Invernesshire, The Highlands, Northern Scotland

“Next stop Inverness, the line terminates next stop” whispers the tannoy system as the train barrels on through fields and past whiskey distilleries, their mounds of empty barrels sitting outside. Several minutes later the train hisses and stops, the doors open and I am expelled alone onto a chilly platform like some forgotten soldier, dragging my bags behind to the front of the station. I had travelled for three hours, carrying sleeping bag and boots, hats and spare clothes, intent on reaching Inverness and starting my job.

One month ago I had rung up Kallum, the Head Game Keeper of the Corrybrough Estate and asked for a summer job beating. Expecting a long interview I was very happy when after two minutes he said “See you at the estate on the 11th then, hope you don’t mind but everyone else is an Eastern European” and hung up.

It is the 11th of October, the night before the Glorious 12th which is traditionally the start of the grouse shooting season. In big houses across the country guns are laid out in their sleeves, Shoffel and Barber jackets taken off their pegs, cartridge bags filled and electronic earphones loaded with batteries.

On the estates harried keepers race across the moors in Land Rovers, on quads and clinging to the back of Argos, trying to finish last minute preparations. Flags and jugs of juice are loading into vehicles and over at Corrybrough Ben is going over the route for tomorrows drives.

In Inverness, perched like a buzzard upon my bags I catch sight of several Land Rovers parked out front near the old hotel. Taking my bags towards them I can see a large red faced man sitting in the left hand vehicle, dressed in tweeds and looking impatient. Seeing my dishevelled figure he raises one arm in greeting and motions for me to dump my bags in the back of his truck.

Later, from sitting talking with him and listening into others conversations I will learn much more about the countryside than I do about Davie. As we drive towards the estate I gather only that he works on the estate, owns a dog and is disappointed with the awful state of the shooting season. After twenty minutes (Davie being the slowest driver in the North) of uncomfortable silence and stilted conversation we reach Tomatin which I understand will be my local town for a month.

Ten seconds later we are though it, the whole place consisting of a post office, a large pub and twenty houses that leave me disappointed. The pickup truck skirts fields of bored looking sheep, drives under two road bridges and over a rickety wooden one before pulling up in a empty yard. A sign on one of the buildings reads “The Granary-Corrybrough”, and through the lighted windows I see people moving around in a sparsely decorated room. Grabbing my bags I hasten to the door and set my sights on finding a good bed and something to eat, knowing nothing about what’s in store for me over the following weeks.