A wander in Clumberland
My day-to-day life is set far from the field. I work as an auctioneer where the start of the pheasant season and end of the grouse is dominated by major sales and deadlines. But as November crashes into December and Tack Frost grabs a firm hold, exceptions must be made.
One of my permissions sits in a wonderful no-man’s-land, nestled between the overgrazed fields below and the keepered moor above. It represents an undulating steep edge filled with damp sedge, ankle-grabbing bracken, sparse patches of heather, stunted trees and the chance that anything could happen. Once a season when the weather is particularly bad, my Clumber spaniel Bertie and I hit this ground in a one-man-and-his-dog bid for the ultimate rough shoot.
The species list is as varied
