The best days of my life

A look back through old diaries during lockdown reveals the dates that hold the fondest memories

Uncertain about the future, I have spent the odd half-hour lately living in the past by turning the pages of my shooting diaries and waking some of the countless memories waiting for me there. Some of the days to which these memories belong come back to me with surprising clarity, others have left fewer and hazier impressions. I should like to recall two or three of the former sort together with the thoughts and conclusions that they have inspired.

The first such day was almost 20 years ago, a day between Christmas and New Year when an impromptu decision brought me to High Park to explore a few odd corners with an unruly black and white spaniel called Digby. There is snow on the high fells and bright winter sunshine over the rough fields; the air is sharp and we have barely started on our way when a cock pheasant rises from a bed of rushes and falls to my shot. Digby doesn’t wait for instructions and has soon brought him in. Before long a crossing hen has been added to my bag and then, upon the fence along my southern boundary, two hens rise together from a tangle of briars and bring me a rare right-and-left.

All this and more I can remember from the morning, as well as sitting by my ramshackle wooden hut at the top of the meadow, eating a cheese sandwich, drinking a generous measure of sloe gin and feeling profoundly grateful that the sunshine had persuaded me to abandon other plans and come shooting instead.