A-Hunting We Will Go

 

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We Brits can be a little condescending about our American cousins. Who hasn’t stared open-mouthed while they use a knife and fork, attempt to spell “colour” or elect a President? We chuckle at their use of the word “hunting”, when those who wield cutlery correctly know that they mean “shooting”. However, thanks to a morning with the Thetford Rod and Gun Club, I think our “special relations” may have got it right; this is hunting, not merely shooting.

The club is a small walked-up syndicate just outside Brandon, situated on the border of Suffolk and Norfolk within the region known as the Brecks. Breckland is poor farming country, a sea of rabbits, sandy soil and flints. The shoot is small, fewer than 200 acres. The covers frame three fields of winter barley and stubble, and largely consist of Scots pine planted just after World War I. Oregon grape, bracken and bramble clumps proliferate, while a few ancient native oak, beech and birch stand like sentinels.

Within this eerie woodland lie traps to capture the unwary. If fallen tree limbs don’t snare you, cavernous holes await to swallow you up. These pits date from Neolithic times, when our ancestors tunnelled to considerable depths for the prime flints held within. The pits remained in use until the early 1800s, providing flints for the British Army’s muskets.

Healthy population