IN THE SHADOW of a thin hawthorn hedge, the old keeper and I crept slowly through the watermeadow. The shooting season had just come to an end and Simon was in a reflective mood.
“Thing is,” he whispered, “I’m too fat to run these days and I’m too old to fight.” He stopped, glanced through his binoculars at the tangle of scrub in front of us, and then went back to telling me about how much things have changed in the
