“As quietly as you can,” he whispered in my ear, “climb over the gate and then crawl up to the side of the bridge.”

I climbed and straddled the gate, as you should, nearest to the hinge. My companion Ion Hamilton, my assigned stalker for the day, lifted the rifle off his shoulder, made it safe and followed. Shuffling on hands and knees to the brow of a tumbledown stone bridge, we lay down and peered over. Lying on my stomach, my first thought was that my breeks were not waterproof; in the gap between gaiters and coat my thighs were absorbing the damp of the grass.