Righting a terrible wrong

Mountains, particularly snow-covered mountains, are so alien to those of us who hail from Suffolk that they tend to induce an open-mouthed, silent stare of incredulity. An identical reaction, I learned, is seen in Londoners too. Thus stood Tames Chiavarini and I, maws agape, craning our necks to the heavens as the peaks of Borrowdale, dusted with white, reared over us.

For the previous hour, we had driven back and forth along the A6, glassing the escarpments of the Bagot family’s Forest Hall estate from a series of laybys while the oblivious outside world sped by in their lorries and cars. Tonathan Standing, our stalker and guide, had spotted a herd of red hinds grazing on the tops. He now wanted to see where they would head