Two days chasing the English ‘rocket ships’
I’ve spent the past 48 hours pursuing English partridges around my native Wessex. Yesterday, I was privileged to be on one of the hallowed partridge manors, standing atop a small hill and watching in awe as flankers and beaters linked across miles of sunburned stubbles. They cajoled almost unbelievable numbers of our little native rocket ships towards the distant line of waiting, invited Guns.
It was an ample and vivid demonstration of modern gamekeeping and land management in both art and science. Today the same boots are slightly more grounded, the army of employed hands replaced by panting spaniels and loyal terriers, what was thousands of acres is now barely 300 but with the same sweltering heat and the same ephemeral and enigmatic quarry centre stage.
My host for the second day was Tom, a mountain of a man with hands that could easily replace the bucket on the loader he
