Heading through a purple patch
The old cock grouse had run the gauntlet of at least five seasons. His dark plumage and granite beak spoke of a mature bird. He had survived a muggy COVID-19 summer and the long cold winter of 2018, growing impressive feathers on his ridged toes with every passing year.
In August 2020 he slipped early through the line of Guns on rolling wings. He jinked on an easterly breeze and curled at an impossible angle. Despite the best efforts of Guns hidden in butts number five and six, he twisted unscathed like a fighter jet back towards his territory. Beaters and flankers were still out of sight. He was alone, cutting the air at speeds of up to 80mph.
Heart pounding, I crouched among the heather of Worsthorne Moor, a broken stone dam behind me oncurled into view below me along the valley side, following the line of the heather. I twisted as I might when a teal zips along a creek. The ground beneath me was boggy, making foot movements almost impossible. When my hips could twist no further, I squeezed the trigger.
