Driven Days in Spain

From our January/February 2026 Issue

We gathered in Seville, in Andalusia. It’s a city that seems to be waiting for the soft light of dawn and dusk each day to look its best and complement the Spanish residents lucky enough to enjoy its embrace. The team of Guns assembled by Delaney & Sons outfitters had traveled from the US, and almost all were returning customers.

We started our Spanish partridge odyssey steeped in the history of the land we traveled through. Founded in 800 BC by the Phoenicians, it was clear to us why throughout history everyone has wanted their own piece of this earthly paradise. Successive conquering tribes, endlessly adaptable, turned churches into mosques and back again, and all left their marks on the culture of southern Spain.

A trip with Delaney & Sons is as much about the destination as it is the shooting. Owners Sean and Liz Delaney involve non-shooting partners as much as possible before a shot is even fired. It is that kind of understanding of a client’s needs that inspires the loyalty demonstrated by repeat customers.

We moved in convoy from Seville up to a small town outside the estate on which we would be shooting driven red-legged partridge. The night before the shoot we stayed in a luxuriously appointed three-story townhouse. The Spanish Baroque decoration throughout was a clue that it was formerly the residence of the noble family of the area, and it was in those palatial surroundings that our group got to know each other better.

On the shoot day itself, it was an early start, as breakfast was at the estate’s hacienda. As we traveled, the outskirts of the small town gave way to a landscape of broken farmland interrupted by rocky outcrops. We could see our quarry from the roadside. Red-legged partridge have been moving through this landscape since before the Romans beat the Carthaginians in the Punic Wars, and through all that time this plump, powerhouse of a bird has provided meat for the locals.

We turned off what had once been an ancient Roman road and headed up a rough track and through a set of estate gates with a single letter on them denoting that we were in what translates as “the place of the wolves.”

Greeted by the estate owner, we were ushered into the gunroom to choose and test rifles for the next day’s activity—a driven-big-game shoot, or Montería—but our focus this first day would be driven partridge. After enough .30-06 rounds had been expended, a pair of shotguns was fitted to each shooter and pegs were drawn for the task at hand.

We climbed aboard an open-topped military lorry and rumbled off into the ancient olive groves. The air was cold and crisp with the scent of olive-wood smoke drifting on a light breeze, but the late-winter sun was already exerting its influence.

We peeled down the slope toward thebottom of a small river that had etched its way through the mountains and found our positions for the first drive. The head keeper placed us personally. His tan leathered face surmounted by a widow’s peak gave away nothing, but the high cigarette count betrayed his professional concern for the day ahead.

Each Gun was joined by a loader and a secretario, who, as the term suggests, was there to record what each person shot. The language barrier was overcome by smiles and handshakes. In Spain the loader is seated slightly to the front and side of the Gun and facing away from where the birds approach.

The setup looks cumbersome, even possibly dangerous, but it is incredibly practical; and each shooter got into a rhythm with his loader, who adjusted to the shooter’s speed. While some may feel uncomfortable having their scores annotated on each drive, it is rooted in fairness. Each bird shot is accounted for accurately—and no one ends up paying for somebody else’s sport.

The birds began to break. The hill’s short horizon meant the partridge were on us fast, and the rising sun made it more awkward for shots to the right. This was the reason for a raised green disc of steel at each peg that acted as a sun baffle, shielding the Gun from the intense glare. The shooting was evenly spread over the entire line, but all too soon the Spanish national flags being carried by the beaters appeared on the horizon and the horn sounded, ending the intense drive. The flags mirrored by the collars of the working dogs that went into action to pick the fallen.

There was visible relief on the face of the head keeper, as the first drive had gone well and the Guns had proved they could shoot. During the morning the bag built steadily, and the English chef d’équipe, Scott, indicated that he felt ready to introduce us to one of the signature drives of the estate. But before that we broke for sherry, cheese and the ham that this part of Spain is famous for. The farmhouse courtyard we retired to in the middle of the estate was where Scott lived during the shooting season, as he handled visiting parties for the Spanish owners. It summed up the relaxed nature of the whole day as we refreshed ourselves in warm February sunshine surrounded by the deep-red stucco walls of the courtyard and the welcome shade of a venerable tree. The atmosphere was jovial, but there was work to be done after a good rest, and a call of “¡Vamos!” brought the break to a close.

The estate’s chop-top Range Rover, driven by the owner’s nephew, guided us toward a deep gorge that would test all of us. We followed, immersed in the landscape in the back of the military lorry, as our anticipation grew.

As we lined out down a track that had been hewn from the valley side, we realized the true depth of the gorge behind us; but still the rocky hill climbed vertically, high up to the sky in front. That is where the partridge would be coming from.

The first birds broke at a variety of heights, and some coming through at reasonable elevation were killed cleanly by all across the line. Above those birds, however, were the truly testing ones. Stratospheric partridge at the edge of most mortal men’s skills arced across the blue sky, with one or two falling to the astonishment of both Gun and loader. All the action playing out was seemingly orchestrated by a flanker with a flag on the highest peak keeping the birds in the drive. It only added to the drama.

This was not traditional Spanish partridge shooting, as it was developed to suit the needs of visiting Guns used to modern English-style game shooting. In the old days in both Spain and England partridge were driven at lower heights—in England over hedges that bordered each small field. In both countries Guns were beaten with speed, not height, but as shooting in England moved toward driving partridge like mini pheasants—for height out of purposely planted game crops—the Spanish began following suit. Hunting, for all its traditions, continues to evolve around the world it seems.

As mentioned, with Delany trips it’s not just about the shooting. A late lunch was taken in the middle of the estate in a tent that was Moroccan in stylem reflecting the North African influence on this part of Spain. With all types of Spanish sherry ranging from quite dry to very sweet, it was old-fashioned, in-field luxury that complemented the day perfectly. It was the ideal end to a superb day.

The following day offered the different excitement of a Montería—where cloen-hoofed game, including wild bhoard, red deer and Mouflon, are driven past the line. Guns spread out over a vast acreage, as a quarter of the estate was covered by teams of beaters with specially bred hounds to push the large game forward. IF there is demand for it, the Delaneys can include such sport to break up the wingshooting, but there is no guarantee of a shot. After all, the instinct for survival in wild game is strong, and animals can use gullies and various types of cover to slip past un-saluted. Several members of the team were fortunate enough to shoot red deer and mouflon.

After an exciting few days, the team divided. Some headed home to the US, while the others joined us to head north.

We headed to Madrid to collect those who would fill the gaps in the team and our journey took us through the mountains of central Spain. Our new companions were fresh from the US and were repeat customers of the Delaneys. The finca we were heading to was, like the capital city itself, surrounded on three sides by high mountains, but it was in the river catchments and steeply sloping farmland between the vast ranges that the partridge thrived.

The finca’s lodge was luxurious, but not so much as to be unwelcoming. It perfectly complemented the family atmosphere that is rarely found and cannot be manufactured. As we settled in, I took the opportunity to leaf through the visitors’ book. Almost every royal house of Europe was represented. It seemed we would be shooting in the very footsteps of kings.

Patricio was our host the first evening, and his old-world charm, perfect English and impeccable manners put everyone at ease. Over dinner he explained some of the idiosyncrasies of Spanish partridge shooting. The barras, he explained, is the epitome of the Spanish way—it is the ideal scenario of a large covey spread across the whole line and of all eight Guns firing two barrels, changing guns with their loaders, firing two more barrels and all killing four partridge each. It requires everyone’s performance to be at the highest level at exactly the right time. It is almost impossible to achieve, but it gave us an indication of the high standards of driven shooting that were aimed for.

For me, the following mornings started with strong Spanish coffee on the raised terrace outside the lodge. If I am shooting, I like to take the time to stand in the landscape as it brightens into a new day, and I was very fortunate that our host had asked me to shoot a few drives. The weather was perfect, the slight drizzle in the air was forecast to clear and the clouds scudded on a good breeze. I knew from experience that partridge fly best when the barometric pressure is dropping. My anticipation grew, and I felt my peripheral vision sharpen with adrenaline.

Although Patricio was hosting the day, his father-in-law, Carlos, was the landowner and had set up the shoot 50 years previously. The Count de Castillo de Centellas (to give Carlos his full title) joined us for the drawing of numbers for the first drive. Although he had retired from the day-to-day running of the shoot, Carlos’s impish grin showed how much he still enjoyed being involved. (Patricio told me that Carlosw had a good line of jokes in four different European languages—sadly, none of them in English.) Patricio’s wife, Lućia, looked effortless in traditional Spanish wool chaps and leather hunting boots, and she was to be picking up after the drive with a team of Labradors that she was known throughout Europe for breeding.

For those who had not brought guns, pairs had been selected the night before under Patricio’s expert eye from the well-stocked gunroom. They were loaded into a customized Land Rover, and our convoy started into the valley for the first drive.

As we fanned out to our pegs, we observed a steep bank peppered with thorn bushes and olive trees climbing up in front. Some of us were farther out in a field with camouflage sheets to act as blinds. Behind one of these I met Alberto, my loader, and Juan, the secretario. As Patricio placed me, he introduced us to each other and then quietly told me, “Alberto is my loader when I shoot.” I would be lying if I said that did not increase the pressure a little.

A quick dry run of an empty-gun exchange settled us both, and two 30-gram loads of No. 7s with fiber wads were chambered in each gun. It was not long before the first shots rang out to my left, and my focus went up several gears. There was no time to think about what was happening to my left or right as the first covey of partridge was on us. My first three shots were behind, but my fourth shot killed and I was into my rhythm. Alberto was a master of his craft and was reading my body movement perfectly. As soon as my left hand was out to take a freshly loaded gun, the gun was there, no matter how fast I shot. Partridge down; safety back on; give with the right hand; take with the left in a fluid, dramatic tango. It was pure rhythm and timing, and Alberto fostered that fluidity of movement that is constantly searched for but rarely achieved.

As the rest of the Guns washed down slices of perfect Iberian ham and sheep’s milk cheese, two eagles, residents of the high mountains, circled the valley as the rain clouds dispersed. I borrowed some electrical tape to prevent the rubber buttpads from catching on my waistcoat. A little was applied to the heels of the pads in an effort to achieve a snag-free, smoother and more-consistent mount.

I teamed up with Alberto again on the next drive. With a single index finger performing the dual function of a cigarette holder and a performance indicator, he pointed to the sky and said, “Más alto.”

I smiled. “¿Más alto?” I repeated his words, knowing full well that he was expecting me to go up a level, having performed well on birds of average height. He was challenging me to see what kind of sportsman I was, and I didn’t need a translator to understand that he had worked me out completely.

This time we were in the middle of the line, and after a few minutes the first covey broke our way. I ignored the lower-tier birds and chose the two highest. At the change of guns as both partridge fell, Alberto looked at me with a half-smile and said, “Muy bien.” I had found the level he had expected of me.

Spanish partridge shooting differs from driven shooting in the UK, and it was a privilege to enjoy it on some of the best shoots Spain has to offer. But the common denominators we look for in a driven day are the same the world over: quality sport enjoyed with friends who soon feel like family. That is the guiding principle of a Delaney & Sons trip.

For more information, visit delaneyandsons.com.