My first stalking diary was a Christmas present from a family friend. Her husband had kept them his entire sporting life, and she was keen, I think, that I should not miss out on the great joy that he derived from leafing through their pages in later years. It was a hardbound thing of beauty, and although I have occasionally reflected that the desire to preserve a matching set has cost me dearly over the years, I am deeply indebted to her for the thought.
I started out quite ambitiously, assiduously recording everything from the temperature to the phase of the moon. After a couple of seasons, it ceased to be a chore, and now, years later, it has become such a rewarding part of my stalking life that not only would it be anathema to me not to record the details of every outing, I wholeheartedly
