I was the lowest Gun, at number four peg, in a valley bottom in the Bowland Fells, with the beaters converging high up and flushing the last few birds from a bracken bank. Throughout the drive, the pheasants had split before me, going to my right or left, and making very testing shooting for the rest of the line. But then one last hen decided to be more adventurous, climbing out towards me before turning to my right when straight overhead.
Judging it to be too high, I did not even lift the gun. My friend Ian Grindy, who was picking up behind, came to me after the whistle was blown and said: “What was up with that hen, Mike? Too good for you?”
