The first time I ever saw the Virginia Sportsman it lay face down on a shiny mahogany table in a hotel lobby. What caught my eye was the advertisement on the back cover, and in fact it wasn’t until I turned it over, did I see the title of the publication.
Now I was intrigued, because both the front and the back were of great interest to me. The front because I am an avid hunter and fisherman and on the rear a picture of the vehicle I drove before I left England for a new life in Virginia. The vehicle in question was a Mercedes G Wagon – and this is where the story begins.
One of the most enjoyable aspects of hunting are the people you meet and the circumstances that bring kindred spirits together at a certain place and time. This particular hunt, of which I write, was organized by the father of Andrew, a client that I had sold a trained Labrador to a couple of years previously.
We met at a beautiful old farmhouse in the county of Kent, less than a hundred miles from the center of London. There were eight guns, of which I only knew Andrew, and looking around the room I guessed that my fellow guests were a mixture of captains of industry and local landed gentry (farmers). However, one of the guests did not fit into either category and at first glance closely resembled a young Omar Sheriff. He was immaculately attired in what appeared to be a custom tailored Savile Row tweed shooting suit and judging by his swarthy looks would be more at home up to his ankles in sand rather than English mud.
At the safety briefing we were informed that the day would consist of six drives made up of pheasants, French partridges, wood pigeon, and Mallard duck. We were also respectfully asked that any guest with a dog could only retrieve those birds shot in the shooting line as the picker ups would retrieve the cripples and sweep the line after each drive.
Being a retriever breeder, trainer, and field trialer I have different dogs for different tasks and on this particular day I had selected a black lab by the name of Grizzly to accompany me. Although he was never going to make the Nationals he was a really useful retriever by the time he was three and I knew he would lie quietly at my feet until given a command to go to work.
Although the weather was a typical English winter’s day with grey skies and a light rain, there was enough wind to get under the wings of the birds and challenge the accuracy of most of the guns.
In fact by the end of the third drive the game keeper decided to put more birds over us by letting us shoot his most prolific drive, which he knew would push up the numbers in the game cart-and also his tip at the end of the day!
It was on this drive that the gun on my left, the distinguished looking foreigner who we shall from now on call ‘Omar’, hit a duck and both Grizzly and I knew that it was only lightly pricked and would be able to fly a fair distance before falling out of the sky. As we watched it, so did the rest of the guns, the beating line, and the pickers up- but nobody watched it as intently as Grizzly.
When the end of the drive was signaled by the game keeper’s horn Omar approached me looking rather concerned. “Did you happen to see that duck that I wounded which flew across the lake and crashed into the woods on the other side of the valley?” I was tempted to tell him that everybody in the county had witnessed his ineptitude but as I didn’t wish to embarrass the poor chap I reassured him that one of the picker ups would find it.
However, at that moment Andrew’s father appeared and told me that his son was forever telling him what fantastic dogs I had and would I like to prove it by retrieving the duck. Knowing that Grizzly had marked the exact location of the duck, and never one to miss a possible marketing opportunity, I accepted the challenge. The host used his walkie talkie radio to tell everybody to stay still and a gallery formed at the top of the valley to see Grizzly and I make fools of ourselves.
Stepping forward I set up Grizzly for the retrieve and as soon as his head and spine were in perfect alignment with the downed duck I gave him the command to fetch. Like an arrow he ran down the side of the valley and almost without breaking stride launched himself into the lake and swam as though he was powered by twin outboard engines. At the far side he hauled himself up the bank, and without pausing to shake, disappeared into the wood.
It was at this point that I experienced déjà vu of all the times that I had been in this situation in field trials and heard a little voice saying, “trust your dog, trust your dog” which was the advice my wife always gives me when competing.
Although it seemed like an eternity, within a couple of minutes we could just make out the duck in Grizzly’s mouth as he reappeared out of the trees. Cheers and applause erupted from the gallery as he bounded back up the valley and presented the bird perfectly to hand. Removing a ‘priest’ from my pocket I dispatched the wounded duck with a single blow and presented it to the foreigner who thanked me profusely.
Later that day I found myself seated next to Omar at dinner and the conversation turned from shooting to the ideal 4×4 vehicle for hunting. I explained that although I was happy with my
Jeep Cherokee, it was a real hassle every Sunday afternoon spending an hour cleaning the outside and two hours cleaning the mess the dogs had made of the inside. He listened politely and then amazed me by saying,
“I have the perfect vehicle for you and your dogs and I would like to exchange it for that dog that made that fantastic retrieve today.”
Naturally, I thought he was joking but the sincere look on his face made me realize that he was deadly serious and so I asked him what vehicle he had in mind.
“I promise you that you will not be disappointed. So why don’t you come and see it next week end? Bring your wife and we will have lunch together – and of course, don’t forget to bring Grizzly!”
Having thanked the host for a great day I took down Omar’s address and phone number and Grizzly and I headed for home.
Throughout the next week I found myself wondering if I had imagined the conversation, but if I had not, began to think that I was going to be offered a beaten up old Landrover which was probably rusting away in the corner of some old barn; a home to several smelly chickens.
The following Saturday morning, my wife, Grizzly, and I set off to meet Omar at his country residence. We followed rather complicated driving instructions that finally delivered us in front of a pair of elegant black wrought iron gates at the top of a very steep hill. Suddenly the gates started to open and I realized that we were obviously being monitored on a security camera and had been expected.
As we crested the hill and started down the drive we immediately became aware of the stunning view. It was as though we were in a plane looking down on the ‘Garden of England,’
which has long been the name given to the county of Kent due to the orchards, and more importantly the hop fields that provide the breweries with the ingredients necessary to make warm English beer!
However, if we thought the view was impressive, we hadn’t seen anything yet as suddenly this magnificent house and manicured grounds appeared at the bottom of the drive. No sooner had we parked next to a Porsche in front of several garages than Omar appeared. He was very gracious as he invited us in and ushered us into a sitting room with a panoramic view of most of the south of England. He explained that he had given the servants the week end off as he really enjoyed cooking and occasionally wanted the place to himself.
Having offered us a drink he left the room, where upon Lesley and I immediately noticed the family photos on priceless antique pieces of furniture which revealed the nationality of the foreigner. It was apparent that Omar, our charming host, was in fact a Saudi Prince.
Over lunch he confirmed that he had been raised in Saudi but having been educated in England, he had decided to stay and make his home in England in one of his fathers many houses liberally dotted around the world.
Once we had eaten, he announced that he would bring the vehicle around to the front door. In the distance I heard the deep roar of a powerful engine bursting into life and a couple of minutes later a bright red long wheel base Mercedes G Wagon pulled up in front of us. I could not believe my eyes or that anyone in their right senses would be prepared to exchange such a vehicle for a dog-no matter how good!
The next half hour was totally bizarre as I test drove the G Wagon and he put Grizzly through a series of retrieves. When both of us were satisfied we drew up a contract on the back of his personal card to finalize the deal; it basically said that if either the dog or the vehicle failed to function properly within the first 30 days the exchange was off.
When the month expired I called the Prince and he was in raptures over Grizzly who was impressing all his shooting friends with superb retrieves, and I told him how pleased and relieved I was that the local Mercedes dealership had given the vehicle a clean bill of health.
However, what I didn’t tell him was the reaction of the game keeper of the Apsley Estate where we lived, when I turned up with my new acquisition on a shoot.
“Get that ****ing fire engine out of ‘ere, do you want to scare away every ****ing pheasant within six ****ing miles!”
Take it from me, a Mercedes re spray does not come cheap, but I still think I got the better end of the bargain.