"Road to Tipperary"
By. Chip Anderson
The sharp ring of dog whistles chirped constantly from the ancient oak and laurel woods that lay to our front, the bracken and gorse rustling and crackling with a liver and white brush fire of determined spaniels. Handlers and beaters alike calling out, alerting shouts raise up from the woodland. Hut! Hut! Hut! Mixing with the whir and cackle of panicked pheasant, the little spaniels homing in on their thick refuge. The air erupts with feathered chaos bursting from the coverts. Going right, left, some back over the trees. I'm trying to remain cool at my peg. I wait and wait, watching as shooters down the line all reaching for those tall shots. The crack and boom of twelve bores sound out across the countryside. Labs running up and down the field, picking up the fallen. Suddenly a splash of color against the Irish winter sky, cackling and rushing downhill with rapid wing beats, a cock bird sails toward my position, pulling my Berretta over-under past him I fire my first barrel. Damn! Too far behind! Swinging at least three feet ahead, I pull off my desperate second shot and amazingly he crumples in a kaleidoscope feathered burst. No time to breathe that sight in for long, as birds pincered into the end of this cover are now in full flush. Reloading, I take a hen right over head, falling almost on top of a waiting Labrador. Shouts of "Woodcock! Woodcock!" have the line of guns all on their toes. I am in keen predatory mode, searching the horizon, hoping the little "cock" comes my way. Out to my left, the woodcock skirts the tree line and, fortunately for the gun at the third peg, he turns skyward to be brought down from a splendid shot by Ret. Colonel Bill Mills, his first ever Irish woodcock. Dogs and beaters were nearly at the end of the drive as I stood waiting for the horn to sound, signaling us to open our guns. A spaniel approached some fifty yards from my post, turning sharply he pounced like a cat on a mouse into a small ditch, which I cannot imagine would hold anything. A beautiful dark green colored ring necked cock clucking grouchily roared out, rising high over my position. With the cool wind in his tail feathers, he raced past my peg at a paced off fifty five yards. I dropped him with my top barrel to the utter amazement of the beaters, dogs, me, and, I'm sure, the pheasant himself.
I would like to say I was lucky that morning, but I don't usually have that sort of "luck", so I just write it off as the pheasant having particularly poor luck that day.
It's early December and even at this time of year, lush green is the color of the countryside and the hills that surround us. Set in the foothills of the distant Wexford Mountains, Longevities House lies on the Hillary Road as it winds its way up from the southern coast of Eire on its way to Tipper. Set up high, the great house looks down onto sheep-dotted emerald fields, woodlands, and small trout-filled brooks that surround her. It's a quieter life that one comes here to find, very easy to be seduced into the life of a nineteenth century country squire while at Longevities House. The estate is a working farm. Along with the ubiquitous sheep, they have a thriving nursery business and, of course, a full time keeper, Mr. Pat Willis, who oversees the shooting and organizing the day's sport. A wonderful character, leprechaunsin stature, but huge in smiles and a constant sense of humor. You could hear his thick Irish brogue shouting out on each beat whether encouraging his dogs, especially three-legged Molly, or good-natured ribbing with his beaters. "I say, Sean. Get that lousy dog of yours out of here. He's half the spaniel with four legs that Molly is with three!" These banters would go back and forth throughout the cover and were part of the entertainment waiting on our pegs for birds to be pushed out. As I walked along with shoot manager, Pat Myth, between drives, he told me Longueville is one of Ireland's best kept secrets, known only by a small group of shooters from around the world as the "friendliest shoot in Ireland". So far, I could not have agreed more.
We had done two drives before 11:30 and we were now in for a special treat. On the Longueville shoot, your day's sport always includes at least one beat for driven duck with all shooters assigned a numbered peg spread out over the base of a large hill and falling off behind us steeply. The ducks, mallards, are flushed off of various small ponds up in the woods and in flocks of six to twelve, hurdle themselves at incredible speed over the assembled guns. The first sound you hear is the quacking and then they burst over the treetops at least forty yards high. Most get by me before I can even lift my gun, a testament to just how fast they are moving. I pick up a trailing greenhead, missing cleanly with both barrels. Reloading, another flock swarms by me and, again, I am almost too late. I swing past the last drake, folding him neatly with an ounce of #4s, then miss a hen that rushes by trying to catch her companions. My neighbor at peg #3, Todd Enright, shooting his delicate and exquisite ninety year old Stephen Grant side lock, is having a better time of it, killing two nice drakes and bringing down a long shot hen with his left barrel sending the dogs nearly a quarter mile to get that bird. An exhilarating end to the morning.
Lunch is served in the manor house, though we, all dressed in Barbours, Wellies, and mud, waiters all black tie and formal manners, we were made as welcome as family guests. Nothing like bowls of hot potato and leek soup to warm your spirits served with fresh, thickly sliced Irish soda bread, topped with shredded cheese, sweet pickle and chive, or chunky pheasant salad with plenty of strong tea to go around. A simple, but filling shooter's lunch.
After this fine midday break, shooters loaded into two separate vans heading out deep into the estate grounds. The strategy was to beat a three-quarter mile long woodland from two sides. Posting walking guns in two lines as Pat Willis, the keeper, explained it to me, "It seems like a good idea". I thought for a second and said to him, "I'll let you know what I think of it when we're done." He laughed and rattled off into the thick with Molly and Jane at heel. Well , as has been said, "The best laid plans of mice and men..." You know the rest. Apparently the pheasants had been scrimmaging a bit themselves, because their plan worked far better than the one we had initiated. At first it seemed as though there were no birds at all in this long peninsula of woodland. Then, a few birds flew out too low and too dangerous for a shot. By the time we had reached the end of the cover, only two or three birds were taken. Word came around by shooters Tim O'Connell and Joseph Cuddigan (local members of the Longueville shoot). They had been posted at the end of the cover and had viewed many birds - all who RAN out of the cover well ahead of all the dogs and men, retreating downhill into the marshy bottoms. So, our first strategy had failed, but we were now in a great position if dogs, drivers and shooters could all do what they had come to do. Lining up five of the guns along the marsh, I was for some reason chosen to be a walking gun. Paired with Dennis O'Brien, one of the dog handlers, we legged it to the farthest end of this wet, thick bog. As we heard the horn blow to commence the drive, Dennis and I, along with two spaniels and a lab, pushed forward. Almost immediately there was an explosion of pheasant. I swung to the right, killing a big cock over the open pasture, my second barrel dropping another as he tries to make the woods. I reload, two more steps, a cackling rooster, unkenneled by our persistent spaniel, comes from the marsh heading towards me and drops from the sky in a cloud of #7s. Another hen falls to my top barrel. Unbelievable shooting! Frantic birds now flush at random. The sharp report of guns firing along the outer line are increasing in frequency. Dennis and I worked through the swamp. At one point I bury my leg up to the knee in cold, muddy water. But who can care? The shouts of drivers, the yelp of spaniels, andthe clucking whir of pheasants - all embraced in the arms of a magical Irish day. I don't believe that anyone who has ever loved a dog, a bird or a gun would not have fallen in love with life, and living it that very day. As we finally broke cover, Dennis took his dogs back into the thick, meeting with the other drivers to push for stragglers. I posted now at the far southern end of the pasture with my shooting companions stretched out to the north. The sun shrank low in the sky and shadows grew long as my final shot came, a lone cockbird clamored from the gorse with much indignant noise and flying right down the line of guns. One shot... two shots...he flew unscathed past three pegs, in range for some, a bit far for others. Now was my chance to wipe everyone's eye. This bird had really put on some height and speed as he reached my position. I raised my gun in a classic smooth-follow through swing, feeling for all the world like Lord Ripon. With all eyes now watching me, I would show them "how it was done". Oh, how our moments of glory and heroism are so quickly shattered! Two perfectly placed shots into the air at least a foot behind him. My last view was that long tail sailing into the darkening oaks and I have a sneaking suspicion the faint cackle I heard was pheasant laughter!? Hmmm??
I looked back rather sheepishly at keeper Pat Willis, who had been watching my stellar performance, and said, "I'm doing MY part for Irishwildlife conservation." With that, we all laughed, gathering up men, guns and dogs alike we head back to the great house for a "jar", as theylike to call it, and some good Irish craic.