I remember hearing Paul McCartney explain how he stopped eating meat when he moved to a farm. Exactly the opposite thing happened to me. I had been a vegetarian for almost 20 years when Claire and I bought our farm on our honeymoon, but soon after we arrived in the country I completely changed my mind.
When we took over the farm, there was a flock of sheep in residence and it was clear it is rather nice being a sheep while it lasts. I'm not sure if the same is true for the majority of chickens, but sheep don't have it too bad at all. To have been a lamb and be roasted is better than never to have been a lamb at all, I began to think, and it wasn't long before I was tucking in.
When I was a vegetarian I used to get quite riled by the sight of groups of people with guns in the countryside. It was the last thing the sublime pastoral scenario needed, nobby types with guns tramping around shooting stuff.
In the first few months we lived here, I received letters from various people asking if they could come and shoot on our land, the thought of which appalled me. Then I realised I had to get a gun myself, a 12-bore, for the rooks that were beginning to take over the woodland, and pretty soon I was eyeing up the game birds that were straying on to our land and wondering what they'd taste like.
The idea of taking pleasure in killing things is iffy ground, but there's something wonderfully holistic about bagging dinner with your shotgun: the 'pack-your-own' approach. Buying organic, ethical, biodynamic, rare-breed meat is definitely a step in the right direction, but at some point death comes into the equation and who better to pull the trigger than the consumer? The shooting isn't the horrible bit. That's pretty much the same feeling as lining up a long red on a snooker table. But everyone should try plucking a bird. That's a really nasty business. For the last couple of years, around this time, I've spent a day wandering about the farm with friends picking off the stray pheasants, but until last week I'd never been on a proper driven shoot.
Shooting is about the poshest, nobbiest, most expensive way of pleasantly wasting time anyone has ever dreamed up. It requires vast swathes of countryside, huge numbers of beaters, keepers, loaders and dog handlers, and the amount of gear involved - togs, guns, sticks, bags and cartridges - is apparently endless. Like a dinner party, a shooting party is only as much fun as the other people that will be there, and this was a good one.
There were eight of us, ranging from a minor royal to a major celebrity: all richer than Croesus and just as tired of everything. I was the only one who was a rubbish shot. There were discussions about other shoots in the area. At Overbury, apparently, they pluck the birds during lunch for you and vacuum-pack them with bacon on their backs.
It was an absolutely brilliant day. I'm used to seeing a couple of pheasants fly up when the dogs go in but there were hundreds of birds. The partridge rise first. It's heart-stopping stuff, particularly for the birds. Partridge is absolutely delicious, but butchers have trouble selling them, I guess because people are nervous about cooking them. They're just small chickens, right? It's no more complicated than that. Chickens live in cages and taste a bit like chicken. Game birds taste wonderful and live on fantastic, historic country estates and get finished off by members of the royal family and oligarchs. Not a bad way to go. If you see game, grab it. It's a good bargain.
