Things can only get better...
THE old cock grouse turns and comes skimming downwind in front of the line of butts, contouring the ground with magnetic precision. Instinctively, the stock of my gun finds its way to my shoulder and hugs my cheek like a pillow as the tip of the muzzle swings around below and ahead of the bird and I fire. The grouse crumples and cartwheels into the heather, the neat dark missile transformed in an instant into, then I wake with a start, it’s not a grouse calling, it’s someone wanting to speak to me.
