I crept along the dark corridors of the stately house following a long Turkish runner, once vibrant with the colours of a distant land but now threadbare and sinking into the dark oak of the floorboards. Though the furniture was grand by everyday standards, it was somehow tired, harking back to an era of tradition that had finally met its end.
But as I rounded the corner the melancholic spell was broken, because on the wall in front of me was a beautiful oil painting of a white-and-lemon spaniel, standing proud amid sheaths of corn and holding a perfect grey partridge in its gentle mouth. I ground to a halt and stood in awe so I could absorb every brushstroke.
Though I may not be blessed with pockets deep enough for some of the better sporting art available, I am lucky enough to be in a
