Y EARLIEST memory out in the field is of standing with my father on a chill December morning in a Wiltshire valley. There was a frost on the ground – the winter sun had not yet reached the valley floor – and my feet were numb with cold. There was excitement in the air, with jovial conversation but no expectation. Shots were sporadic and others watched on, waiting for their turn. “Over!” came the cry and the silhouettes of three cock pheasants rose high across the valley. One curled towards us and myflew on. A horn was blown, and a small collection of individuals came down the slope and joined us. They were dressed in ripped wax jackets tied around the waist with baler twine, their waterproof leggings taped to their wellies. “Anything to pick, sir?” they asked. “Not this time,” my father replied. “But the wheat’s looking well.” The drive was over.
