The cherry on the cake

And just like that, the shooting season ended. The whistle brought proceedings to a close. Scout was sent for a distant cock pheasant that had towered then tumbled miles behind the line, buffeted by a westerly gale. I turned my attention to the immediate area.

A woodcock — the season’s final shot — lay on its side, wings outstretched as though in mid-flight. It seemed to hang in the grass, light as frost clinging to bracken, with its lustrous eyes still shining. Three of its kind had flushed as we pushed through woodland for the last time and neighbouring beef farmer John Mitchell had dropped one smartly behind him.

“A woodcock lay on its side, lustrous eyes still shining”