Daft, beautiful birds protected for the pot

Redcastle, the Black Isle There are dozens of them waiting in the undergrowth to fly up, panic-stricken, as we pass

When we reach the turn for Gallowhill Wood the horses know we're going home and pick up the pace. It has been a long day for them, these heavyset highlands - so low to the ground and dressed in such thick fur coats. But not so long they haven't the energy to feign fright when we round a bend to find tripods lurking between the trees, with plastic bellies and wooden legs, short tails protruding from their underparts. They have an alien aspect, and the horses don't like them at all. I agree.

A few minutes further and the mystery deepens. A paddock fenced with electrified wire twice my height. This looks serious. Wild boar? Oh no. I prepare for a panic of hoofbeats. But there too are strips of plastic hanging in the trees and CDs spinning on treads: this fence is to keep something safe inside.