Last Saturday, I had the great pleasure of shooting in Norfolk. It was a bit of a sporting tour. On Thursday, I’d been flighting ducks in Lincolnshire, and on the Friday morning I was out after a fallow buck. I’m a great advocate of not working too hard and having a good time and, for those three days, I practised what I preach.
The happiest moment came just before lunch on Saturday, when a covey of greys broke over the hedge to my right. We’d been told we could shoot one if we wanted to take it home, but I was too slow. Listening to them noisily flying by, the underside of their wings flashing silver in the sun, was excitement enough for me.
The relationship between shooting and grey…
