“Then the senses heightened, waiting for that first flutter — that wingbeat, the crack of a beater’s flag” The air goes still. Silence descends, like a mist filling the valley, a thin veil of peace. The Guns stand waiting; in the words of Shakespeare they “imitate the action of the tiger: stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood”. Guns raised in anticipation, waiting, waiting, then a flutter, a cry of “over”, and it begins.
The first day of the season is akin to a military operation. Weeks of planning and apprehension; breeks to be drycleaned; shooting socks, intent on losing their partners, to be found; guns to be serviced and a quick run on the clay line, proving once again that a summer of fishing hasn’t improved my shooting.
But,…