Meeting the House of Grouse and another falconry widow.
My wife often tells me that during the falconry season she becomes a falconry widow. Apparently my posture changes, I stop cutting my hair and gain a musty smell like damp dog or worse if a day old chick has been forgotten in a jacket. My clothes are always the same colour (Greens and browns) and my general fashion is that more commonly seen on the catwalk of a big issue seller(homeless magazine here in the UK). Only on field meets do I request an ironed shirt and put on my Sunday best mole sking trousers, wax jacket and get out a fresh lure.
She reads me like a book and can tell my success in the field by the fact that either I enter the house with the bird on fist whistling or the glove enters the house closely followed by a Tasmanian devil, blaming everything in the world for conspiring to ruin my birds flight. [Read more]
