|
First Grey by Roy Bebbington |
|
It's a beautiful warm mid September day - blue
sky, bright sunshine, and hardly a breath of wind. Standing upon the highest
point of the moor, the panorama spread before us makes me thank the lord that
I was born a Northerner. Freya, my wirehaired vizsla bitch, is busily
working some 30-40 yards ahead, quartering the ground - for hidden within
this sea of white grass lie pipits, larks and the very jewel within the
crown, grey partridge. It takes a big hearted dog to find these
elusive gamebirds. For upon this moor they are out there, but widely
scattered and small in number. Freya knows from past experience that she will
have to run big and cast wide to find them. Standing tense and erect upon my fist sits
'Marge' my imprint female sparrowhawk. She awaits the slightest sign of
movement. One never has to wait too long, before that
single note repetitive call of the pipit sounds and they almost seem
catapulted from earth to the heavens. Upon the first flush, Marge sets off in pursuit. She flies hard, following every twist and turn of the fleeing pipit. She executes a breathtaking corkscrew turn and throws out a foot in an attempt to pluck the pipit out of the air. This is to prove her undoing, for the loss of momentum caused by this manoeuvre al |
|
lows the pipit just sufficient time and
distance to head skywards and away to safety. At about 30ft Marge sets her wings and gives
up the chase, circling above us, waiting for the lure to be produced beneath
her. There is no need for haste, for it is quite simply great to watch this
lovely little hawk lazily waiting on above us. Her plumage is illuminated by
the sunlight against the blue sky, and she is quite literally as pretty as a
picture. Meanwhile, Freya body language begins to
communicate that she has scented game somewhere ahead. She begins that almost
Panther like stalk, usually a prelude to a point. No matter how many
thousands of points you may see in a lifetime, the next one will always be as
exciting. Freya, begins slowing,, and finally stops, rigid on point. |
|
I walk forward of the motionless dog, arm
extended with Marge aloft. Approaching Freya head on, I can see her drawing
in the scent through not only her nose, but through her mouth as well, as if
tasting it's intoxicating pleasures. Just that one step too close, then an
explosion of whirring wings - we are amongst a covet of grey partridge. Marge for reasons only known to herself,
switches from one group to another, selects her target and is locked on. With her wings pumping furiously, the gap
between the hunter and the hunted close - finally the two become one and they
fall into a bed of white grass. I quickly turn to see Freya hasdropped to
flush, and |
|
quickly make my way across to help Marge
despatch her prize. Once secured, I call Freya across to enjoy the spoils.
For this is a very important, much neglected part of the whole ritual. The
dog must know exactly just what the conclusion of the while proceedings are
about. |
