I felt a tiny panic each time Albert spotted a real deer. I wouldn’t see it for many seconds, sometimes minutes, after he did. It reminded me of something a friend, an old Ojibway chief in Northern Ontario, told me when I complained that I would never find my way back to the reserve alone because I couldn’t distinguish between the twists and turns of the river we were navigating. He said it was the same for him when he came to Toronto – all the streets looked alike.

Our troupe was travelling in a made-in-Canada all-terrain Argocat able to navigate the masses of streamlets and heather and rock even at ninety-degree angles. Over the next few hours, we twisted up and down and around. I felt like a tourist in a Paris cab. Where were we? Had we been going in circles?

After lengthy “glassing” with a powerful, much-worn telescope, Albert identified the stag we would pursue – an eleven pointer. (Stags are ranked from the meagre two – a weak or very young deer – up to a hearty fourteen – a male in his prime.) The very best are saved to produce more offspring the following year or reserved for famous or very rich hunters. I began to think this was an unlikely Disneyland for adults.

The Argocat came to a stop, hanging precariously over a deep crevasse. We disembarked and proceeded on foot. Aha! So there was another way to travel here. We slopped our way through the muck created by the endless dung and the invisible rivers cutting through the peat and the faintly fragrant dry heather.

My boots were waterproof, but only ankle-high, so the stinking water rolled in over the top. I found myself wishing I’d brought along a Barbour jacket. Everyone here had one. It was the stylish, functional, rain-proof uniform. I wondered what Mary, Queen of Scots, had worn.

We stopped to eat our packed lunches. I had permitted myself only a slice of ham and an apple, no beverage, to save my appetite for the sumptuous dinners. By noon, I was already tired, cold, thirsty, and hungry. I had only the vaguest sense that this was a chase. We continued for five more arduous hours. I battled an overwhelming sense of fatigue by reminding myself that, thanks to a lifetime of eating well, I had stored some excess resources for just such an occasion.

At around five o’clock, after hours of creeping around the grounds, Albert dramatically dropped to his belly and signalled us to do the same. He then led us on our bellies through a swampy mire. We were covered in grime; midges swarmed us, heading for our mouths, noses, and ears. It was best to just let them have their way, because when you swiped at them, you landed deer shit in your mouth.

Presently, Albert jammed his walking stick into the ground, then turned to Richard and motioned for him to follow. They headed off; I was to stay by the walking stick until I’d heard a shot, and then follow. I did what I was told. I waited for an hour and then another. I heard nothing. The sun began to sink. I’m not ashamed to say I was growing a little frightened. Still on my belly, I backed out of where Albert had left me. Finally I reached the other side of the hill, out of the swamp, out of sight of the deer, and, I was careful to make sure, out of the wind so my scent wouldn’t alert the herd. I had watched too many Westerns, and I didn’t want a herd of deer to stampede me. I continued to wait. I marvelled that anyone would engage in this “sport,” at such enormous expense.

I had imagined a much nobler event, something that would have explained the successes of the British Empire. I suppose I had rather pretentiously hoped to learn something about the British, about men, maybe even about myself, on this journey, but at that moment I felt ignorant and quite vulnerable.

The descending darkness intensified my fear, which was of nothing in particular and so of everything – bats, roving angry herds of stags, apparitions. I had been in terrifying situations before, but now they seemed tame; pretty much everything compared favourably to the deep terror of this unknown terrain. Where were Albert and Richard? Another hour passed. It was pitch-black. There was no moon, and even the stars were obscured by clouds. Then it began to rain. I sat in the dark imagining a dead boy, a dead deerstalker, a vengeful eleven-pointer.