Last Saturday, I was lucky to be invited along to the sort of shoot I love. There were nine Guns, the beating line was made up of friends, grandparents and a neighbour’s errant spaniel, and the mixed bag of 28 we shot were argued over at the end of the day.
Tust before lunch, as two woodcock flew over, a man in a dark cagoule, with a pug panting on the end of a pink lead, appeared over the horizon.
“Missed a few,” he chuckled while wandering past. He was being charitable — it had been rather more than a few — but I smiled and nodded, while thinking about how important it is that those out shooting are friendly to passers-by.
“I’m a postman,” the pug owner continued, “and…
