A cartridge fit for The Queen
We were 12 miles north of Moy when the engine went bang. At first, the power started to go, then a gritty groan came from deep within the Jimny’s oily guts. I’m not mechanically minded, but it was clear we wouldn’t be going any further. Up until that point, it had been just the sort of journey I like. Quite a number of grouse had flown across the road, I’d seen plenty of roe and there were geese in the sky.
There is something about the beauty of heading north in autumn, as a sportsman, that could almost make you cry. I lay there on the verge, next to the heather, smoking a cigarette and thinking about what to
