The tiny 'country' between England and Scotland.Scotland's 10,000-year-old wild heartland.Their duty? To carry their chiefs across rivers and peaty moorlands so they wouldn’t get wet feet. Graft was ingrained in their DNA and they became so indispensable that they were soon joined in the hills by “ghillie-weetfit”: wet-foot ghillies. For a long time, ghillies were the right-hand men of the Highlands, responsible for knowing the weather conditions for stalking, where the best fishing spots were, and what the height, flow and character of each river would be. How the story of Scotland’s “manservants” has changed over the past five centuries is all the more curious. As a parka is to the Arctic, a tweed jacket is to Scotland’s wild places.” The wool is cooling to wear when it’s hot in summer, and I never get cold even if I’m soaking in winter. “It’s tradition, pure and simple, and it’s a kind of camouflage to help us hide within our surroundings.
“This isn’t a country life fashion shoot for Vogue,” said Partridge, who now works as a freelance guide for travellers wanting to experience Skye’s private estates and hard-to-reach places. Besides, my name couldn’t be a better fit for this line of work. “It’s in my blood, and to an extent, I’ve not had any other choice but to be a ghillie. “My forbears have done this job for hundreds of years,” said Partridge, watching the deer disappear over the horizon. Nicknamed Skye Ghillie, he spends his days out on the land, stalking and shooting deer, grouse, pheasant and other game birds, either with a camera or firearms (and for meat, not trophy hunting) or down by the riverside, hooking flies onto a rod to catch and release pink salmon or wild brown trout from the slow-running waters.
Partridge is a full-time ghillie – a Gaelic word whose meaning lies somewhere between “manservant” and “attendant” – who inhabits another Scotland from the one that most travellers see. The last time I was here it was lashing down and I was soaked all day!” “With the wind, they hear us coming, so it’s not ideal conditions for stalking. “Look, deer on the hilltop,” Partridge whispered, lifting his binoculars, one hand resting on a stag horn staff. There was a feeling of waiting for the stag rut to begin. West, and downhill from where Mitchell Partridge was standing, the loose contours of Glenhinnisdal valley dropped to Loch Snizort and the Isle of Skye’s coastline. To the east, the land swooped uphill onto the ruggedly beautiful shoulder of Sgùrr a' Mhadaidh Ruaidh, with a vantage point over the Trotternish peninsula. Trails in the mud, trails curving across the moorland, trails on the far side of the burn where they vanished into the murk of the pine forest. On Scotland’s formidably wild Isle of Skye, there were hoof trails everywhere at first light.
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