Even in the lee of the moorland edge, the wind pinned me to the steep tussocky hill. Driving onwards, I started to hear the crackle of grouse amid the swirls of air. These came like spectres across my ears, gone before direction or distance was known. Near the top, the final gritstone lip hung over me; as I hid beneath it, the wind fell away, taking all sound with it as if time had stopped. I drew my gun from its slip, dropped a handful of cartridges into my trouser pocket and stashed my bulky top layer among the rocks as I got ready to make the last climb over the parapet and on to the moorland top after my first ever grouse.
Wall of wind
I leapt over, ready to be greeted by eruptions of grouse breaking cover, but instead was met by
