How I lost my hat (and my dignity) in a field of maize

After our spectacular season opener, the spaniel and I were on probation. Cydney, you may recall, retrieved a hen bird stuck in a stream but then ran off on a freelance flushing mission between drives. I thought it was rather a success, on balance. But the rest of the shoot begged to differ and judged her performance a net disaster. That said, we decided to give it another try and turned up at 9 a.m. the next week at the barn where all the pickers-up, beaters and guns were having coffee.

We were not exactly welcomed with open arms. No one wanted to take us in their 4×4 to the first drive, least of all the head of the picking-up team, whom we normally stand with. He headed straight for his truck, without so much as a good morning. Stranded, I appealed to the gamekeeper and he told me how to get to the first drive on my own. I told him I didn’t think I should stand on my own, affronting all and sundry with my complete inability to work out what was going on.

I can only tell which way the birds are flying and which have come down dead when I am with an expert who gives me a running commentary: ‘That one’s hit. See?’ And I squint and say I can see when I can’t. They all look the same to me. Sometimes, I could swear a bird is falling out of the sky as dead as the parrot from the dead parrot sketch, only to be informed that it is running for cover — so no, it would not be a good idea to send my dog for it.

The gamekeeper stood scratching his head, trying to think what to do with us, and after a while he said, ‘I know.