WE’LL HAVE to play this stalking by ear. If Frank seems tired tonight, it’s off I’m afraid,” said my dad as we drove through Oxfordshire with our rifles in their slips on the back seat. It was November and we were off to huntsman Frank Houghton Brown’s place in Bicester country. Despite being in the middle of cancer treatment, he was taking us stalking. Over great food in The Carpenter’s Arms we talked about where the deer might be in the morning.
Dad’s rifle – an old, full-stock .30-06 Mannlicher Stutzen – was set up for 150 yards: something I was going to regret. We’d set it at that distance in a training valley in Wales run
