There are two sorts of grouse-shooting, really; the one the papers favour, of the quality picnicking beside the butts, the men in deerstalkers or caps with sewn-up peaks, the women in tweeds and scarves, doling out baps and buttered gingerbread. At a respectful distance sit the beaters with their sandwiches: they will have walked some three miles that morning and will probably walk another three before the day is out. In the old days they were usually estate labourers: now they are more likely to be students on vacation, given a bothy to sleep in, a stack of provisions and beer, transport to visit the nearest pub or disco in the evening, and around £70 for the week. I remember a television programme a few years ago when a camera team visited the Glamis moors and Bernard Falk asked Lord Strathmore why the beaters sat apart. ‘They prefer it that way’ was the clever reply, as though it was entirely their idea; and for once old Bernard failed to put the necessary supplementary ‘And you?’
But no one graduates to this sort of shoot who has not first done the other; walked in line with two or three others and a couple of spaniels or labradors across some modest moor, shooting at birds going away from you, which is a lot less testing than when they are coming towards you and, best of all, doing it with a pointer.
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