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There is an interesting article on this that covers a lot of the points raised in this thread. Here is an extract from the Mail on-line.
By Amanda Platell
>>>>>>>>>>>>>Like many townies, my prejudices about the Glorious Twelfth were well and truly fully formed. The official start of the shooting season was nothing more than an ancient ritual to massacre thousands of defenceless birds.
The killers were a bunch of men with Prince Charles cut-crystal accents looking down their long aristocratic noses at ordinary folk like me, city folk, you know, the kind who have to buy their own furniture. Their dogs would have better pedigrees than me.
So it was with some cynicism and not a little trepidation that I agreed to take part in the Glorious Twelfth last Tuesday, the traditional start of the shooting season, on a moor on the Durham/ Northumberland border.......
........... I wasn't doing this because I wanted to see birds shot. I'm a soppy animal lover and can't bear the thought of creatures being hurt or killed. I even pick up slugs on paths and place them in bushes to stop them getting squashed........
..........I anticipated snobbery and a healthy dash of misogyny. What the hell was a woman doing there with a gun? Shouldn't she be carrying the guns, or the kids, or the whisky?
Moreover, I expected to be sickened by the sight of hundreds of slaughtered grouse falling from the sky like rain, no chance of survival, only sure and painful death. And for what? For rich men's fun. Less sport, more mass murder.......
.......The first step was to teach me how to fire a gun. The dashing Nick Foster at the West London Shooting School in Northolt had the unlucky task. To everyone's surprise, not least my own, I was a crack shot and hit five of the first six clay pigeons, then most of the 20 or so after that.
At least I could hold my own on the moors. Or so I thought.
And I was assured it would not be a case of the killing skies, that the take would be modest and each bird would end up on a table, either being taken home by those on the shoot or sold to local butchers to help pay for the running of the event............
...........We were a group of about 30 - dog trainers, beaters, farm workers, mums with babies, young people, old people, titled, working class, a barrister beside a former jockey, a motley crew. In fact, all they seemed to have in common was their friendship and the grouse.......
...........There are two ways to shoot grouse, either from behind a fixed butt or 'walking up'. We were doing the latter, which involved pairs or single setters set off into the heather by their handler. The scent is detected, the dogs freeze, the guns shoot.
Each time there were no more than ten birds in the covey, which, as it happens, means a good year. No skies turning black with birds, no mass slaughter. On each point only two of three birds were usually shot, 35 1/2 brace, which for the uninitiated is 71 birds.
Having missed my first bird and about to hand over my place to the next gun, I looked back at the group. Mums with red-faced babies, teenage boys ripe with excitement, the woman dog trainer, fathers, sons, daughters, neighbours, all chatting in the rain.
It was then that I got it. This was as much about friendship as it was about sport. It was like a pub with no building and no beer, a gathering of family and friends, rich and poor. It was something most of we townies have lost. It was a community.
Everyone at some stage suffered the indignity of falling into a ditch. But there was always a helping hand, pulling you out of bogs.......
.......I was surprised to see how involved people were in each other's lives, how the shoot entwined housewives with landed gentry, hill farmers with estate owners.
It was a local shoot, which meant many people in the area depended upon it - dog trainers, beaters, farmers, cooks, pub landlords.
It will surprise no one that I failed to shoot anything. In my defence, the birds are so fast, flying at speeds of 60-80 mph, zooming off in every direction, that I could hardly get my gun to my shoulder before they were gone.
Perhaps it wasn't poor shooting, but that when it came to it, this townie wasn't up for the kill.
I had come expecting carnage and found moderation. I had expected a bunch of arrogant aristos bent on bloodshed, but found a platoon of people who all had their part to play and who showed the utmost respect for the birds and their habitat.
The Twelfth was glorious in the end, but not in the way I expected.
The glory came from the unique beauty of our countryside and from the real sense of community - two of our greatest assets, both in danger of extinction........
