Clune, The Highlands, Northern Scotland

Alone on the hill time passes slowly. Harsh winds blow cold and furious, driving thin sheets of rain into the gullies around me. Clumps of purple heather and the brown mess of peat hags carpet the ground, punctuated only by grey scree.

Minutes pass without break and the smallest change in the environment (A spider moving slowly across my leg) becomes immediately apparent. Later a sound, sharp like the crack of a whip (belonging to a waved flag), fills the void of silence and I slowly stand. Following it comes a shouted command, “Come on” rising as I clamber to my feet. Now standing it becomes apparent that I am in a line, small figures extending left and right across my vision, each clutching the plastic flag with its handle of faded wood.

This could be any number of days, the landscape almost indistinguishable from any other on the moors. In rain and sun, with biting winds at my face I have stood in line upon similar hills and waved my flag, sometimes with gusto, usually with deliberate slowness.

Stamping along, avoiding mud and rusted wire, the occasional Grouse is startled upwards into the air. These small brown birds, worth £95 per brace (for two) are our targets. Us in the line, the “beaters”, wave and snap our flags, driving the startled animals over the hills until the noise of firing shotguns looms ahead. Those with the guns have precious few seconds to fire at the frightened birds as they hurry away from the beaters and many birds fly on unhampered.

From my spot on the line I can see the guns firing, the “flankers” and the “Picker-up-ers” working dogs behind those shooting. A bird is hit and seems to freeze in midair before falling earthwards, feathers billowing over the heather. “Get back in line” screams a red faced Davie, “Stop looking at the guns”, his harsh words forcing me from my reveries and back into the monotony of my work.

Nearing the butts (dugouts for the guns to sit in) Davies radio comes alive as somewhere Susan tells the line to “Blow the horns”, signalling the guns to stop firing in front so they don’t hit the approaching beaters. Soon, after we have passed the butts and all shooting as ceased the entire line sinks to the ground and unwraps any food we have been carrying in our packs. We eat hurriedly, knowing that we will have to repeat all I have written of four more times before our daily wages are handed out.