Shooting and fishing: 'I drank a silent toast to Sarah and John, at about the time he was being planted'

After mildly commenting in this column that I had been disinvited to the "Twelfth "at Balavil, a walking day in pursuit of grouse, the laird issued an invitation to a driven day instead – the real thing, in other words.

My wife's sister Sarah rang to say her husband John, whom we were due to bury the same day as the invitation, would be appalled to think I had given up a day's driven grouse to go to his funeral and on no account was I to come. So I didn't.

The other guests included Balavil's neighbours and he whom we call Lord Megawatt, on account of his wind farm. The income has turned a tired grouse moor into one of the best in the Highlands. From 80 brace to 2,000 in five years. The new turbine roads let the keepers get on top of the vermin.

We were nine guns and four dogs in a former Royal Marine arctic warfare carrier, to get us up the last 1,000ft of hill. "Funny isn't it. Training for a cold war and all our wars now are in the desert," said an ex-soldier.

A golden eagle and peregrine appeared, to upset things. The mist came down – we were at 2,000ft, – and so did the rain. Birds appeared, hugging the contours, unable to see any more than the rest of us. The next drive, things looked up.

The third, I drifted off in a dwam and let an entire covey go through unspotted. "Right," roared the ex-soldier in the neighbouring butt, meaning left. Crumpet, the working cocker, set up a constant whimper of complaint.

"Biff her with your bonnet," said the ex-soldier, who also had a cocker. I biffed lightly and it worked. At lunch I drank a silent toast to Sarah and John, at about the time he was being planted. He'd have loved it.

On the hill things just got better. The weather lifted. We could see a huge open plateau and were treated to a perfect bit of "flanking", a single beater turning back large coveys trying to slide out sideways between the butts and beating line.

At the end of the drive Crumpet sat by my grouse and growled at a dog showing interest in "her" birds.

By now large coveys were appearing in support of the view that, perversely, the hard winter had improved stocks rather than killed them. Crumpet picked five birds at the next drive from a swamp of peat hags. Balavil showed signs of being grumpy because the day hadn't been as good as he'd hoped. "Seen lots of birds; friends, drink, food – it's brilliant Balavil," I said. "Really? Oh well. Have a drink then."

And we did.

This article was first published in The Scotsman on 2 October, 2010