A Countryman's Creel: The remarkable, the heart-rending, the intriguing, the almost unbelievable short stories - Hardcover

Farrington, Conor

 
9781906122355: A Countryman's Creel: The remarkable, the heart-rending, the intriguing, the almost unbelievable short stories

Synopsis

Recalling the spirit of John Buchan and Rider Haggard, this book of ripping yarns will delight all those who love the great outdoors.

A guest at a Scottish country estate is not all he seems; a solicitor with an addiction to point-to-point racing encounters a run of disastrous luck ― but why is his close friend so pleased? A flyfisherman meets the disoriented Lady Anstey in a downpour and is drawn into a threatened world; and keen wildfowler Hugh McParland is enjoying his sport on the Norfolk coast when he joins a stranger on a pleasure boat and is embroiled in a game of high stakes.

Here is a collection of 12 wonderful country-sports bedside stories by a talented new writer.

A Countryman's Creel celebrates the British countryside in settings ranging from the Edwardian to the present day, while exploring themes of enduring relevance.

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About the Author

Conor Farrington is a Research Associate at the University of Cambridge and a College Research Associate at Jesus College, Cambridge. Following post-graduate degrees in Political Theory and Philosophy and a PhD in Geography, he now specialises in public policy and medical sociology.
In addition to publications in academic journals such as The Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine, he has written on literary and musical topics in The Times Literary Supplement, The Wall Street Journal and The Pianist magazine.
His interests include fishing, sailing and music.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Alasdair Lochton was the first to know, if intuition can be called knowledge. A shadow in the evening mist, a hint of massy bulk, a notion of steepling horns, nothing more ― but it was enough. The elderly keeper withdrew inside the bothy that served as his home, and scribbled a hasty note in his crude hand. Early next morning, Lochton hobbled down the rough hill-path to the Lodge, and gave the note to the groom. The groom gave it to a maid, who gave it to the footman, who gave it to the butler; and the butler, having placed the note on a silver salver, gave it to Lord Dacre.
'A note, sir,' he said. 'From Lochton, the gamekeeper,' he added disapprovingly, for he saw it as cheek for a keeper to write to a lord.
'Ah yes?' said Dacre, ripping open the envelope and reading the note.
'Will there be anything else, my lord? Shall I ― shall I send for Doctor Watkins?' ― the doctor; for Lord Dacre had gone white as a sheet, and his health of late had been far from good. A weakness of the heart combined with general old age, Doctor Watkins had said. The butler had been sorry to hear it, for the old fellow was a good employer, and his son, Lord Chalfont, would certainly replace him with his own man when the time came.
'Eh?' said Dacre, rising from a reverie of some depth. 'No ― no, thank you, Benton. But send to the gun-room ― my William Evans to be got ready. And look out my Harris jacket, will you?'
'You are going out, my lord?' cried the butler, alarmed. 'In this cold weather? I am sorry, my lord' ― this in response to a fierce glare ― 'I forgot myself. Shall I call Geddes, sir?' ― the stalker.
'No, thank you, Benton. Just the rifle and my clothes.'
As Dacre set out from the Lodge, his heart was beating uncontrollably ― 'Like a giddy schoolboy,' he remarked aloud. 'And yet perfectly understandable, under the circumstances.'
Under the circumstances: the surprising, the astonishing, return of the Assyrian King to the slopes of Glen Alder, after three ― or was it four? ― years' absence. Dacre had thought him dead ― had mourned him, the noble beast, with a monarch's antlers and the jutting, dark-hued beard that had got him his name. Twice he had stalked him, and twice the stag had beaten him, seeming to fix him afterwards with a defiant, knowing gaze before disappearing into the trees. How Dacre had burned and raged! ― for he had never before missed his shot. And now, in the twilight of his days, a third and gloriously unexpected chance.

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