I AM racking my brain trying to think of a collective noun for a profusion of Range Rovers.

The reason? John and I were at a charity clay pigeon shoot being held to support a well-known cancer sufferers support charity.

The car park, a field in which a huge marquee was erected, was awash with 4x4s. Most of them Range Rovers.

After a spot of brain wrestling I have come up with a name. A frustration of Range Rovers.

Why? Because although they do represent a significant degree of attainment in the world of luxury motoring, nearly everyone I know who has one, has had a significant number of breakdowns at significantly embarrassing times.

Joe himself, our friend who invited us, has had five different Range Rovers all seize up on him at times when he was miles away from home and extremely inconvenienced by his vehicles’ non-compliance.

But yesterday every vehicle performed faultlessly, so perhaps it should be an apotheosis of Range Rovers, or even a quintessence of 4x4s, as otherwise none of the stands on the clay pigeon shoot, would have been accessible.

The course stretched around seven miles of twisty farm tracks, some clinging perilously close to the edge of steep grass fields. Nimble footed sheep skipped out of the way of the stream of vehicles.

Partridge scattered, no doubt checking their calendars to make sure that they hadn’t got the dates wrong. Surely it can’t be the start of the shooting season yet?

At each stand a refreshment stall with pork pies, sausages and soft drinks welcomed the weary competitors. More welcome were the portable loos.

All that liquid refreshment and bumpy tracks led to only one conclusion; a rush for the look alike Doctor Who telephone boxes/toilets sat in the middle of grass fields.

My favourite stand was the aerial challenge. As the shooters lined up, a model aeroplane, fitted with targets, flew overhead.

Suddenly every shooter was transformed into an anti-aircraft gunner. Well, an optimistic anti-aircraft gunner. Most missed, but it did, even to me, look fun.

Back at the marquee we were greeted by a pipe band. No, we weren’t in Scotland yet, that is next week when we are fishing again.

This was a pipe band from a local boarding school and they proceeded to pipe us in for a celebratory meal as a finale to the competition.

At the end of the day you can only admire the organisation that goes into providing not only a fun day out, but also a way of raising considerable, much-needed funds for a worthwhile charity.

The ease with which money was lifted out of the horny hands of local farmers and associated professions and trades was breathtaking.

I have never seen John liberally hand out £20 notes without so much as flinching, in all our married life. Perhaps I should set myself up as a charity for distressed farmers’ wives?