A straightforward shooting weekend

The Dutch don’t mince their words. He called me at 10 am on a Saturday (probably the most un-English time to call anyone ever) and was direct.

“I want to shoot in the UK this year. Ask one of your fancy friends. A Friday, end of November. Big bag but not bloodthirsty. No agents. Don’t spend over €200k. Bring the wife if you have to.”

Frankly, I’m no one’s PA. But when someone allows you to curate your own shooting party, it is, despite what The Artist Formerly Known as Prince Andrew might tell you, anything but straightforward.

As shooting agents were forbidden (they charge 20% of everything), I called Darren Haskell-Thomas at Marble Private to organise the transport and entertainment, and Imogen Hervey-Bathurst to request the use of her family’s castle and shoot.

Both said yes, and the dates were booked immediately. I waited patiently for what would be a weekend that money could buy.

I won’t keep track of the amount spent because that’s crude (unlike this article). But you can mentally calculate it as we go along, if you like.

We started at Dorian at two o’clock in the afternoon on Thursday.

After years of being the one to ‘organise’ restaurants on trips, you soon develop a sense for a place that allows you to stand up and leave. When you’re trying to determine the nearest high-quality restaurant to Northolt airfield that won’t tut when you visit in a hurry, you must rule out Core and The Ledbury, which are eager to serve you another tiny course and keep you seated for three hours.

Dorian also boasts an immense wine list, and we started hard. I bought a bottle of Krug Clos de Mesnil to accompany the lobster tail slider. It’s essential to get your host’s gift in early, and it is a rather fine bottle of wine. So fine, in fact, that we bought another two bottles of the ’06 that they conveniently had in stock.

Lunch included an Alain Chavy Montrachet, Keller Riesling, and Haut-Brion with the steak. Some halves of Yquem were snaffled for the transport.

By 4:15 pm, we’d paid the bill. By 4:45pm, we were motoring into Northolt. By 5pm, we were wheels up and by 5.30pm we had arrived at the castle.

To be clear: that’s 90 minutes from Dorian to bathtub, in a castle 100 miles away. We could all get used to this.

Since Succession filmed its first season at Eastnor, Imo and her father, James, have invested heavily in making the castle the number-one destination for guns and house parties. The castle accommodates 24 guests in 12 state rooms (and they are indeed state rooms), as well as additional, very nice rooms for staff. Plus they have another 10-bedroom house on the estate if you want friends to join for dinner.

We were dispatched to our rooms to shake the chopper out of our hair, but I happily discovered a Martini trolley outside my room. Fully stocked with Welsh and English gin and vodka, it elegantly solved the most significant problem of the English country house: the seven-minute walk downstairs to get a drink or the awkwardness of asking the staff to fetch one for you in your room.

The secret to enjoying shooting is to hold fire on the night before. No black tie, no silly game, no mixing drinks.

By my second Martini in the bath, I realised this strategy was flawed, and when I found a card on my bed inviting me for a DRC tasting in the cellar at 7pm, I knew this whole weekend would have to be just attacked.

After a near-religious experience, we congregated at 7.30pm in the gothic dining room for our briefing. Which was as follows:

1. We start at 10am tomorrow. If you’re late, we don’t mind.
2. Dinner tomorrow is 8pm. If you’re late, we don’t mind.
3. Helicopters depart at midday on Saturday, with boat transport to the River Café. If you’re late, we don’t mind.
4. All staff, including loaders, have already been tipped generously.
5. No ground game.

For dinner, we enjoyed four light courses by Emma Gawlick, the castle’s head chef who’s previously cooked for the Queen (the old one), paired with Coche Dury and the remaining DRC.

Let’s be quite honest, shooting can be a chore. Bad weather, bad guns and bad staff can all lead to the most expensive, miserable day of your life. There’s a lot of kerfuffle, too much walking in inappropriate attire, and often some rather passive-aggressive behaviour.

This wasn’t that day.

Starting at 10am is so civilised. It gives you a solid nine hour’s sleep, and enough time to bathe and have a sausage.

Shooting on a Friday is equally civilised. A few work emails dispatched and it’s time to enjoy a three-day weekend.

First up, we meet the keeper, Mr Stokes, for a quick confab on our objective for the day. The consensus is four drives, with some form of refreshment between each, and no longer than 10 minutes’ travel between pegs. And no having to remember our peg number.

Then we arrive at the significant part. Our host’s opinion is final. A minimum bag of 400, but let’s aim to ‘elegantly’ reach 700.

The guns are presently herded into a charabanc, where we meet Stephen, our oyster and caviar sommelier for the day. I’m starting to think this is all a bit much, but he prepares a Bloody Mary oyster for us all, which is frankly a godsend.

Our support team of partners is transported in two 2025 long-wheelbase Range Rovers provided by JLR for the day. Each features a custom-built bar in the back. It’s starting to sound a bit Guy Ritchie, but it’s done in impeccable taste – rather like that of the loaders, who are liveried in Oliver Brown and always on peg with our guns, which travel separately.

As we have a scattering of international guns, the castle has loaned many pairs (some with a third spare, just in case), and it’s all relatively civilised.

After the first drive, we enjoy a quick snack of ossetra caviar on Pringles and lobster bisque with Dom Pérignon.

The second drive is around the duck pond, and I’ll let you imagine the outcome. One gun seems to be in the thick of it, and his loader needs a sit-down. We all look concerned for their welfare while secretly seething with jealousy.

We return to the castle, where a tuna awaits us on the terrace for our elevenses (although it’s midday). This time, it’s Krug and a re-creation of the famous Tuna Fight Club at the supermarket of dreams. Stephen is still doling out the caviar, and some of us are secretly hankering after shepherd’s pie and Majestic Rioja.

Back we go. Another superb and relatively high drive, and it’s back to the castle for 1.30pm lunch. The castle’s chef keeps it light with Turbot and lobster, and this time Krug rosé.

Our final drive is testing, exhilarating, and absolutely amazing. It’s the perfect end to a day. We have indeed elegantly reached 670 birds without breaking a sweat, feeling as though it was proper sport while not really walking very far.

The sun is now setting, and we return to the castle. The fires haven’t stopped crackling in the castle all day, and as I grab some cake and tea and return to my room, I discover there’s a fire lit in my bathroom. I’m thrilled.

The tinkling of the Martini trolley heralds the start of the evening, and after enjoying a very dry Martini in a very wet bath, the smoking jacket is on.

I’m carried down to the cellar to help select our wine for the night with the local merchant, Tanners: Salon Champagne, Lynch-Bages claret, Coche-Dury, Yquem, and some fancy Hennessy.

By now you’re likely tired of this. But Emma executes the sensational tasting menu that brought her fame, and there’s a DJ whom you would have heard of in the library after dinner. I lose at billiards and head to bed by 3am.

Saturday morning turns out to be a little more enjoyable than I had anticipated. We try the ripe honey mango made famous at Hide for breakfast, and then it’s outside to find eight brand-new Range Rovers and Defenders. We all head off for an hour’s driving course around the estate. Eastnor is the spiritual home of (and testing centre) for Land Rover, and we have an incredible time testing the cars down rivers and up the Malvern Hills.

The sound of the whirlybird interrupts our champagne and canapés by the Eastnor lake, and it’s back to London for the survivors’ lunch at a private room at the River Café. We arrive by boat from Battersea.

I return home to find that the dogs have soiled the kitchen, while my mother-in-law has not enjoyed our son’s sleeping patterns or the noisy boiler.

Fuck it, I say. Let’s all go for dinner at Dorian.

Read our guide to the best shooting destinations in the UK.