Pheasant Beating

A Memory of Hoghton.

I spent many a Saturday, walking the woods of the tower, beating sticks and making noise.
After a good 8 hours trudging up and down slopes and in the mud, they feed us a bowl of bad stew and beer. There was always a joke about who got the only piece of meat. I was the lucky recipient once, had to eat it quick tho.
I remember all the shooters in the next room having a meal and trying to catch a glimpse of the glamourous life, thru a crack in the door.
Not an old memory yet, but it will be eventually.