I was deep in the winter wheat when I heard the haunting whisper. Time and time again the same melancholy whistle passed overhead, but when I looked up I saw only the grey November afternoon. Then I caught a whir of wings passing through the low clouds, a flock of calling golden plovers. Our wintering flock of goldies was back. Perhaps they’ve just spent the summer a few miles away up on the moors, perhaps they’ve recently arrived from Iceland. With luck they’ll be with us until March. Their piping soundtrack and twisting flights lend sound and colour to the grey months, and speed. Sir Hugh Beaver, a former director of a famous Irish brewery, was at a shoot when he got into an argument about which was the fastest “game bird”, golden plovers or grouse. Maybe t