Elisabeth von Thurn und Taxis on her love of the art of flushing out animals during a shoot and how the beat goes on, even without her

Before I explain why I had to stop beating, I should begin by explaining how I even began this business in the first place. You see, beating is a rather unusual activity for anyone during a shoot, let alone a girl. Beaters tend to be tough men who walk through the woods during a shoot, in our case a wild boar shoot, frightening the animals out of their hideouts and into the open. It involves marching through the rugged terrain of a Bavarian forest, brushing against thorns and twigs, uphill, downhill, over logs and under branches. So it’s not exactly a walk along the Yellow Brick Road.

What attracted me to beating, however, were two things: for one, it is the closest you can get to a safari outside Africa. Anyone who is unfamiliar with the temperament of a wounded boar, take note; they are ferocious. Just like a male buffalo, a wounded boar will charge you and slide its sharp tusks through your leg or anywhere it can get you.

The idea that a boar could be lurking behind the next trunk ready to charge keeps me on my toes and makes for an exciting hike through the woods. When we catch up with the huntsmen for tea at the end of the day I feel positively refreshed. Nothing kicks a hangover more successfully than a bit of adrenaline being pumped through your veins.

For most girls, a day out shooting is made bearable by the prospect of accompanying a boy of her fancy on to the deerstand. There she sits for hours in the freezing cold watching the boy nervously aim at the poor squealing beasts below. Granted, this sounds barbaric but, actually, few things are more tantalising than seeing a man skilfully manoeuvre his rifle. But this is where our problems begin. You see, our upbringing makes us expect Mr Right to make the move and ask us out. Rarely, however, does the right guy actually end up asking. Whilst busy waiting we are dragged along by Mr Wrong. Spending half a day in temperatures below freezing suspended in the air on a few square feet of wood in the middle of the forest is not exactly a party, let alone next to a bore.

This brings me to the second reason why I love beating: no more bores to bear. But for the past two years my excitement about beating has been subdued by devastating news. I am no longer welcome as a beater. Last year one of the beaters overlooked an injured boar and was consequently almost slaughtered. Be it climate change or credit crunch, even the boars seem to have picked up on the acidic energy that surrounds our little planet earth. So what do I do now?

I have retreated into the comfort and isolation of my bed awaiting the dinner party that follows a day of shooting. Call me snobbish or blasé, I’m just not cut out to be a shooting accessory. I can handle a boar but, by God, I cannot handle a bore!

- Elisabeth von Thurn und Taxis is Features Editor of Finch’s Quarterly Review

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