Irish Setters

Irish  setters have come to me over the past few  years through  a series of coincidences, establishing our 'Tiqun'  family which has been a most wonderful experience. It has been my privilege to own many good dogs,  some  even achieved notoriety either on the  shooting field, in field trials  or for their charm in the hawking party. Heidi was  a  German Shorthaired Pointer who could not help her German background but  did  her very  best  in every way to be beyond reproach;  she  rarely broke  wind,  at  least in company, and used her  large  nose with  the greatest sensitivity. From Goshawks to  Peregrines she  soon  learned  the nuances of the game and  was  relied upon  often when other dogs disappointed their owners  expectation.  For many years Jemima was her flushing companion,  a black  cocker spaniel gifted by John Bell-Irving in a rather too  well  lubricated, merry moment of generosity. His impetuosity proved  fortunate for him in the end since he later lost the whole family of his dogs under the ice in Scotland and Jamie was able to restore Cockers to his pack with a litter of pups late in her life.

Setters  were  perhaps  the greatest  pleasure  of the pointing breeds and  the Irish  reds stole our hearts early in my career when Trudy joined  the pack of odds and strays. She was simply stunning but never easy as I didn’t really understand the character of the breed at that time.

Many years later on 25  January  1990 it was Jenny’s birthday and  also  the day  that  we drove in a gale to London Gatwick  airport.  I was leaving England to fly to Albuquerque with all sorts of dreams and hopes. A severe gale countrywide when we had boarded the aircraft it was alarming to watch activity outside.  Large baggage containers were being blown around  like paper  bags  as  the aircraft itself  rocked  severely even at the terminal gate.  Our scheduled  take-off time came and went; we just  sat through  four  hours  waiting before unexpectedly a voice  on  the intercom  apologised  for delay  and  said  we  were taxiing out to the runway. All the passengers looked skeptically at each other  fully expecting to unload rather than take to the air.

A  small  aircraft  lay at a strange angle  and  still things were blowing around as we rolled along, lurching here and there in the gusts of wind. We stopped on the end of the runway in takeoff position and again just waited. It was the last  shoot of the pheasant season at home and I was thinking  about my friends  out  there  in this weather - fast birds,  they  would never  have seen birds at this speed and I wondered just who had managed to shoot any at all?

About  a quarter of an hour we sat there with the whole aircraft  rocking  about  as  the gale  raged  outside  when suddenly the engines revved up, the brakes came off  we  were  alarmingly accelerating down the runway. Nobody said anything but  the  fear amongst  my  fellow  passengers could be  scented, white knuckles gripping the armrest as  the plane  lifted  off the tarmac with a sudden jerk instead of the smoothness  we were  all  accustomed to. Like a roller coaster  ride it  climbed rapidly  in leaps and bounds, this huge DC10 as it met  the tumbling  air  head  on until that moment when  the  engines throttle  back  and  takeoff  changes to  cruising.  We  had climbed  quicker and higher than usual until we were now  above the  clouds - at around 15000 feet the voice came over the sound system  'Sorry  about that, maybe I shouldn't have gone  for it?’ the captain himself sounded relieved. Then  there was silence for a few minutes before  he returned  and assumed a calmer tone to tell us that all  was well  and  the  flight was to proceed as normal,  if  rather late.

Unknown to me this  was also a shooting day in Ireland as we flew in  the  afternoon on our  way  out  over  the Atlantic.  Irish friends who are so enthusiastic  for  their dogs  and  horses, passionate in a way that bridges  a gulf between us that  we ‘cold’ English  find hard  to  come  to terms with. As a nation for many years the British have  just  had  to manage  the  'Irish question' when they have shot  and  bombed each  other  year  after year.

We passed just  to the south  of Greenland  and Davis straits from where Newcombe had obtained Gyr falcons for the Old Hawking club and had flown them at the herons  from Diddlington in the sky above my trout river  at Cranwich in Norfolk.  The spectacular view was bathed in winter sunshine. A frozen snowscape reflecting electrified colours in the afternoon light. Green glaciers flowing from vast snowfields down into the chilled sea of Cerulian Blue. Dick Bagnal-Oakley had once gifted me a pure white stuffed Jerkin, one of the hawks of the Old Hawking Club and labelled ‘Davis Staits’ on the bottom of the case. Now here I was flying over that very scene. Today the  land in Norfolk where these hawks were flown is all  forested  since  people considered  the Breckland sandy soil worthless as open heath and they planted trees .  Over the last fifty  years the Forestry Commission have created to biggest forest in  Europe - no longer  can we see the coast from High Ash or fly the falcons out of the hood although we do manage to wait on for pheasants flushed from WW II bomb craters. With trees came deer and now I often sit and dream of Gyrs past whilst in a high  seat  in Hockham, Diddlington or Cranwich just as  the hawking  party  used to sit and wait in Cranwich  High  barn for the herons to fly up from the fen to their nests with that unique aroma.

Our plane ride was not an uneventful flight! As we were approaching the North American continent the  voice came  on  again to say that as a consequence of the storm we had experienced such a strong head-wind  we had  run  out of fuel. Late in an arctic afternoon  we  flew low  over  the  snow covered brush and  small  frozen  lakes where  animal  tracks  could be seen as a  tracery  of  gold rivulets  in  the  snow  across the ice, the  watery  winter sun of the high north reflecting  back  at  us. We were landing in  Ganda,  a  cold deserted  place  where we were obviously a novelty  observed by  the  few  locals looking out from  their  air  conditioned warmth  of  the  terminal buildings.  Trucks stood  deserted  on  the taxiways,  motors constantly running to cope  with  the intense  cold,  wisps  of exhaust  gas  drifting in the icy air. One of the officers briefly left the aircraft to file new flight plans but he did not linger long outside, being poorly clothed for this unexpected climate.

We  flew  down  the east coast to New York  later  than expected  and  found ourselves circling Kennedy  airport  in the  stack  for  more than an hour. The voice  spoke  again 'Sorry  about this but we have been diverted to Washington.' Nothing about this flight seemed to be working out. Late  that  night  in  the   Hyatt  hotel, Washington by courtesy of  American  Airlines hospitality  we were to see pictures on the TV of the  plane below  us  in  the  New  York stack. It had crashed on approach killing  its  passengers  and crew!  This was no uneventful day.

John  Nash  was  an Irishman, the charismatic owner  who created  the  Moanruad (pronounced Monroe) kennel  of  Irish Setters,  he  was 'Mr Irish Setter' to all who had seen  the photograph  in  which  he  stands  smiling  with  five  dogs leashed  in  each  hand,  everyone  a  current  Field  Trial Champion  owned  and  bred by him, an amazing  total  of  43 Field  Trial Champions in his life. On this day that I flew to America and in  this gale  he  was  out  with friends handling his  dogs  for a shooting party in  his beloved  Ireland. It was the gale of the century all over western Europe and its first  landfall was in Ireland. The party apparently  passed under  a large old tree when it cracked, one of its huge old limbs  broke  and  fell. John Nash was killed by that  branch in that gale and the world of working dogs lost a treasure.

Jo-Jo  had  been his latest excitement and of  all  the dogs  he had bred he had told Isobel that he felt this one to be one of the special few. After the storm Joey had  suddenly lost his  master  and  Isobel’s kennel  in  Norfolk  was his rescue home. But life  was  not easy  for  Joey and he could not settle to life without  Jack,  he  pined for what he had lost, he became thin  and nervous  but  still enjoyed the fields and the work. We met soon  after  I returned from America, some dreams  shattered others  fulfilled, some dreams just starting afresh.  My  team  of  dogs  was  now  depleted, Feather  having died in the Rio Puerco with the scent of her last  green  winged  teal  under her nose,  killed  by  Jim’s tiercel  after being found and flushed by her. Now I needed more  setters  and  had happened upon Isobel and  her  happy team of setters to stimulate a new dream from old memories of our beloved Trudy.

Joey  went  to  Scotland for the grouse in  August  and worked  well  for  the  walking  guns  until  he  was  badly frightened  by a fool who just did not know dogs and how  to behave.  By  this time Isobel decided that perhaps he  would be  more  happy with a man again as his working partner  and so  he  came  to live at Sneath Farm. Isobel had moved to Yorkshire that summer and it was by a telephone call on the spur of the moment that she had let me know of her decision. I drove up to the moors early the  next morning. As Joey got into the van he laid down in the back and  breathed an audible sigh. Isobel remarked it seemed like relief  and he just  went  to sleep. A four hour  drive  home normally  seemed  a  long  haul but on this occasion magical Irish music seemed  to  fill the  atmosphere,  people laughing and talking - the  journey seemed  just  a moment somehow. Joey never looked back from that moment and together we had many adventures.