Now I'm Pheasant Rearing

28/06/09

I never intended it. I don’t really want to be doing it. But it looks as if I am. A couple of months ago, Pheasants appeared in the garden. They will be some of the ones that survived the Estate’s firing squad last autumn. There were two cocks and five hens. They hung around the bird feeders, scavenging for scraps dropped by the other birds - the ones I had intended to feed. For weeks there was open warfare between the two cocks, while the hens paid no attention at all. They chased each other across the adjacent field, round and round the garden, the neighbour’s gardens, sometimes stopping to attack each other with beaks and spurs. It is more peaceful now, with only the occasional flurry of activity. A fragile truce has been agreed. And the hens, I suspect, are now sitting somewhere on clutches of eggs. A dozen each probably. Hence my fear that I am in the act of rearing Pheasants, whether I want to or not.

I blame them for inviting the Magpies to share the food intended for the little birds. At first they too contented themselves with picking up anything dropped from above. Then, clever birds, they learned how to perch on the feeders, and help themselves. The seed cake was a real favourite. But it soon became apparent they were carrying it off to feed their bawling kids somewhere in the nearby plantation. A few days ago, three youngsters were in the garden. I looked out early one morning, attracted by the chattering, to see them hopping around, trying everything for edibility. One of them turned and gave me such a look of smug impertinence that I had to laugh. Today, there is no sign of the Magpie family. I’ll miss them. I wish the Pheasants would take the hint.