It’s been almost six decades since I went for my first ever day’s beating at Clandon Park, near Guildford. With Dad out picking-up behind the Guns, the lovely headkeeper, Cliff Shelton, took me under his wing. In those days there were dairy herds on most of the farms, and we drove a patch of kale that was being strip grazed by the cows.
I especially remember three things from that day; the first was the difficulty of keeping my place in a crop that was taller than me; the second was the surprising number of pheasants that we flushed; and the third was Cliff’s howl of pain when I hit his right hand with my beating stick… even an eight-year-old can make a grown man’s eyes water if he catches him fair and square.
