Taking a firm hold

I watched my son and his new-found friend, James, the son of a neighbouring farmer, take their orders from Richard Gould like seasoned subalterns. Having listened intently, they slunk off to make their way to the rendezvous, a bristling hedge in the valley from where they were to begin blanking-in the drive.

I spied them from under my cap brim as they reappeared, some half-a-mile away. Off they went, tap, tap, tapping their sticks against any overhanging limb that reared out from the hedge and crossed the grass margin along which they walked. My radio crackled and Gouldy urged me to start my beating line going forward through the eye-high block of wild bird seed.