I did say there was a decent covey on the edge of the kale.” William, my eldest, had just marshalled his first beating line and we were debriefing. “They sprang literally as you came on to the radio to say you’d put out the last Gun.”
He was right. A group of at least nine and possibly more greys had lifted and absolutely bomb-burst. Below them, Guns were still removing weapons from slips and picking smoked bacon from their teeth. The birds had sensed the danger and were off without a flag being waved or a cartridge being fired. They had lifted and scattered, every bit like teal.
Into the stratosphere
Will was clearly pretty thrilled and, truth be told, so was I. Until now, the greys had slipped low and fast through the line rather than erupting over it. For whatever reason, on a still,
