Each week, 'Between the Eyes', will watch The Clovelly Shoot from a variety of perspectives - this week it's Ember part of The Picking Up Team ...

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Through the eyes of Ember...

 

The final morning of the season dawned dry and misty with the sea fog drifting in over Clovelly  - a late fog for this time of year but hey – the weather had not exactly been predictable ! and I should know I work in it in all conditions….

 

The winter air felt the first promise of spring …..   Goral the gull soared over us on the updrafts, his sharp old eyes taking in the familiar sight of the shoot assembling for one last time.  No sparkling range rovers, no expansive new 4 wheel drives – just the sight of a mass of rural vehicles… with my dog mates popping heads out of windows, leaning over tail gates with excitement written all over their bodies and ready for the off … I was in my normal old Landrover – draughty but great to look out of the back of !

 

Today was different – it was Beaters Day !  the day for those who had spent months wading through brambles, clambering and hauling themselves up the Clovelly ravines, flushing birds from the woodlands and working their dogs like me across the terrain.  It was a day of thanks, camaraderie and a final flush of the closed season. 

 

The day was divided between beating and shooting…. The beaters and keepers gathered, a smorgasboard of worn tweeds, mismatched hats, shotguns slung over their shoulders and us quivering by their sides.    It was a good atmosphere, light humoured banter, the usual more formal side of the shoot replaced with looser, lively energy.  Local farmers, friends, drivers, beaters, family and friends who had all helped to make Clovelly the shoot it is standing together, laughing and trading stories.  And of course us …….

 

Although, some of us  dogs were weary from months of work, (there can be upwards of 25 of us each day)... we were still shaking  with excitement, our tails wagging furiously as we readied ourselves for the last push.  Perhaps we were a little slower and stiffer in our movements, our bursts of energy shorter but our love for the work remained undimmed.

 

As Goral wheeled around the valleys, he noticed the firsts shifts towards Spring…. The landscape was gently softening, the minutest of buds were beginning to appear and the oak trees although to the passing eye looked skeletal, seemed to hold the first flush of green deep within their branches – waiting for the warmer days to unfurl.   

 

Soon the valleys that had echoed with the crack of gunfire, whistles and us dogs, would fall silent, giving over to the quiet work of the keepers who would soon be turning their attention to next season, the managing of the habitat and the preparation for new young blood.

 

The first drive began with the first ‘chosen’ to shoot instead of beating, half of us went beating and half stayed with the guns …. It was a different feel, the birds were wilder, wily, less predictable and faster – all only adding to the day, the shooting was spirited – more laughter, no pressure, and good natured cheers rang through the valleys.  Today was about the sheer joy of the sport, of being part of something steeped in tradition – something Clovelly is so steeped in. We revelled in it and running in every direction !

 

As the morning wore on, hip flasks twitching in pockets – there were a few unorthodox shots – some taken with wild optimism rather than skill – but nobody minded.  Stories told today would last till next season, with each pheasant becoming higher, faster and more elusive. Which of us dogs had made the best retrieve, the best find and picked up the most birds… (me of course).

 

By midday, guns were shouldered and the group and us made our way to a clearing to have lunch.  No grand bbq today but just good honest food shared by all – flasks of hot soup opened, sandwiches unwrapped, home made pies shared. And of course, a few odd tit bits for us.

 

From the sky Goral, watched it all unfold.  He had seen this village, these woods – through every season but he always felt this shift when the shooting stopped.  Soon the men and dogs would disappear, the land would return to its quiet patterns and the air would no longer ring with the calls of the shoot or the distant crack of guns.

 

Our day was fun, exhausting, at times a race between us to get to the falling bird – but I don’t think any of us would change a thing….

 

The day continued on until the sun could be seen dipping towards the sea, golden light splayed over the wild cliffs and the cobbled streets below. Goral gave a final satisfied cry and wheeled away toward the village.  There was always something new to watch in Clovelly – the season of the shoot was over but life here never truly stood still.  The valleys would echo once more with the sounds of the shoot, the camaraderie would return and the cycle would begin again.   But for now Clovelly would rest, waiting for the first chill morning and the cycle would begin again with the next chapter.

 

Us dogs made our way, now wearily to our cars, some of us leaping in, some needing a helping hand.   It had been a wonderful season, hard work but so energising.  Some of us would now have a well earned break for the summer – life would be more leisurely for a few months.

 

And as for Sam - who enjoyed his first day at Clovelly and his first hit, he dreamt of more to come – this season had been a turning point for him – his first true high-bird shooting, his first real connection to the sport.  He dreamt of more to come……..

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