Had I not accepted the invitation to Viscount Winston Bottomly’s annual shoot, then the outcome to my immediate life would now be very different; but, having accepted the invitation, I must accept the monumental changes it made to my eventual being.
The winter rains and wet spring had left my estate here in Yorkshire without the quantity of red grouse needed to be able to host a shoot of any notable significance. The absence of quality birds of any number left me, fool that I am, in an unusual condition, frantically seeking out a safe haven where I could hang my hat amongst familiar company whilst enjoying the annual shindig of a ‘Glorious Twelve’ shoot.
There you have it, the rest is history. However, I have normally found history to have been written by the victors, of which I’m not su
