I well remember the first keeper I met; he was a tough Scot called George. I am not sure how old I was but definitely over six and under 10. I know he was tough because in those days keepers had to be — dead game was valuable and not just game; rabbits and hares were all very poachable quarry. The Midlands was a mining area and miners loved a long dog, folding .410 and a fight, but not necessarily in that order. To me, George was a god who could do no wrong.
I often stayed with George, or Mr Fulton as he was known to me, and his wife as my father and grandfather shot on the estate. I
