The bird roared out of a patch of grass to my left in a rush of wingbeats. I whirled, shouldered my shotgun, swung through the bird and let fly.
It tumbled from the sky and disappeared into the grass. Eyes locked on where it fell, I bee-lined for my bird. I found it quickly enough, turned bird and gun in hand, raising my arms in triumph. I was 12, and I’d just killed my first upland bird, a sharptail grouse.