THE PHILOSOPHER’S BIRD
It may be just me, but the stubble sirens have been calling for some time. Each week the call has grown from a faint whisper until to quieten it, I busy myself with preparation for the season. Until, standing on a peg, I can let the sights, sounds and scents waft around me like an Indian Ocean current over coral sand.
It’s almost as if my feet reach down into the earth. The daily grind blurs, and a feeling that ‘this is right; this makes sense’ wells up like a memory from a long-forgotten postcard, that overwhelming sense of calm and focus.
Proud little birds
The shouts, the anticipation and then that burst of action. For me this is the joy of shooting partridges over the hedges, the scratch of stubble,
