A brace of English setters, creamy patches in a haze of purple, are working into the wind ahead. They’re covering the moor quickly, but as effortlessly as the zephyr trembling the bell heather. Abruptly, the lead dog—the older, more experienced bitch—stops her tacking as the scent of grouse fills her nostrils. Seconds later, the younger dog also collects the waft and they lower their supple bodies, heads level, to gather in and analyse the strength and direction of the smell. At this stage, they are still dog-like—but, as the scent grows hotter, they grow more feline, placing each slow step with the care of a stalking tiger. Finally, they halt. They have ‘set’ their game.
Within feet is a covey of grouse, the birds’ eyes fixed on the
