From driven pheasants in Scotland to black partridges and wild boar in Pakistan, we recount the recent shooting adventures of a group of friends and family in two distant continents.
FROM THE BANKS OF THE SPEY...
The
London to Aberdeen flight would have been a mundane affair had it not been for
my companions, Omar and Unver Shafi Khan, two very dear friends from Pakistan
and our shooting guests in Scotland for the following days ahead. In turn, my
family and I had received an invitation from the brothers to join their annual 'Shikar',
or shooting party, in Pakistan in the New Year. It was clear from the energetic
in-flight discussions and the building anticipation of such an exchange, that
our adventures had begun.
Touch
down and introductions were duly made with our welcoming committee - a pack of
overly affectionate German Pointers followed by my parents. Next morning and the
first shoot. The gun cabinet door locks clicked signalling our imminent
departure for Haddo House. The Shafi Khan brothers appeared bleary-eyed but
sporting a racy combination of tweeds and ancient Barbour's and smart cartridge
bags (made to their own specification in Pakistan). I stood by the door in
military fashion barking a list of essential items: "Boots, Guns,
Cartridges, "Omar and Unver?" (No, not the over and under - we are
traditionalist!). We were off!
Set
amidst the spectacular backdrop of Haddo House, a National Trust property, Haddo
Estate is in the heart of Aberdeenshire. Matthew, our host for the day, stood
with the
The
next drive tested everyone. A hill covered in old Scots Pine and bracken with
the guns a hundred yards below in an open field. High flying pheasants with the
wind in their tails, rocket partridges cruising at a tangent, woodcock through
the pines and a roe deer bounding past. A new sound this time, a magnum of
Champagne being cracked open to celebrate the start of the day (a bottle, we
were reminded, lovingly preserved by our host from an excursion to the Loire
Valley in the summer), Scottish smoked salmon and chatter of the first drives.
Life was looking good!
One
more drive between the plantations and then the famous Haddo Lunch of homemade
steak pie and a 1000-calorie loaded chocolate puddle pudding. "Fuel for the
afternoon, you will need it!" commented the Factor, as were soon to
realise. Spoilt for choice my father, Unver and Matthew had the hot seats after
lunch with formation flying pheasants proving an energetic challenge. No ground
game was the rule but the demise of an elusive Charlie Fox was applauded by the
keepers. The bag just broke the ton and we were very pleased with our day.
Guns
cleaned and locked away, the night was young for a festive dinner at Meldrum
house. The lads were in their clan kilts and hairy sporrans and even the Shafi
Khan brothers were fashioning their newfound kinship to the Scottish National
dress. As we dined, I recounted to
our guests that some days earlier I had badgered the boys into disclosing their
kilt sizes. My requests to "simply kneel down and measure the distance from the
ground to their belly button" and "I don't care if you are in an open
plan office. Just do it!" met with extreme reluctance. In a matching pair of
'Pride of Scotland' tartan kilts the brothers Shafi Khan were more than taken
with the Prince Charlie Jackets, ancient sporrans, silver buckles and belts when
they discovered the effect all this had on the ladies! Modesty prevents me from
telling you what a Shafi Khan wears below his kilt!
Another
perfect morning, the
low winter sun burning the heather moors cinnamon red against the ice blue sky.
We were
heading
west of Aberdeen along the Don valley for a walked up day in Strathdon, an area
made famous for the Lonach gathering, tossing of cabers, tug-o-wars and the
March of the Lonach Men. As first
time shoot captain, I attempted to communicate the strategy for the day. "Lads, we've a tight schedule, can't predict what'll get up, but there
might be a chance of a French partridge so keep your wits about
you!"
A walk through pinewoods and stubble fields resulted in a
pigeon or two. The guns twitched as a covey of red legs flitted away. It took a
steady whistle to prevent them running in, particularly one such gun, renowned
for his spaniel like excitability at the mere prospect of a chance at a
partridge. Some 5 or so drives later, as the light began to fade and the birds
were heading to roost, we stood proudly over our bag of various: mallard,
rabbit, pigeon and pheasant. Over a
warming glass of sloe gin we contemplated the enduring appeal of walked up days
and toasted to a certain member of our party 'lost in action,' last seen heading
over the horizon chasing the shadows of his beloved Frenchies.
No
trip to the highlands would have been complete without the Shafi Khan brothers
experiencing some local hospitality. Clearly
a visit to the The Fiddichside Inn in Craigellachie to meet Dorothy Brandy (the
longest serving publican in the country!) and her husband Joe. The Fiddichside
is a timeless place filled with ancient photographs from days gone by and where
tales of 'two Pakistanis, two Scots and an Englishman arriving in tweeds one
day' were likely to be born. We were not disappointed.
The
final day found us at Ian's farm near Keith, in an area by the Spey valley and
world renowned for its production (and consumption) of whisky. The air was cold
and heavy, however any sign of dampened spirits was soon forgotten as Unver and
Omar were invited to sample a North East delicacy. Better known as the 'morning
buttery', a pastry composed of 50% fat and 50% heart attack, it's our standard
pre-shoot battery pack.
The
five-minute warning and the 4x4s were soon slithering down the muddy
field to the pegs. Perching behind Omar I spotted a cock pheasant jetting
towards him from another county. We’ve all been there, trying to handle a
heavy head with the 1st
bird of the day flying toward you with everyone watching! The younger Shafi Khan
raised his gun smoothly and fired and a spaniel hurried past. A great shot made
memorably with big brother and the world looking on!
The
temperature soon dropped and the landscape was blanketed in snow, for our
visitors a stark and challenging contrast to the warmer climates of Pakistan.
But, un-phased, we pushed on with a duck drive and a fantastic pheasant finale,
closing the day with a bag of 82. Retiring to the warmth of the farmhouse, our
stories of the past few days and thoughts of a pending journey to Pakistan
blended with the haze of steaming Labradors and drams of ancient whisky.
...TO
THE MIGHTY INDUS RIVER
In
the heat of the mid-day sun and the shadows of kites swirling in thermals above
our heads, we found ourselves sipping green tea in the club house gardens. Yes,
the Brits had arrived in Pakistan to commence the second leg of the
East-meets-West-meets-East adventure.
We
were based in Karachi, a bustling harbour city perched on the southern coast of
the Sind province of Pakistan. And for the duration of our visit we were staying
at the Sind Club; a members club with its origins firmly established in the old
colonial lifestyle and noted for its green tea and gentleman's bar sporting
trophy heads from the hey days of the Raj. On this occasion however we were in
the hands of our wonderful hosts, the Shafi Khan family.
Drivers
arrived at the crack of dawn to whisk us away for our 'Shikaar'. We were heading to Badin, a town East of
Karachi and a few kilometres from the Indian border. It was a journey which saw
us cover vast areas of semi-arid country, cross the Indus river and negotiate
countless lorries precariously swaying with the burden of sugar cane, cotton or
passengers. From observation, and near deafness, the technique to such a journey
appeared to be to ‘remove the hand from the car horn in moments of
safety' (this didn't happen often). I glanced back at our convoy rolling my
eyes. My father, not known for his subtlety, was sitting in the front passenger
seat wearing his ear defenders. I dare not comment whether this was to block out
the horn chorus or the running commentary from a rather anxious back seat
driver.
Our
hosts informed us that the Sind province takes its name from Sindhu, a Sanskrit
name for the Indus River, which bisects the province from North to South. As we
were to experience, rural Sind is also overwhelmingly feudal with landowning
families holding power over vast tracks of land. Arriving in Badin, formal
introductions were made to one such family and our hosts for the Shikaar.
With
an astounding assortment in the support team - beaters, picker uppers (dogs are
not used in Pakistan), loaders, police, even a chap to carry the drinks -
following close beside, we were escorted to the first drive. The thrashing of
beaters moving through crops of wheat and sugar cane flushed wild black
partridge in rapid bursts in front of the line. A distinctive 'burrrr' of the
wings followed by a flurry of shots. To the delight of our hosts, the Brits had
shot their first game in Pakistan.
In
the afternoon we moved to one of the many transient flood lakes on our hosts
land. These lakes provide a rich habitat for wildfowl such as teal, mallard,
poachard, gadwill, shoveller and cormorants, all numbering in their tens of
thousand during peak season. The guns were ferried to their positions on the
lake in traditional hand-carved boats steered by a 'beri wallah,' (Urdu for
boatmen) while the ladies observed the action from the lakeside. Spotting a
beater wading into the shallow lake to retrieve a bird was our only signal of a
successful shot. As dusk began to fall, the boats came slowly back across the
lake and the evening flight of countless water fowl began.
Returning
to base camp - 'out of Africa' style with canvas tents and open fires - a
veritable feast of spiced partridge (yes the ones we shot that afternoon),
bar-b-qued steak and lamb kebabs awaited. As midnight approached the Shafi Khan
brothers proposed a moonlight lamping drive through the farmland. But this was
no ordinary rekkie. My male counterparts were carrying 9mm Berrettas and S&W
357 Magnum handguns. Bouncing around in the jeeps in the pitch black, we scanned
the fields with a spotlight. "Stop! Rabbit ahead"! Matthew, our
Haddo House host and newcomer to the finer art of handguns, was keen to test out
new firepower so took the shot. To our utter astonishment he hit the target at a
range of 28 yards. Beginners luck if ever we'd seen it! Returning back to camp,
rabbit in trunk, we rejoined the party, but that was just the beginning. Our
police escorts, complemented by local policemen, emerged from the darkness to
join the party. Comparing their AK47's seemed the order of the day and as guests
we were invited to try the 'Kalashnikov Experience.' For a brief moment, the sky
was alight with gunfire - an AK47 on automatic is an exhilarating experience!
After
a night under the stars drifting to sleep with the hypnotic sounds of local
music playing around the camp and a jackal yelping in the distance, we were well
rested and ready for another day. We
moved between lakes, quietly waiting for flights of duck to come within range
-no decoy tradition here. I have to mention my dear mother at this point. Lost
without her GSP'S on a shoot day, I spotted her directing two retriever wallahs,
up to their knees in water, on to a pair of teal (a left and a right by the
looks of it) with whistles and hand signals!
Traversing
between lakes we flushed quail from a stubble field and swept through bogs in
expectation of snipe. The guns were not to be disappointed. Snipe skittered out
from the shrub and darted off into the warm haze of the horizon. The final drive ended on a high note,
quite literally. Wading into a marsh, the water level slowly creeping above
waist level, and valuables duly moved into high pockets and guns held above head
height. There were fears that should a duck be flushed, an accurate shot was
going to be particularly tricky, considering ones footing, was in serious doubt
(the water snakes and leeches are only a problem in summer).
Back
in Karachi, our time was divided between socialising with the extended Shafi
Khan family and friends and the essential purchasing of Persian rugs and
pashminas (the latter an experience in its own right, generally served with
green tea and a side order of haggling). Oh, I have to mention the wonderful
fabric designs and colours...but I suppose this is not the right time or the
right magazine to enlighten further, so I'll get back to the story.
Back
on the road again, we headed North up the Indus river valley to Dadu. Without
the distraction of road signs, I am reliant on landmarks and images to recount
the journey - the stark contrast between the endless panoramas of arid land
pierced with patches of lush green crop (a sure sign of irrigation); the
throbbing chaos of passing village life; turning the final bend in the road
after 5 hours of driving into the host’s estate; and our host waiting
patiently in traditional dress (white cotton tunic and trousers) in his garden.
A garden I may say which would give Alan Titchmarsh a run for his money.
As
the sun dipped into the horizon, we toured our host's land accompanied by
partridges calling gently from nearby woods. The farmers amongst us discussed
the local crops of cotton, mustard, orchard fruits and bananas, and the
astounding fertility of the soil (two crops a year), agreeing it was no wonder
the Indus valley was the homeland of some of the world earliest civilisations.
The
same night brought a midnight start for the boys,' kitted up in woollies and
balaclavas as protection against the Indus frost. Mounted in an open top jeep
they headed out in the pitch black in search of wild boar. Full moon is a bad
time for seeing boar, they like darkness. Nevertheless some were seen and
Matthew successfully bagged his first boar, and even later (5am-ish!), Unver,
his first Hog Deer - an animal not unlike the British roe deer but stockier in
build. Unlike the boar, known as a destructive pest on the land, the deer is
highly prized for both its meat and antlers.
Our
big game hunters were allowed a brief couple of hours sleep before we spent the
morning, and final chapter of our shooting story, driving partridge through
fields of sugar cane and cotton - their black feathers vividly striking against
the greens and greys of crop and field. Our activities attracted the attention
of the local villagers who took time out from cutting cane and loading donkey
carts in the nearby fields. Some even joined the beating line, swelling our
party to over 30. A long hearty lunch of local fair soon followed - lamb and
rice dishes, spicy chicken and local breads, all expertly created by our host's
chef. It was the perfect opportunity to recount our stories and send us off on
our journey back to Karachi and onwards to Scotland.
Pakistan
has undoubtedly left a lasting impression in our hearts and minds. The wonderful
hospitality and the fascinating characters we met in that time, surpassing all
our expectations. It was a honour to be a part of this and from what we hear
Scotland has had the same effect on our Pakistani friends. One thing is for
sure, Scotland or Pakistan, the love for the rural way of life and country
sports is the same, and the friendships born from this mutual respect will
undoubtedly last a lifetime.