The great escape
It’s Christmas Day and I never want to see a parsnip, chipolata, or helping of turkey ever again. My youngest cousin has just shot me in the face, not for the first time, with his new Nerf gun and my mother is still shouting round the house that the Rayburn has now completely given up the ghost.
Banished from the snug, which is littered with camp beds, I begin to realise the true joy of Boxing Day hunting. Three days ago I sat down after a brilliant day’s shooting with friends and family extolling the joys of Christmas bringing the family together. Now, I discover that I look forward to nothing less than standing all by myself in what will almost certainly be pouring rain, watching hounds.
