ORKNEY’S DAWN PATROL
sumptuous destinations that I’ve ever stayed in. However, it is, above all, Harrison’s home.
He and his family spend a good chunk of the summer and every Christmas and New Year at Balfour. While there they have a pheasant shoot based around the 30 acres of woodland surrounding the castle (the only woodland on the whole of Orkney) it’s the wildfowling that he really loves. It is also what draws in Europe- ans such as the head of Cartier, who has taken two weeks each year since the 1990s. In charge of the whole operation is Harri-
cate hand-painted wallpaper. This was a truly surreal experience: we had arrived with expec- tations of a fieldsports boot camp, and floated back to Auld Reekie barely a day later on a fug of five-star contentment. Our journey had started at Edinburgh
airport where we caught a flight to Kirkwall, the capital of Orkney, and a town that was in the Norwegian diocese of Trondheim until the mid-fifteenth century. Six minutes to the north by a bracing 20-knot motor launch lies Shapinsay, a 7,000-acre island whose harbour is dominated by Balfour Castle, a muckle, turreted Gothic pile standing like a sentinel looking out over the sea. Our destination, the castle already had a
formidable reputation for its wildfowling when the 1,200-acre estate was bought five years ago by City financier Chris Harrison, the nephew of Rex Harrison. Not a man to do things by half, he had the whole chilly edifice rewired and had central heating added. A complete root- and-branch renovation – plus the addition of a maze and spa – has created one of the most
son’s brother-in-law Patrick Lloyd, an engaging trout fishing and wildfowling enthusiast who was master of works when the castle was reno- vated by up to 50 workmen at a time, and who now spends half his year at Balfour and half fishing at his home on the River Wye in Wales. Lloyd had told us that we need bring nothing
with us, and that everything we required, from wellies and camouflage gear to shotguns and cartridges, would be provided. I hadn’t believed him, but he was absolutely right: it was all there and of the highest quality, including a substan- tial range of shotguns. ‘The thing to remember,’ he said, ‘is that this is a lovely house to stay in, and that it comes with some wildfowling.’ After a light lunch, we were up and at ‘em,
Previous page: Charlie MacLean, Chuck the dog, the writer and Karl the gamekeeper focus on the arrival of the geese. Clockwise from left: Poised to strike; the morning bag of 18 geese, two pigeon and a crow; Chuck the unfeasibly strong Chesapeake Bay Retriever.
Patrick driving myself, whisky guru Charlie, photographer Angus and former Tony Blair speechwriter David McCowan-Hill out to meet gamekeeper Karl Kowolik, a mountain of a man who reminded me of Oddjob in camo, and who had been busy placing duck decoys on Loch Cumin, a small loch next to the sea. Although it was only 3.30pm, it was already getting dark by the time we climbed into butts that had been sunk deep into the land surrounding the loch. And then we waited. And waited some more. Then yet more. Finally, the duck started arriv-
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