There are so few red grouse on my moor that I can often go for a week at a time without seeing any.

I can certainly hear them calling in the evenings, and neat piles of droppings can be found behind many grassy tussocks, but really getting to know the birds is a difficult process when they are so scarce and uncooperative.

Hoping to explore the world of grouse in more depth, I gladly accepted an invitation to beat on a day’s grouse shooting 30 miles south-east of Edinburgh last week.

Having been told that a big bag was expected, I packed a sandwich and looked forward to learning what a real grouse moor looks like.

Within minutes of parking amongst the other beaters on a cold morning, I knew that I had entered the big leagues.

A constant din of cackling grouse rang through the low cloud, and distant birds emerged on every tussock to yammer and chuckle defiantly.

The day was organised with military efficiency.

For each drive, small teams of beaters were dispatched to various destinations, fanning out across the moor to converge again at precise intervals.

The hills were steep, and the other beaters raced over the heather like rabid cheetahs.

Within 100 yards, my stubby legs were aching.

Mountain hares periodically soared out of the grass, and stopping to admire them, I was scolded to “keep the line” by disciplined voices from the gloom above.

Grouse rose in mighty packs, turning strongly in the wind to race over the invisible butts.

Shots crackled emptily in the massive open space between the clouds and the bog, then the drives ended.

It was a cycle repeated five times during the day, and towards the end, I think my legs became partially and irreparably detached from my body.

Driving home in the dark, the sound of cackling grouse echoed in my ears.

No wonder they’re called the “King of Game Birds”.

The views expressed on Patrick Laurie's blog are the author's and not the views of Shooting Gazette, ShootingUK, IPC Media or its employees. www.gallowayfarm.wordpress.com