Hatton Estate, Aberdeenshire, Scotland
We gather, stamping our feet in the early morning cold, our breath visible in the dim light. “Morning lads” the head keeper greets us with a smile as we walk towards him. There are forty of us gathered in the parking lot, old men with greasy beards, young girls holding a panting dog. The Keeper continues as he puffs on a large pipe “Alright, were going to be doing slaughter alley first. The guns will be along the dike; Bob will drop us off at the road up by Jackie’s croft. We’ll beat the birds forward through the plantation and over the guns. Spread out when you reach the plantation and don’t let the dogs in the bird pens” With that he nods and walks towards a tractor and trailer waiting beside us. He swings him self into the back of the old horse trailer and we follow, talking quietly as we jostle for a space near the tail gate.
Like the doors of a Nazi prison train the metal hatch cover slams shut and we are plunged into darkness. The air is rank in the trailer, what with forty of us crammed there, sitting on hay bales with the dogs and walking sticks resting between our knees. Two spaniels jump onto my grubby trousers and I take in the rank smell cow manure. I have come prepared for a day of beating and am dressed accordingly. I have dug out a worn hunting jacket, grabbed a pair of thick socks, a fleece and old shirt and scrunched a flat cap low on my head. My trousers are already stained and I have had to stop Dad from throwing them away several times.
With a roar of foul smoke the tractor lurches forward the dogs slip from my legs into the murky gloom. Through the thin light I can see a lit pipe and a large hat brim opposite me. A hand extends from the murk and offers me a piece of gum and I chew reflectively as we bounce around. I seem to lose time in the trailer for I am met suddenly with harsh sunlight as the door thuds down into the muddy ground.
It’s the smell I notice first as I walk through the woods. The air has a crispness to it and the smell of wood smoke is mixed with the chilling wind, making me clutch my walking stick as I sneeze. Walking I smell the sawdust from the freshly chopped trees and the smoke as loose branches are heaved onto large bonfires. Past the old cottage I catch a whiff of powder from the rockets that soared in celebration the day before and from the shotguns fired off from the fields near by. We walk in a long line, two abreast, dogs following their masters on the outside of the column. The road has turned to mud in the past few weeks and my boots churn up the slush as we go. It is lucky that my clothes are thick for the wind blows strongly from the thick woods ahead. The cold makes one of the boys shiver as his white knuckles clutch a large stick. I reach down and pull a pair of my mums gloves from a jacket pocket which he quickly exepts.
The line halts and my mind temporarily reels as Davie uncorks a silver hip flask and I smell the potent fumes of sloe gin used to ward off the cold. Further along the trail, leaves falling about him, Harris stops and slips his piece bag off a rumatic shoulder. George leans, and standing up against a tree he lights a reeking pipe as Paul rolls a greasy fag from his tobacco pouch. His dog has caught the aroma of pork pies and busies herself sniffing at my pockets in search of crumbs. He grabs the scruff of her neck and hauls her backwards, apologizing to me. A crackle of static from the radio and Duff has called the line forward and through the Christmas tree plantation.
We stand in our crumpled Barbour jackets and pick up the sticks and clappers that are the tools of our humble trade. As we walk into the forest the dogs are let off straining leashes and run forward barking, their handles shouting curses and commands. Within moments one of the older bitches has startled a hen from the bushes and my stick is raised to force it forward. The bird causes a stir up and down the line as we shout and wave. The hen squawks as it rises and is gone over the tops of pines toward the river. We hear the shots a moment later and a smile spreads across the head keepers bearded face. The line moves slowly downward as I give orders to the young lads tramping behind me. Through the pines we march, the thick needles falling on my shoulders as I duck under branches. The dogs are exited and through the trees I hear them whine to be allowed to follow the birds further.
I lose contact with everyone but Davie and together we troop through the forest taking about the land. I laugh as he crashes through the brush yelling “Rumble rumble I’m a tank” In a thick Scottish accent. Suddenly through a gap in the foliage I can see the valley. At the bottom of the valley lie a group of Land Rovers next to which stand the guns, firing at the birds far above. A cock is hit and its crumpled body cartwheels to the ground, blood darkening on its blue feathers. As I scare a bird from the grass with my clapper I hear the echoes of a horn call and slowly lower my stick.
The birds lie strewn over the field as I emerge from the woods and glace around. Dogs run about the legs of the guns as they eject used cartridges onto the bloody grass. I walk past the guns and I can see by their faces that to them I am just one more farm hand getting extra cash. Duff strides between a crowd of pickerupers and thrusts two dead birds into my hands. I throw them into the back of a truck and start to walk slowly back to the castle. “Cheers Tam. Thanks for the help, come next week,” Says Davie has he hands me two ten pound notes. A smile and stuff them into my breast pocket, wave to the other beaters and am gone over a fence.
As soon as I am through the back door I feel myself change. I hang up my coat, straighten my shirt and try to make my hair look presentable. After I have partially succeeded I climb the worn stairs and within minutes am
Shaking hands with the former guns, enquiring after my father and offering me glasses of wine. I am in a different world.
