ANYONE born in Britain in the 1960s, and allowed to watch television as a child, will remember Mr Benn. The animated series’ eponymous hero was, at first blush, quintessentially English, leaving for work in a dark suit and bowler hat. But then he did something odd but actually deeply revealing of the national character. He went into a fancy dress shop, there to be transformed into a pirate or wizard or spaceman, before exiting via a secret door, ready for an adventure.
I feel a sense of kinship with Mr Benn. Like him, my middle-age physique spends most of its time cocooned in sober work clothes. But twice a year, at the onset of winter and then again as the days lengthen, a change of costume heralds new escapades as sporting tweed gives way to batting whites.
We have many seasonal sports but there’s something uniquely complementary about shooting and cricket. Both are feast days, when the rules of ordinary life are joyfully suspended. Unusually, both offer participants solitudemoments later, the bothy and pavilion offer noisy fellowship.
