An everlasting call

I have never shot a grouse on 12 August. Admittedly, I haven’t shot a grouse on any other day of the year either. The Glorious Twelfth has become short-hand, in the British psyche, for the start of something, a beginning, but the same does not apply to 1 September.

For a small, ruddy-faced band of masochists, however, the first day of the ninth month is an occasion of the utmost import.

Suffolk, the most far-flung eastern bulge of Englishness, first glimpses the sunrise over our islands. When it does so, on this most auspicious of days, the creeks, gutters and inlets along the county’s foreshore hide a band of muddy brothers and sisters. All of them stare upwards into this light with awe, wonder and near-religious fervour. For