Home And Away

 

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As I stared out of my study window, over the garden and up the valley, there were nine pheasants milling around with the chickens. I watched their odd mannerisms, which involved running around in circles before settling down to feed and, in one case, being chased by Turk, the resident Christmas turkey.

I wondered where on earth they had come from and whether there was any chance that they might move into the cover above the garden from where I could drive them out. Their source, I decided, is most probably my neighbour’s release pens but I do wonder if my desire to put a couple in the freezer is good form.

For many years my father, grandfather and I have run a tiny wild bird shoot and I continue to do so. We would put down a couple of hundred ex-layers every other year and focus on building up our wild birds. We worked tirelessly through the spring, keeping a check on the foxes, creating new habitat, drying some areas of cover, wetting others. We would spend hundreds if not thousands of pounds on feeding our birds and loved every minute of it.

The result would be three days where the bag could be 25 or five, but what days they were. One notable January Saturday the bag consisted of 12 woodcock, six pheasants, four mallard, two snipe, a squirrel and a pigeon. On another crisp January morning, having been through three covers, the bag held a solitary pigeon; we didn’t see a sign of a pheasant nor a whisper of a woodcock.