And a partridge (not in a pear tree)

FOR some, it’s the allure of high pheasant, soaring stratospherically over an ancient Yorkshire valley. For others, that visceral thrill of grouse, fast and furious, hugging close to the contours of the Scottish moors. However, for me, it’s the rather less taxing appeal of a plump Hampshire partridge, shot in shirtsleeves on a mild September afternoon —preferably after a long and merry lunch.

It’s been a while, however, since I’ve seen , our native English bird. It’s said to taste superior to that upstart Frenchie, which now rules the roost,