Royals, rif les, and the day I was attacked by an eagle
In part two of her captivating memoir, Scotland’s first female gamekeeper tells of life on the Highland hills
TOWARDS the end of September 2007, I took a client over to the hills above the sea cliffs on the west coast of the Isle of Rum, where he shot an eight-pointer stag. It was warm and sunny, extremely unusual weather for September, and the cloudless sky gave views up to Bloodstone Hill to the north and right out across the sea to the islands of the Outer Hebrides.
We had managed to shoot the stag early in the day and I knew it would be at least two hours before the ghillies turned up with the ponies. I gralloched – disembowelled – the beast, slitting it hide from sternum to groin and pulling out the spleen, stomach bag and intestines which lay steaming in the heather while my client studied the view out to sea. I wiped the blood from my arms with a handful of damp sphagnum moss, its coolness on my skin as refreshing as a drink from a mountain burn.
Having bagged his trophy, the stalking guest decided he was going to walk back along the path and spend the rest of the day exploring the beach, so all I now had to do was drag the stag a couple of hundred yard down the hill and wait for the ghillies to turn up.
The gamey smell of the carcass filled my nostrils as I dragged it down the hillside, bumping and jolting over the projecting rocks and clumps of heather. Years of doing it had hardened my muscles but it was never less than tough work, especially on a day as hot as this, and it was a relief when I reached the path at the bottom of the hill, little more than a faint animal track across the hillside.
I radioed back and reported my location, then sat down in the heather and ate my packed lunch, gazing out over the calm, sparkling sea, with the sunbeams dancing on the surface of the water.
It was a big change to see it so flat calm because normally it was a maelstrom of clashing and churning waters as the ferocious currents and tidal rip of the Minch battled the huge Atlantic waves.
Sometimes the wind even whipped up a waterspout, twisting and turning like a mini-tornado over the surface of the sea, but today the weather was perfect and I intended to make the most of it.
I finished my lunch and, lying back, I closed my eyes. I could feel the warmth on my face as the sunlight glowed brightly through my eyelids. Shifting slightly to a more comfortable position among the dry heather strands, I drifted off to sleep.
I don’t know how long I lay there before something – a movement, a change in the light or maybe just an instinctive sense of danger – dragged my back to consciousness. Suddenly everything went dark.
Still half-asleep, I now became aware of a black shadow blocking out the sunlight and felt a sudden rush of cooler air. As my eyes flickered open, I was greeted by the sight of a large golden eagle swooping down, its talons outstretched towards my torso.
I screamed and jerked my arms upwards, trying to ward off the impact, and the sudden movement and the noise of my piercing scream startled the eagle. It was so close that I felt the rush of air from its wingbeats and could almost have plucked a tail feather from it as it swerved away at the last moment and soared back into the sky.
I jumped to my feet, still in shock, with sweat prickling my brow and my heart pounding so hard that it felt like it was bursting out of my chest.
Circling overhead, the eagle had seen what must have looked like a three-course banquet laid out before it: the entrails from the gralloch of the stag a few hundred yards up the hill, the bloody carcass of the stag twenty feet away from me and an apparently dead young woman as well, lying spread-eagled and motionless on the hillside, her long blonde hair tangled among the heather.
The eagle had obviously decided to have me as its starter before moving on to the deer for its main course. Had I woken up a second later, I would have found its talons embedded in my chest and its cruel, hooked beak poised above my face. It was the first and last time that I ever fell asleep out on the heather.
DURING one grouse shooting season I spent some time as a beater at Balmoral. When I got there the Royal Family had just arrived for two weeks’ shooting, and we were given a strict briefing on how to behave.
Cameras were not allowed and bad language was forbidden, though even the threat of execution for treason could not have stopped some of the keepers and beaters from swearing. We were also told not to talk to the Royals unless spoken to first.
On the second day, the keepers placed me half-way along the line and, as we reached the top of the hill above the butts, I had a perfect bird’s eye view of the Royals.
Princes Harry and William were in the middle butt, Prince Charles was on one side with a group of friends and the Queen was on the other. Each had a loader beside them with a bag of cartridges.
As I approached the butts, despite the strict instructions we’d been given, I decided that it was too good a chance to miss so, picking up one of the shot grouse, I walked over and presented it to Prince Harry. Smiling, he took the bird from me and we chatted for a few minutes. We hunted around in the heather with the gun dogs and found several more birds that we tacked in a neat pile. Sadly, he didn’t ask me for a date and when I looked round, I realised that the rest of the beaters had disappeared.
Luckily Prince Harry pointed me in the right direction and, saying goodbye to him, I took off up the hill at a jog. After 20 minutes I caught up with the other beaters, who were all sitting down munching sandwiches. Panting and out of breath, I dragged myself over the brow of the hill, more than ready for my own lunch. The only problem was the river between
the beaters and myself, about 15 feet wide and five feet deep and very fast flowing. I really didn’t fancy falling in and getting drenched but the alternative was not getting any lunch.
Walking up and down the river bank, I came to a place where three boulders, widely set apart, rose out of the water. That would just have to do as a crossing point; it would certainly be better than swimming across. Taking a run, I sprinted to the bank, jumped from boulder to boulder and threw myself onto the opposite bank. My left boot splashed down in the water and my foot got a bit wet, but that aside, I was quite dry and pleased to have made it across safely. Looking around me, I noticed everyone else appeared to have crossed without getting even slightly wet.
‘How come you lot are so dry?’ I said.
One of the beaters grinned. ‘Probably because most people just use the bridge, Portia.’ Turning around, I noticed an iron bridge which I’d failed to spot, spanning the river about 30ft from where I stood. ‘Eyes of a hawk,’ I said, going red with embarrassment.
Being late for lunch was never a good thing, as all the good sandwiches had already been taken. I settled for a Scotch egg instead, and sat down with my friends in the heather. Before long, a convoy of Land Rovers pulled up alongside us; to my surprise the Royal Family were joining us for lunch. The Queen sat down with her lunchbox about five yards from us and began to eat her sandwiches – crusts cut off, as far as I could see. In her wax jacket, green wellies and headscarf she could easily have passed for one of us.
A fellow beater, a Republican, was unimpressed and, taking off his shirt to show off his tattoos, he started telling jokes in a voice that must have carried to the Queen’s ears. A 1960s throwback, he often smoked a joint after work but now, grinning, he said, ‘Time for my pudding’, and, rummaging in his pocket produced the longest, fattest joint I had ever seen. He lit it with his Zippo lighter, took a long drag and then slowly blew out a plume of sweet-smelling smoke. We stared at each other in disbelief as it drifted towards the Queen.
‘I think you have an audience,’ I said, pointing at her two police bodyguards with rifles slung across their chests, who were giving Paddy menacing stares. Completely unfazed, he was revelling in the attention and just blew out another plume of smoke, saying, ‘Mmmm, this is nice,’ even louder.
The Queen continued to eat her lunch in silence, either ignoring him or oblivious to him. ‘Shall I go and offer her a smoke?’ he said.
‘Yeah, go on,’ I said. ‘I’ll just stay here and watch for the bullet exiting the back of your head.’
In the end he decided not to push his luck and we headed up the hill for the start of the next drive. We didn’t see the Royals at such close quarters again, but I can now quite truthfully say I have chatted up Prince Harry – and had lunch with his grandmother.