And The Rains Came

Maybe the rains never left. Anybody who recalls reading "Somerset: An Apology" may still feel the rain trickling down their backs and into their very damp socks amongst the wet Welsh hills last January.

And sitting in a well known public house in a well known village the night before shooting on a well known estate in a well known county - enough of this coyness, it was Wiltshire - a couple of Sundays ago, nothing much had changed. The village street seemed to have retasked as a stream, the car park was in a new use as the village pond, and the gutters overflowed their gurgling load onto any careless passer-by.

Eight fine gents were gathered in the bar, dealing in the best way with it being very wet outside - by getting very wet inside. (And a special commendations for Wiltshire's beers, which assist this process very nicely.)

We went into dinner; and the water could be heard gurgling down the downpipes and dripping off the porch outside.

And when we had got to that glorious point where all is consumed; and the wreckage of the means of happiness lies strewn across the table; and one steps outside to look at the stars illuminated by a modest cigar; well, I was jolly lucky the cigar was not immediately extinguished, and not a hope of trying to work out which was the Plough and which Mars. No doubt in the Amazon basin this sort of thing is regarded as normal and good for the fish, but come on, this is partridge time in Wiltshire.

There was only one thing for it.  Any port in a storm, they say, but our ever generous host insisted not just on any port, but on the finest to be procured from the cellar. It didn't stop the rain; but we did sort of forget about it. So it came as a bit of a shock to draw the curtains the next morning, wincing at the grey light, to find that the deluge continued.

Jokes about building arks were banded about over the bacon and eggs (and, as we could see this was not going to be an early start) also the sausage, the grilled tomato, the fried bread, the beans, the hash browns, and yes, let us confess ALL our sins, the black pudding.  The sporting agent arrived; and the estate manager shortly after, and both were invited by our gracious host to partake in the feast. When they did so, we knew  that things were not looking good for stubble skimming Frenchmen. (Partridges, to any politically correct types who have strayed into this column.)

More coffee arrived; and more toast; and more marmalade.  Our host was seen standing in the porch of this fine old inn, reading his pluvious insurance documents.

Another pile of newspapers was produced, with some rather delicate jockeying to get hold of the only copy of the Sun. (Hah; singularly highly inappropriately named rag!)

Time stretched. Then a magnificent and large presence was suddenly amongst us, dripping amongst us on the flag stones and dampening the Farrow and Ball; clad in very muddy wellies, a very damp flat cap, and a wet Barbour of ancient vintage. The head keeper, no less.

"11am, gentlemen!" He looked around at our hopeful tweedy faces.  "I've got four rods in the Land Rover; who wants a days fishing?"

And so ended the first day of the 2012 season. A slow drive back to town, with much loosening of the belt. A few irritable phone calls on the Blackberry. Through the wet narrow Chelsea streets to home, and stowing all the kit back from whence it had been dug out 48 hours before. Careful filling in of the game book with the names of my fellow guns, and in the columns of birds and drives, the mournful entry:

"Rain Stopped Play"