Little ever got in the way of morning flight to start a new wildfowling season. But the first of September ain’t what it used to be. Least ways, not around here it isn’t.

Since moving north from the vastness of the Fenland ‘duck factory’ I’m sorry to say I have hauled myself out of bed just twice to mark the big day in the past 11 years.

I blame the weather

Maybe things are still different on those wonderful east coast saltings where a cooling sea breeze keeps biting flies at bay. But an endless succession of uncomfortably warm starts on this