Fresh,plump
pigeonbreasts
—a tastyfeast
aftera hard
day’s workFarleft:Patrick
shootsfrom
thehideasthe
pigeons circle“Weprobablywon’thavea day
onpigeonslikethisforyears,”Matt
reflectedafterdroppinganother
right-and-leftastheyhoveredabove
themagnet.Neitherofuswantedto
faceuptoit butonceagainwehad
almostrunoutofcartridges.Deciding
wecouldn’tringTomforanother
delivery,wedividedupthelast
handfulandturnedourmindstothe
coldcansofbeerwe’dstashed under
thehedgebehindus.
Ingloriousend
Withmyarmsachingandmyeyes
swollenwithhayfever,I dropped
thelasttwocartridgesintomygun,
limpedfrommychairandheaved
theguntomyshoulder.I missed
thefirstbirdoverthetopandthe
secondcartridgewentclick.It was
aningloriousendtoa red-letterday.
I amgenerallyopposedtotalking
bagsizebutthe 350 hungrypigeons
MattandI shotthatafternoonwould
havecostthefarmer,whosebarley
hadgoneover,a hugeamountof
money.AsMattandI brokeoutthe
lager,TomandRobappearedover
thehorizoninTom’sDefender.They
hadshotalmostthesamenumberof
birds,albeitforfewercartridges.
Robhada knifeinthecarandI had
a stove,soI pluckeda coupleofthe
shotpigeonsandcutoutthebreasts.
Astheysizzledinsomebutter,Rob
wasringinga localbutcher.Hetold
me,reassuringly,thatnomatterhow
manypigeonsheshoots, the butcher
alwayswantsthem.
Thatnight,onmywaybackto
London,I rangmyparents’house.
“Mum,”I announced, “I’ve had a
seriouslybigday.”
“I’llringyoubackina bit,”she
replied.“I’mjustmidwaythrougha
fascinatingarticleaboutcockerpoos
in that magazine,The Field.”