Tales of Hunting: Autumn is upon us, and although it is believed that on the islands the cold seasons are less so than elsewhere, those who have tried the humid, the mistral and the north wind know that it is an emeritus nonsense.
The fact remains that even during the days of wind and promised rain, I run away from home and direct me to that small grove a few kilometers from my everyday life that welcomes me every time as a friend. For some years I have been hunting better alone, since old friends are gone and even if at the end of the day I bring home little or no patience, the important thing is to breathe clean air, not hear the phone ring and forget for at least a few hours everyday problems. Now that I prepare for this new autumn that arrives, I am reminded of the adventure I experienced last year while sharing my beautiful day of hunting with the dear York Setter and with a very young Setter.
The first is a longtime friend, with the second we are getting to know each other, but I must say that the trainer, my cousin, did a really good job. That Sunday I had decided to hunt some hare and given my knowledge of the area I immediately headed to "su murdegu", an area where numerous low and fragrant plants grow and an infinite number of brambles that make the passage really complicated .
It is there that hares normally hide and in fact, having reached the area, my dogs, encouraged by myself, began their excited search by carefully crossing those masses of brambles which during the end of August are filled with very good blackberries; my wife turns them into delicious jams.
But let's get back to us: my York seems to have gone mad, it slips among the brambles and while I await the escape of a hare I feel instead a rather powerful flutter that I confess to you, it took me by surprise so much so that my three blows did not had no success. I observe that majestic pheasant that goes away after having made it to me great.
I sit for a few minutes on one of the large granite stones that are in the area: I think the cold is getting really bitter, but the gaze of my dogs convinces me to go on. Strange, I should be the one to encourage my four-legged friends, but more and more frequently it is their enthusiasm and the beauty of the woods that stimulate my passion.
Leftover: the pheasant can only have hidden in one place and I know perfectly well where. I climb the small hill and reach the edge of the small grove that is giving me shelter from the cold. I take a look around, but above all I observe the dogs that have already found something: I had no doubts. I take the gun and wait and after a few minutes another strong blend that this time does not find me unprepared.
One shot is enough to see the pheasant disappear: I am almost certain I have caught it, but the security is given to me by the return of my very young setter with the booty in his mouth. The carry is perfect, the pheasant is beautiful and the sun is starting to rise.
Not bad the days when the hares turn into pheasants.
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