I am about to follow a very tall man on a deer stalk. Depending on our luck, we may shoot one or two dead. “You’re not squeamish, are you?” asks the man in question. His name is Brad Smith, and he’s the gamekeeper at the Culden Faw Estate in Hambleden, Henley-on-Thames. We are at The Stag & Huntsman, a nearby country pub. He towers an entire head and shoulders above me.
I’ve never watched a deer be shot, except on TV. In the days leading up to my stalk, I think of an episode of the late chef Anthony Bourdain’s excellent travel series, Parts Unknown, in which he went stag-stalking with journalist and critic AA Gill. In the show, Gill tells Bourdain that he must be “blooded” after he successfully hunts his first red stag, and proceeds to smear blood and guts all over the American’s face. I wonder, briefly, if Smith will do the same to me.
When one mentions “deer stalking”, this is the kind of thing that comes to mind. For most people it might conjure visions of members of the royal family, or wealthy men staying in sprawling manors in the Scottish Highlands, hunting down these majestic animals to put their heads on walls and their bodies on plates. While it’s true that this particular type of deer stalking is a preserve of the elite – it can cost thousands to organise a game-hunting party with the goal of shooting a stag – the reality of shooting venison is much less snooty. Everyone I speak to who hunts regularly is working-class, many growing up on farms and shooting game since they were young.
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