If John Buchan had written Essex
The air was damp. A heavy dew had settled on the ground one hour before the sun rose at the start of the longest day. I glanced at my watch. It was 3.35am and surprisingly chill.
The last of the fleeting night’s pinprick stars were being extinguished by a faint glow in the north-eastern sky. I made my way to the orchard’s high seat, every sense alive after a sleepless night imagining the day ahead: planning, plotting, hoping.
“The Midsummer Macnab was an idea that I had spawned during home-schooling”
Through the dark and stillness, a distant cockerel cried out heralding the morn. Rabbits, some tiny, others seemingly as big as houses, were grazing. I paused to scour the ground every few yards — on edge for a deer. A muntjac or a roebuck would take the pressure off and help me relax to enjoy the longest day. I knew there was one about.
