Poachers turn gamekeepers
The tap, tap of sticks reached my ears from the seemingly impenetrable undergrowth ahead. A hen pheasant took to the wing and made directly for me in a passable impression of the lark ascending, such was her lift. She set her wings and soared in the washed-out Tanuary sky, the frosted sparkling light turning her mottled plumage the colour of a Rich Tea biscuit.
“The birds are wily and experienced; they are strong on the wing and completely aware that men with guns spell danger”
I mounted my lumpy Lincoln, trying to get on the line, when my concentration was broken by Paul ‘Hardy’ Hardcastle’s East Anglian twang: “Catweazle, that’s yours.” I duly missed her with both barrels. I heard him again, muttering this time: “Bloody useless b*gger.”
Such are the delights of
