Bog Myrtle & Peat

Despite the fact that grouse numbers on the Chayne are still too low to sustain shooting in any respectable form, it seemed like a good idea to commemorate the glorious twelfth on Saturday (14th) with an experimental walked up day designed to give my friend Richard, who shoots with an 1858 military pattern Enfield muzzle loading musket, something to aim at.

He bought the musket at Christmas time, and he and I have since shot rabbits with it. A few weeks ago, he shot a feral pigeon on the wing as it came in to roost in a hay shed and by Saturday, he felt qualified to have a stab at the “King of Gamebirds”. Together with a few other friends who were given strict instructions only to shoot snipe, we set off onto the bog with an air of extreme optimism.

A shortage of dogs was sorely felt, since it was clear that the majority of grouse were lying up very tightly and we must have walked within feet of more than one covey. After three miles of increasingly exhausting and sweat soaked labour over the hills, an ancient grouse cock burst out of the heather at Richard’s feet to race away over the moss. The little black shape fairly motored, twisting and turning with horrible agility while Richard pulled the musket’s hammer to full cock.

It would prove to be his only shot of the day, and after the cloud of black powder and wadding fragments had drifted away in the light breeze, we realised with disappointment that the grouse was still on the wing, flying faster even than before. We all paused to allow Richard his customary ninety seconds to reload, setting off over the bog again with renewed enthusiasm. Here and there, snipe rose out of long grass, but we were all focussed on Richard getting his grouse.

High up on the hill above us, a pale shape materialised along the topstones of the neighbour’s drystone dyke. It sat for a second before ducking down into the trees, but it was long enough for a photograph. Only once we had got the camera home were we able to zoom in to the blurry picture and identify it as one of this year’s fox cubs. There is clearly much more work to be done.

As we walked the final two miles back to the car, the sun beat down mercilessly. We may have made it home with an empty bag, but we spent a happy evening in the pub imagining what might have been…