Baking in 29-degree heat in Northumberland on the Glorious Twelfth with a tepid glass of whisky in my hand, I had high hopes for fantastic weather for the next day when I would be walking up onto the moor for a day of grouse shooting.
The landscape was breathtakingly beautiful. I was staying in a valley made up of grass paddocks, with some docile sheep and cattle lying lazily under lone trees.
I was chatting with head keeper Alan Prewitt about the numbers of grouse we could expect. “We’ve had a fairly good spring and, hopefully, we will see good numbers of grouse. Just make sure you don’t shoot a black grouse.”
This last bit of information caught me off guard and, seeing the surprise on my face, he beckoned me over to one of the grass paddocks that stood adjacent to the house we were staying in. He pointed to the far corner of the field next to a drystone wall and said: “If they look like that, don’t shoot.”
I squinted to where he was pointing and I could see five black shapes waddling across the grass. I had seen blackcock before but never this many in one place at one time. I went to sleep dreaming of rolling hills covered in pink heather and grouse, both red and black, curling quickly in the wind towards me.
Carpet of fog
Bu hikaye Shooting Times & Country dergisinin September 23, 2020 sayısından alınmıştır.
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Bu hikaye Shooting Times & Country dergisinin September 23, 2020 sayısından alınmıştır.
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