bunch of people who have been doing this for most of their lives, and who apparently all knew each other really well, only to find yourself embraced like a long lost son.

And from thereon in it just got better. After a hearty full english breakfast the following morning, we drove up to the estate and got acclimatised to the conditions and the terrain, and - and I gather this is rather important where shooting is concerned - made aware of exactly where and when we would be stopping for refreshments (which, if I recall correctly, seemed to be as often as possible).

So we started shooting. Jonathan gave me a crash course in the day’s etiquette, telling me everything from what birds not to try for, to how to hold my gun when waiting for the beaters to present us with some sport, and how to avoid killing anyone (which I thought mighty benevolent of him).

Remarkably I shot a bird with my first cartridge, and ended the day having shot three and half brace. Far from feeling smug, all I could really think about was how quickly I could do it again. Because I am well and truly smitten. As I drove back down the M1, singing along to the Beatles’ Love album at full volume, I was filled with the sort of euphoria that only happens when you’ve experienced something truly revelatory. It only took two hours to drive back to London, but it could have taken a week for all I cared, so happy was I in my reverie.

Of course my reverie was broken when I walked in my front door holding a brace of beautiful birds, only to have my six- and eight-year-old daughters shout “Murderer” at me before scuttling back upstairs.

But you know what? It was worth it. And frankly I want to get as much shooting in as I can before Gordon Brown tries to ban it. So if there is anyone out there who fancies taking pity on a fashion victim who has recently fallen in love with the country, then please don’t hesitate to call.

Because while flying might be strictly for the birds, shooting them is most definitely for me.

 
 
 

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