Country Living: Our Man in Arundel

I went out for a wander this afternoon, about an hour before sunset. No real reason, just enjoying the weather and experiencing something that approximated for exercise. I headed for Arundel Park – part of the Duke of Norfolk’s estate, although open to mortals – and was accosted by a couple of pheasants.

Okay, I’m exaggerating. It was more of a puzzled look, followed by an oh-my-god-it's-a-person scurry into the undergrowth. (The bird, not me). They’re not particularly bright, are they? I remember driving through Winchester when one ran off the verge in front of my car and then stood in the middle of the road as cars passed by either side. It remained standing there until I stopped, reversed back and shooed it away.

Yes, I’m a bit soft when it comes to animals. (I blame a childhood that involved Johnny Morris presenting Animal Magic on TV every week). But that doesn’t stop me from eating them, in case you wondered. What puzzles me, though, is why the poor pheasant became a target (no pun intended) for sport. As has been pointed out before, it’s not the smartest animal, it seems to be poorly camouflaged and it doesn’t fly awfully well. I mean, fishing can be a bit of a challenge, from what I understand. But shooting pheasants? You might as well have someone in the back of a Land Rover with a giant butterfly net. Hmmm. Actually... Anyone interested?