Birthdays and new beginnings

Neil and Serena Cross greet the turning of the season with anticipation and the promise of fresh challenges as friends and family return to the field – although one character is missing

NDC Being connected to nature means being able to perceive those tiny signals that herald the turning point of the seasons. Never are they more subtle, nor more visceral, than when summer begins to slacken its verdant grip and submit to the early touch of autumn. This time of the year is about barely perceptible changes, such as the first tiny whiff of decay from the hedge bank and the sudden absence of birds we watched from our summer picnics.

Amongst the birds that remain, there seems to be a sense of industry and activity, together with a reluctance to stop singing as darkness steals in uninvited. Wildfowl have now raised their broods and all are flying strongly, but with so much grain still to be gleaned from stubbles, flighting will have to wait. As a boy, I fed our flight pond religiously every day, despite the fact that it wouldn’t be shot until the nights drew in. It was a chore of pleasure, which allowed me to sit quietly by the water for an hour and perhaps put up an early season snipe or two from the margins.

Growing up on the fringes of what had once been splendid English partridge country, I had never seen a redleg until my teens and always knew where to find a resident covey of greys. We rarely shot them, but what youngster can resist a pair going away from the dog’s feet when out pottering? The Cornish partridge fiesta is a far cry from those scattered broods in field margins, but the opening drives call upon skills honed on those solitary days when a brace was a triumph. It is a wonderful treat to shoot in shirt-sleeves and this is magnified by the knowledge that it’s a fleeting luxury. There is just something terribly civilised about these early September partridge days, where daylight hours are plentiful and long, outdoor lunches cost no sport. The light is simply magical when shooting the seaward drives and those bars of russet on the Frenchman’s flanks flash like beacons as the birds flare over the tall hedges.

Just as there is no view in the countryside that cannot be improved by stringing a pack of hounds in full cry across it, there is also no partridge drive that cannot be enhanced by having the sea beneath it. These days of transition are numbered and soon we’ll be turning up our collars on the peg but, for now, pass the rosé and catch a few rays.

SFC September is a time for celebration in our family and the first of the month sees a double birthday, which forms the perfect excuse for a first crack at the partridges and a serious party. This happy coincidence (or meticulous planning) of two birthdays on the opening day creates a wonderful atmosphere, as friends and family reconvene after the summer.

To be honest, some of us become a little over-excited and over-refreshed in the heat. After one drive, we drink chilled rosé overlooking the beach, where saner people are to be seen surfing and swimming. I sometimes wonder who’s got it right, but all incongruity is soon forgotten once the birds start coming.

Whilst the humans can blame a surfeit of wine for their woeful performance, the dogs have no such excuse. Having been cooped up all summer, exposure to the odd runner or swimmer can be just too much of a temptation and not even those giant corkscrews can restrain a keen dog when a bird falls tantalisingly within a few feet of the peg. To have a dog that behaves all of the time must be extremely dull (this is what I keep telling myself) and how tedious to miss the fun of the return of a half-digested rabbit, found under a hedge and deposited under the dining table at lunch? Luckily, because this is a family day, none of it matters a jot and with seven boisterous home-team labs raring to go, it is a good place to get the dogs back on form before we have to head somewhere smart where their behaviour matters.

This is our first season for 25 years without a spaniel; Mr Billy (a previous Field cover star) died in November last year. His single-mindedness and stamina were typified by his 24-mile run from a grouse moor when he had been bitten by an adder. He was eventually tracked down to the outskirts of Newcastle, after running the poison from his body, looking for a nightclub. He was infamous as a reprobate and his reputation spread far and wide. He delighted guests at tea by joining the Guns, sitting on his own chair, to partake in a scone (jam first) and as many sandwiches as he could swallow. His father used to speak on woodcock, which was a real talent, but Billy always earned his keep by returning with a brace or two at the end of each drive, which the other dogs had overlooked. He will be sorely missed.