Where mighty beasts mooch

You are crawling on your belly, sliding around each tussock of deergrass and into every peaty hollow, keeping your head down. An observer might think you were fearful of being raked with gunfire at any moment. Beneath your pounding chest you can hear — and feel, even — the glug and gurgle of subterranean rivulets, the very lifeblood of the mountain.

A hoarse, guttural roar splits the October mist, sounding unnervingly close. It is answered by a stentorian challenger. It is as though you are caught in the middle of an impending battle. The stags snort and bellow, unaware of your presence. Silken-eared hinds dance and prance, their keen eyes and noses ready to betray you in an instant.