Otterly wonderful

To some of us enthusiasts, there is no such thing as a bad day’s hunting. Even the occasional blank ones have their compensating joys; you’re in the open air, in congenial company, and with hounds. Some days are better than others and a few stand out above the rest, to be remembered all our lives. Such a day was the last Saturday of September 1951.

The morning broke, veiled by thick mists and that slight nip, which reminded me — if I needed reminding — that autumn, the most glorious of all our English seasons, was with us.

I can always wake without trouble when there is sport afoot. So I had attended to the animals and made