Guardian of the Cleveland Way

Had those two ominous notes from Jaws been playing in my earphones, I might have sensed what was coming. Just two notes, faster and faster, the sound of danger creeping closer.

This red grouse appeared on the Cleveland Way path over Carr Ridge, no more than ten metres away, a plump silhouette against the heather. I expected it to take off with the familiar rattling cry, “chut! chut! chut! chut! chuttt…” But it did not. Instead, it stood its ground, issuing only the occasional curt “chut!” as if weighing me up.

At five metres, I thought I might steal a photograph. At two metres, its calls quickened. At one metre, I crouched, leant forward, and aimed the camera phone. I could almost have stared into the whites of its eyes, had there been any to see. The red crests above them gave the game away: this was a cock bird, and I was too close.

In an instant, it launched. Wings flailing, it came straight at me, shouting its unmistakable warning, “Goback! Goback!” My phone took the blow, a lucky shield. For a moment, it was Hitchcock’s The Birds, only with feathers and fury instead of beaks en masse. Enough was enough; I had trespassed too far.

I walked on, but he was not finished. He pursued me down the path, harrying me until I had passed the invisible boundary of his small kingdom. Only then did he relent, leaving me to continue my solitary wandering across the moor.

I have never known a grouse to behave like this. In spring they may feign injury, luring predators from their young, but this was not the breeding season. This was the shooting season, when the young are grown and the guns come.

And come to think of it, on Urra Moor today, I saw only one other grouse. The bag must be poor this year. Or perhaps the survivors are gathering. Perhaps they are no longer fleeing the guns, but planning to face them. One cock bird against me was nothing. A hundred would be another matter entirely.