The Things I Love - A self-centred post brought on by a quad ride along a deserted beach.

The Things I Love are many, here are a few of them. Waking on a sunny morning, birds or water the only sounds. Returning home after a cold day to find the kitchen full of the smells of baking. Knowing that my house is heated solely through the sweat of my brow. Taking a high pigeon on a pheasant drive. Whiffling geese. The smell of the steam as your quad plunges through a deep puddle. A well ploughed field. A cock grouse standing sentinel.  The Field hitting the mat. Pheasants going up to roost. That frosty morning when you hear the first stags roaring. Tweed. That painful burst of saliva at the first mouthful of a really good steak. Vanilla. The first Pimms of the Summer – and all the rest. The smell of a Christmassy house. Goldfinches. Salt on your lips on a windy day by the sea. Leather seats. Tea rooms with cake stands. Cake. The carrots from a beef stew. Bacon. Aston Martins. The cry of a swift – truly the bird. The warmth coming through your jacket when your dog presses up close on a cold morning flight. Finding something long thought lost that brings a memory of someone long departed.

Old Land Rovers. Books, any and all. Maps and aerial views. Great coffee. Teak decks. The pinking sounds as a log burner heats up. The tapping of halyards against masts. Black grouse. The beaters getting closer. Driving on deserted roads in heavy snow. Roger McPhail paintings. Balsamic vinegar. The smell of a greenhouse full of tomatoes. Cows, the grassy smell, the warmth, the bulk. Muck spreading. A pile of sleeping pigs. Collective nouns. The purple colour of ash buds as they open. When your dogs sits with its’ chin on your knee. Cheese – Stilton, Brie de Meaux  and a Cheddar that makes your tongue go numb, all sadly a thing of the past for me. Wild weather. Quality kit – be it boots or gloves, coats or hats. Fancy gin. A big pile of logs, seasoned and ready to burn. A tricky descent, well executed. Views.  Music that reaches into my soul. The sight of a picker up surrounded by dogs walking along a ride. Realising that you’ve finished. Watching a questing spaniel. Lapsing into what amounts to a trance when words and ideas fill your head. The Sunday Times Rich List. A hot bath in an old enamel bath that’s worn a bit rough and has verdigris on the taps. Lapsang Souchong.

The sculptures of Simon Gudgeon. Eating from Wedgwood plates.  Oak floors. Flight ponds. A properly run Highland estate. Woodlands. A roe buck in his new summer pelage. Bluebells under birches. Hares. Getting a vehicle where many would think impossible. Beautiful guns. A flawlessly blue sky. The calls of grouse. The sound of a thousand pinkfeet in the air. Gorgeous boats, big or small, power or sail. The House of Bruar, but not their coffee. Tim Hortons doughnuts. The feeling of hot sun. Mountains. Not being part of the herd. Tapirs. Woodcock chicks. The first sighting of the new crop of deer calves. Good binoculars. The sound of widgeon. Roost shooting pigeons with friends. Setting off on holiday in the wee small hours. Sausage roll time on a shoot day. Not having to wear glasses anymore. A good axe. Sitting, watching and waiting. Walking on the high tops, looking for ptarmigan. Having no pressure of time. Freedom to act and think as I please. Life.