Aaaah. Spring at last.
Daffodils and green shoots and lambs and all that stuff. More importantly invitations for the autumn,
early booking of sporting hotels, shooting syndicate reunion dinners, bargain sales
of sporting goods (no madam, not tennis rackets), quiet contemplation of the diary working out
how to get from Devon-on-Thursday-to-Northumberland-on-Friday-to-Buckinghamshire-on-Saturday.
And who the guests might be on Thursday and Friday so that
these can be put down as corporate days, and the hotel accommodation upgraded
so that the bank, and of course, its representative, can be shown as serious
and heavyweight players worthy of doing business with. Could one, B ponders, put down a Devonshire farmer
as a possible purchaser of complex derivatives? Maybe he would like to hedge
his milk production in case the Exmoor lanes get blocked with snow?
Blocked with snow; my lord!
Supposing they get blocked with snow that vital Thursday shoot day! Would the boss be willing to pay for
helicopter hire? Surely yes, for seizing
such important corporate marketing leads.
Such are the thoughts that bother the modern countrysportsman as he
juggles a busy business career with his corporate marketing obligations. And dozes gently in his garden chair on a
Bank Holiday Monday.
Which in light spring kissed dreams brought a remembrance of
one of Stuffer’s stories. Therefore, without doubt, true in every single
respect and of the utmost verisimilitude.
This was set not in Devon, but far west Cornwall. .Somewhere on that
snow blasted side of Bodmin Moor, where the woodcock for some reason like to
spent their winters and the snipe jink across the bogs, soaring up into the low
cloud at the slightest sign of tweedy gents and guns
Four sporty chaps and Stuffer (why he was there we shall
never know) were out in the sedgy reed bogs for a day’s sport. The snow was lying long and the bogs were a
week frozen, ideal conditions for wild flighty birds. Not so good for wild sporty
chaps though. It was cold. Bitterly cold.
The brass monkey jokes had been abandoned as too proximate to the
truth. Mental notes had been made to
upgrade long johns (or in two cases, to wear them next time). Military fleeces and winter coats were been
worn together. And still the chill crept
through into the aching bones and the fingers and toes slowly froze into
immobility.
Without being too biological, a doctor would advise that a
bottle of claret per chap in the evening and three cups of coffee over
breakfast to mitigate the effects thereof are not best advised when said chaps
are intending to spend their mornings standing in exposed places in virulently
low temperatures. Especially where there
is a distinct lack of those nice little cubicles sited on London streets where
a chap might retreat for a quick...erm.. perusal of the rugger pages, in fact, a
distinct lack of walls, hedges, trees, old sheds, and any other form of cover
for the performance of nature’s call, or even shielding from the western blasts.
Tom had stood it as long as he could, but finally as the
Land Rover emptied for yet another sweep of a hopeful frozen expanse, he made
his excuses and hung back as the others began their cautious sweep across the
sedge and reed. Shielded from them by the Landy he fumbled with layers of coats
and trouserings and long johns and even lower layers that we will not dwell on,
and finally was able to excavate the required equipment and turned to begin
that blessed relief which we must all from time to time seek.
Turned to find that he was facing directly two orange clad
blue hatted lady walkers who somehow had walked up the track whilst all the
fumbling was going on and by a mischance of timing were now forming a
fascinated audience.
A fascinated but not very impressed audience “My goodness,
it must be a cold day” said number one.
“Yes indeed, although you never know do you” replied number two. They
raised their eyes back to the horizon and walked on. Their giggling was borne downwind for a good
hundred yards as Tom found his biological need no longer so pressing.
