I shivered. The moor was cold and damp on this February morning. The fog was thick and clung to my hair, my face, my clothes. I wiped my dewy glasses and stretched my aching limbs. I'd been hiding behind this tree for far too long.

I heard a crack.

I eased myself up, cursing my poor old back all the while, and raised my weapon of choice. I lined up my 'scope, taking a deep breath and smiling with satisfaction as the proud head came into focus.

Old Braveheart I called him. I knew it was a cliche but since no-one else knew my nickname for this king of beasts I didn't care. He was old but still a formidable fighter. I'd seen him fight off three young bucks earlier in the season. He still held sway over a large group of females.

"You've still got it old boy," I muttered, thinking of him and me both.

I squared my shoulders and balanced myself, reaching for my trigger without losing sight of my prey.

I squeezed.

Yes. A beautiful photograph of a beautiful animal in his natural habitat. The stag, the king of beasts.

And I'd bagged him.