Is fieldcraft a forgotten art?

It is a long, hard slog along the shingle bank in the hour before dawn first glimmers in the south-eastern sky. It would admittedly be a longer and harder one into the teeth of a snowy January gale, but even in the first week of November, it’s enough to get the circulation going.

To my left, the rolling and grinding of the North Sea, sucking at the stony beach, its waters picked out by the reflected lights of a distant fishing boat. To my right, the quiet darkness of the marsh and beyond it, the tidal river, snaking south to the point at which it disgorges into the sea. And ahead, a mile-and-three-quarters of loose shingle that shifts and slides at every footfall.

My labrador Teal trots gaily in front of me, vanishing into the inky blackness before stopping and waiting for me