First Grey by Roy Bebbington
It’s a beautiful warm mid September day – blue sky, bright sunshine, and hardly a breath of wind. Standing upon the highest point of the moor, the panorama spread before us makes me thank the lord that I was born a Northerner.
Freya, my wirehaired vizsla !@#$%^&*, is busily working some 30-40 yards ahead, quartering the ground – for hidden within this sea of white grass lie pipits, larks and the very jewel within the crown, grey partridge.
It takes a big hearted dog to find these elusive gamebirds. For upon this moor they are out there, but widely scattered and small in number. Freya knows from past experience that she will have to run big and cast wide to find them.
Standing tense and erect upon my fist sits ‘Marge’ my imprint female sparrowhawk. She awaits the slightest sign of movement.
One never has to wait too long, before that single note repetitive call of the pipit sounds and they almost seem catapulted from earth to the heavens.
Upon the first flush, Marge sets off in pursuit. She flies hard, following every twist and turn of the fleeing pipit. She executes a breathtaking corkscrew turn and throws out a foot in an attempt to pluck the pipit out of the air. This is to prove her undoing, for the loss of momentum caused by this manoeuvre al
lows the pipit just sufficient time and distance to head skywards and away to safety.
At about 30ft Marge sets her wings and gives up the chase, circling above us, waiting for the lure to be produced beneath her. There is no need for haste, for it is quite simply great to watch this lovely little hawk lazily waiting on above us. Her plumage is illuminated by the sunlight against the blue sky, and she is quite literally as pretty as a picture.
Meanwhile, Freya body language begins to communicate that she has scented game somewhere ahead. She begins that almost Panther like stalk, usually a prelude to a point. No matter how many thousands of points you may see in a lifetime, the next one will always be as exciting. Freya, begins slowing,, and finally stops, rigid on point. 
I walk forward of the motionless dog, arm extended with Marge aloft. Approaching Freya head on, I can see her drawing in the scent through not only her nose, but through her mouth as well, as if tasting it’s intoxicating pleasures. Just that one step too close, then an explosion of whirring wings – we are amongst a covet of grey partridge.
Marge for reasons only known to herself, switches from one group to another, selects her target and is locked on.
With her wings pumping furiously, the gap between the hunter and the hunted close – finally the two become one and they fall into a bed of white grass.
I quickly turn to see Freya hasdropped to flush, and
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quickly make my way across to help Marge despatch her prize. Once secured, I call Freya across to enjoy the spoils. For this is a very important, much neglected part of the whole ritual. The dog must know exactly just what the conclusion of the while proceedings are about.
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