Of course it’s worth commemorating the eve of the grouse season, particularly after so many people have tried to denigrate the occasion over the past few weeks by dubbing it the “inglorious” twelfth and by launching an assault on the entire sport. This is not the time or place to defend grouse shooting yet again, because (if nothing else) wasting time rebutting nonsensical arguments would only divert attention from the fantastic degree of hard work, dedication and passion so many people show every year in the name of a small and rather unassuming bird. In reality, the Twelfth is less the champagne soaked rampage portrayed in the press and more an amazing celebration of practical conservation work; the climax of an extraordinary relationship between man and bird.
Thousands of hours are spent in anticipation of this single day, and for many of the smaller moors it will be their only chance to get a return on cost and labour through snow, hail and rain. A couple of brace in the bag and a bottle of cider amidst oceans of powdery pink flowers amply repays the sweat and blood poured into the moors by the many syndicates, keepers and country folk who will be agog with excitement tonight as the sun sets, anticipating the thrills of the next few weeks. Being fortunate enough to see and work with grouse almost every day of the year, the novelty value of heath flower and blue hills doesn’t really apply. I am never quite so excited as some about the start of the season, but I am certainly looking forward to some shooting in the next few days, as well as beating, loading and all else before the end of the month.
In a nation where humans are increasingly disconnected from the fields and children believe that cheese grows on trees, there is something truly glorious about a bird with which attracts such a staggering investment of time, money and essential human interest in the countryside. So here’s to the Twelfth, and many more to come.