Walking past a curve of rocks we wonder what on earth it is. Neatly placed rocks are waist high with grass, also neatly placed, growing on top. We’re walking along the moors in open grassland country. We’ve walked up a gradual hill and finally see the one building in all the 360-degree views. Our guidebook tells us some details about the path, lists accommodation, and not much else. We’re on the moors, bleak in bad weather, but today sunshine glistens as grasses flow in a gentle breeze. No mistaking the path; its wide so we walk alongside each other then stop at the next curve of rocks, then another. Someone sees a bird amongst the grass, a large brown ground-nesting bird, and someone calls “grouse”. I know the scotch whisky! Our guidebook says nothing of grouse or grouse hides. We discuss and learn some history of shooting grouse under the ridiculous name of sport. Men with guns would hide behind these stone walls waiting to see and shoot a grouse nearby. Men or boys would be hired to rush out to these vulnerable creatures so that the birds would fly up into the air near the hides so that the hunters could shoot the birds. Gradually we understand and are horrified that grouse hunting isn’t just history. Our beliefs and prejudices are revealed. “Not much of a sport” someone declares. Grouse shooting has a season, the start known as the Glorious Twelfth, 12th August, by the bloodsports lobby. Grouse are classed as game birds and still to this day, half a million are killed every year in Britain for ‘sport’.
