Living next to the A1, we often have friends dropping in for a pit stop as they pass north or south on their journey. We’re thrilled when people stop in, actively encouraging it in fact, and our friends know the door is always open.
I had a phone call from Freddie Braithwaite-Exley one afternoon in early May: “JT! How are you? I’m heading south and I’m an hour away. I’ve had a rotten journey, I don’t suppose I could have a bed for the night, could I?”
“No problem,” I replied, “there’s bolognaise in the slow cooker and the bed’s made up ready.” Freddie duly arrived an hour or so later, with a wide grin and a bottle of wine.
Often when friends do drop in, I know they have half an eye on the opportunity of a bit of sport. Whether it’s a cast on the River Welland or sitting atop a high seat, they usually turn up with some kit and a knowing look.
One step ahead
On this occasion though, I was one step ahead of him. I’d been plotting to search a bit of ground I’d not covered all season in the expectation that there would be some roebucks around. There is a one-and-a-half mile stretch of land to the northern edge of the estate, bounded on one side by a railway and the other side by a road. It’s half a mile wide and is a patchwork of small arable fields, hedges and a bit of woodland. The roe always seem to like it down there; it’s generally undisturbed by walkers and there isn’t any pheasant shooting either.
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