It was a typical October day on the moor: bracingly blustery, rain threatening and grouse well educated. The flankers’ flags, so effective early in the season, cracked and flapped to no avail as the packs streamed across, just out of range, with only the occasional singleton making the error of coming directly through the butts. There was a time when I would have found this frustrating, but nowadays I admire their acumen and try to make the best of the chances when they occur.
Such a moment had come on the previous drive. We’d occupied the butts, rested our single, loaded guns on their turfed tops and waited. The beaters had a long haul, so the bulk
