My great-grandfather lived in a golden era of fieldsports, around the turn of the last century. When he wasn’t pheasant shooting, he would venture off around the world on hunting expeditions, for weeks or even months at a time, and would inevitably come back with tales of adventure.
He loved his fishing too, frequenting the trout streams of England regularly, and once a year would take a trip to Scotland for a fishing and stalking adventure. These weren’t just quick jaunts to the hills and back, instead heading off for several weeks into the Highlands on great marauds across the hills and in the rivers.
He would hire a train carriage, which was left in an old siding at the station near his house in Bedfordshire, have it loaded up with all his kit, including his own car, and then have it taken up to Scotland on the East Coast
