PHEASANT: sad tale of a former hunter

PLUMP, handsome and good to eat, the pheasant has become a stalwart of the British countryside - quite an achievement for a bird whose origins lie in Asia.

Now common because of their popularity as game birds, thousands are reared and released each year to run the gauntlet of the hunters' guns. The noisy, strutting male pheasant is the most colourful with a striking, bright red face, lustrous green head, and white collar prominent on his speckled, long-tailed body.

Quite heavy at up to 1.5 kilogrammes, it is perhaps not surprising the male will often try to flee danger on foot.

However, a line of beaters usually puts paid to his efforts to disappear into undergrowth during a shoot.

In such circumstances, he is forced to take to the air.

Eighteenth century poet Alexander Pope captured the moment of death when he wrote:"See! From the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings. Short is his joy. He feels the fiery wound, Flutters in blood, and panting, beats the ground."

Smaller and drabber in colouring, the female is cleverly designed to sit unnoticed on her nest during the breeding season, hopefully escaping the attentions of marauding foxes and stoats.

A ground-nesting bird, she will lay up to 15 olive-coloured eggs in a quiet spot, concealed from view.

Seeds, grain, insects and fruit make up most of a pheasant's diet but they will also kill and eat lizards and mice if they can catch them.

The males can be quite aggressive during the mating season and I have seen them square up to each other, almost oblivious to any potential hazards nearby.

Despite their physical attractiveness, pheasants have never struck me as the brightest of birds.

While driving, I have sometimes been forced to slow down and creep round big males standing in the middle of the road.

This has denied me some good meals while reinforcing the pheasants' bird-brained belief in their own invincibility.

A friend of my father used to shoot and we occasionally enjoyed a brace of pheasant to eat as children.

Once tasted, that rich dark meat is never forgotten and was only spoiled by the frequent teeth-jarring discovery of hidden lead shot.

I've never shot anything myself but can see the attraction of a pheasant's quick, clean death as opposed to that which follows the lingering half-life of a battery reared chicken.

Incidentally, as a young reporter, I was once sent to interview an ancient couple who were celebrating their platinum wedding in the same residential home.

After 70 years' marriage, you might think they would have something nice to say about each other.

But it took all my best efforts to turn each ill-humoured grunt and growl into a sort of misty-eyed tenderness.

Both wheelchair-bound, each was a picture of abject misery.

I seem to remember that the husband had been a hunter as a younger man.

If he could have chosen his own death right then, I suspect being knocked out of a perfect blue sky on a crisp, bright day might have held some appeal.

Then again, if he could only get hold of a shotgun, I'm sure he would have settled for potting his wife instead.