The little dog turned to me, ears cocked, awaiting my command to ‘hunt on’. We had scrub to blank-in and an hour in which to do it before the Guns arrived at 9am sharp. My son Charlie and his pal Marley flanked me. I waved Mabel forward and we tapped our way through a new plantation, then scrambled into a belt of thuja, thorn and bramble. Pheasants erupted from hiding places; the cocks took to the wing with a crow, wild hens jettisoned a squirt of guano as they whirred up.
“The birds set their wings and flew resolutely away”
My plan was to push the birds forward into the welcoming embrace of the cover slated for the first drive.
The hen birds flew wherever they chose. Bar from a few ‘walk-ins’, all had been fledged at Flea
