Contribution
Rural Britain, and particularly remote Scotland, is in crisis. The young are moving to the cities, the schools are closing, healthcare is being centralised and the cost of living is far higher than in the conurbations. Soon, our glens will be populated only by incoming retirees.
I took my townie friend, a senior politician, along the beautiful 30-mile single-track road along the south side of Loch Ness. The road winds through a patchwork quilt of well-managed heather moorland. It is lined with well-kept cottages, pubs and village halls. As we drove, I pointed out where I had stayed as a teenager, grouse beating one glorious August. I explained to my companion the extraordinary social role that shooting plays there.
There were 50 folk from three generations together, many the descendants of those who have gathered there for the same purpose for two centuries. Back then, as no doubt today, the chat was great. We set off in a convoy of locally bought Land Rovers, ready to walk a dozen miles across the hill, with the beaters’ spaniels dashing back and forth in front of us. Interspersed along the long line were the gamekeepers: men and women from various estates nearby. Fit and strong, they are the pillars of the local community. They serve in the volunteer fire service, they run the village hall, and their spouses and partners staff the medical centre and pub. Without their children, the local primary school would close.
The keepers are not in well-paid jobs. They earn a tenth of the income of a certain celebrity TV presenter who spends his time vilifying them. They do it for the love of the countryside, the wildlife, and the traditions of the land from which they hail. They know where the curlews nest, can identify a golden plover from 500 yards, and know how to restore a collapsed wall or lay a hedge. They keep the mink, rats, crows and other vermin under control. If they did not, our precious wildlife population would collapse. The founder of Curlew Action says that conservationists must choose between gamekeepers with curlew, or no gamekeepers with no curlew.
Yes, there are a few unscrupulous keepers who, egged on by grouse-greedy lairds, kill raptors, but raptor deaths are at an all-time low, and there are bad eggs in every profession, as we MPs know only too well. The owners of the moors could take their money elsewhere, and buy yachts, or chalets in the Alps. Instead, they choose to pour money into our area for the love of grouse. Their passion results in good jobs in remote areas, and lots of spin-off economic benefits for caterers, fencers, diggers, drivers, gamekeepers and so on. Grouse moor activities also play an important role in reducing loneliness and mental health in rural areas.
In the last 15 years, the big buyers of moors have been those wanting to conduct carbon offsetting by rewilding the land: conservation charities, corporates and wealthy individuals, almost invariably receiving massive Government rewilding grants, paid for by the unknowing taxpayer. Invariably, this involves the issuing of P45s and the loss of housing for the gamekeepers, some of whose fathers and grandfathers lived and worked on that same property.
If we love our moorland, if we want to see our wildlife thrive, and if we strive for the economic viability of remote areas and good local jobs, we must keep grouse shooting going. Do not let urban MPs once more hammer us rural people without knowing the awful consequences. I conclude with a little ditty:
“No more the keeper tracks the hill,
His shotgun cold, his bothy still.
The ghillie’s rod, the shepherd’s dog,
Lie idle in the creeping fog.
The red deer fall in bloody ranks,
Not for food, nor sport, nor thanks,
But culled like vermin, cast away,
So saplings might have room to sway.
No flight of grouse along the scree,
Just silence now, for every tree.
There is no healing of the glen,
When land forgets the touch of men.
The crofter’s roof caves in with rain;
The keeper’s track turns wild again.
The pub is shut, the school is bare—
What future grows when none live there?
So mark this truth in storm and soil:
This land must live by native toil.
Let birch and beaver find their place—
But not at the cost of the Highland race.”