My dad used to like to pheasant hunt. He had a method to gain permission from the farmers that had worked for him for a long time. We'd just take a weekend well before hunting season started and drive up. Stopped at all the farms and asked permission, politely. We always got it. After asking for 30 or so years, they knew him and he knew them. Then of course we'd always drop off a rabbit or two at the farm house. That helped.
When I got old enough to go along, he's always make sure it was OK. First few years I was the dog, no gun, just out trying to point them. By the time I got old enough in his opinion, then I was allowed to take a gun. That amused his farmers.
Sometimes the farmer got tired of workin' and decided he'd come along. That was fine. They even opened up some additional fields of his neighbors. We did it for fun, but nearly walked our legs off.
One year we were hunting a stubble field. We'd seen other hunters and they didn't have permission. And sure enough, we got peppered. The landowner was with us and he got downright nasty with them. Something about his land, his daddy's land, and his grandfather before that. And he wasn't gonna be run off by some city folks. Dad wasn't takin' part, but I was thinkin' this would end up with a shootin'. It didn't, the trespassers hauled out. Kind of ruined the day.
