Pheasants are not indigenous to the United Kingdom and were introduced purely for the purpose of sport in the last few hundred years. Birds are bred in large pens and then released for the start of the shooting season. In our area there are several shoots, one of which beats our wood on an occasional basis. The local cooperative "puts down" something like 2,500 birds a year some of which (as well as survivors from previous seasons) will wander into Oaklands to take cover in our wood and enjoy the delights of the suet treats on the bird table. It is usual not to take a second a look at a Pheasant but they, are, at least in the case of the cock birds, truly magnificent. They belong to the mountains of the Hindu Kush or the bamboo forests of Sechwuan (I have no idea which !) rather than the orchards and fields of Herefordshire.
The debate in our house was whether it was right to snuff out the odd wandering Pheasant for the table with various view points directed towards the legal, moral and practical aspects of the question. As far as the majority of us were concerned a clean head shot from a sympathetic and skilled gastronaut was infinitely better than a bird being chased out of wood by a dog and a man with a stick into a firing line of tweedy 80 year olds blasting randomly with 12 bore shotguns. The main objection in my mind was botching a shot and causing pain - the idea of wounding and not killing a living creature is not one I am happy with.
The method was fairly obvious. We possess a .22 air rifle inherited from Jane's father who had a life long romance with guns for target purposes. On a recent trip to Hereford I had upgraded our ammunition capability from recreational to "lethal". A small purchase of much heavier copper plated pellets promised the stopping punch required with a decent shot. The birds are fairly abundant and will wander the grounds oblivious to any danger from the direction of the house. That being said they will scuttle off comically like the Road Runner cartoon character if disturbed by a quickly opened conservatory door.
A number of failed shots by myself at the local squirrel population (which is a debate for another time) were not taking us any further towards our first wild protein, Numerous Rambo like stalks through the dark corners of the wood were not paying dividends either. In the end Sam was out stalking a squirrel when a rather handsome but stupid cock pheasant wandered across the turning circle. His Royal Marines Cadets training seem to kick in (Sams not the Pheasants) and he took to cover behind the Christmas Mercedes hire adopting a supported firing position on the bonnet - all very Versprungdurchtechnic. The shot we later discovered entered the back of the pheasants neck close to the spinal chord and that was it. He didn't get his cadets marksman's badge and giant trophy for best new Marine for nothing. Momentary flapping and then dinner just keeled over. Silence descended on the killing fields of Oaklands. Innocence lost - certainly I thought the first animal taken for the pot by this 16 year old.
No said Sam - we have been killers for years. I was not allowed a moment of moral doubt or reflection, The moral equivalency of foul and fish was quickly raised. How could I feel sad about a Pheasant not much further in wild advancement than a free range chicken when I would happily slaughter the worlds tuna and barracuda on family holidays by hiring gangs of men equipped with rods and and large motor cruisers. He had a point. When the family holiday tradition involves celebrating the tastiest sport fish dragged out of the Indian Ocean with a Whispering Angel Rose and sushi lunch surely a clean kill of a pheasant who had enjoyed a few weeks of freedom in our delightful wood was acceptable ? Is a pheasant less worthy or being eaten by the Crossley family than a tuna ? Surely a bred Pheasant is there for that purpose. It is almost a moral requirement to remove the non-indigenous birds from the landscape to reduce competition for the other avian residents. All very convincing arguments which occur to me latterly but Sam was very quick to point out that if we cannot shoot and eat Pheasant the world's predatory fish had to come of the menu. That's not going to happen !
The bird was hung for 2 days only in the conservatory which gets quite warm in the daytime. The YouTube video on Pheasant hanging is one to miss. A man from Dagenham in a shed with a bad cold debating in weeks the flavor of game.
Who was going to pluck it ? Well surely the honor of that had to go to the marksmen. We watched a more handy YouTube video with a very forthright posh woman in a manor house kitchen ripping the intestines out of dead birds with with her well manicured hands and severing wings and legs with her best poultry scissors. The crunch and snap of limbs left nothing to the imagination. Sam was ready. The internet is a superb resource for these moments. I have to say he did a great job. I will possibly attempt my own instructional video on another occasion - or not - I will display the process once from the family album. Think first before you shoot a Pheasant. An hour's work soon follows !
There was the occasional taunt to his brother who was hurling abuse from his reconvened gap year in Bangkok. Elliot had sided with the local Pheasant population declaring them, somewhat in the vein or a Roman emperor, as reprieved from slaughter on the grounds of their hilarious gait when running for cover. Family WhatsApp was littered with messages which would make you think that the bird had been a pet. The messages flew back to Asia.
Finally a dressed bird ready for dinner.
We had two Pheasants in the freezer from the local butcher to ensure a decent helping each and plenty of burgundy in the wine rack to celebrate the event, Jane cooked up celeriac mash and cabbage. The whole ensemble was lovely and it has to be said that our own local Pheasant was superb eating. The whole thing would be business normal in many many houses but it was novel for ours in terms of the source of the bird.
I am not going to go off the deep end about how it is a noble pursuit to take your own wild game rather than eating a chicken that's been raised in a battery farm or a pig in a shed but there is something in that. It is as well to remember though that most "wild" Pheasant have been raised in a pen with the sole purpose of being released to provide target practice. Many commercial shoots (not our local collective) produce many many thousands of birds - possibly too many. You hear the stories of feed fattened birds refusing to fly. I do not like the stories of birds on large shoots not being eaten but being buried in ditches. When a Pheasant can cost £ 4-6 at the butchers an effort should be made. I am not so keen on the idea also of Woodcock, Snipe or wild ducks being blasted from our skies as a by-catch - they are having a hard enough time without our help. I have no issue with Wood Pigeon being shot - if you are a good enough shot to hit a wood pigeon good luck to you (Hugh Fearnly Whittingstone recommends camping out in a roosting tree to shoot the pigeons as they come in for the night).
So Pheasant is on the menu at Oaklands and jolly nice it is to. You have to work hard to clean the things so I doubt any Pheasant will be shot without the recognition that there then follows a taxing hour of feathers, intestines and kitchen scissors. I was very proud of Sam setting about the task in such a matter of fact way - he did a great job.
As a final note we learned how to age cock Pheasants from their spurs (the long claws on the back of the legs used for fighting rival males). Our bird was a first season bird which probably accounts for his wandering up the drive to offer himself up for Sunday dinner. I am sure there are more worldly Pheasant lurking in the wood that hardly step out from cover. Ninja Pheasant who rustle bird table suet at 5.30 am in one mad dash. We will leave those to enjoy a long life evading the local shoot.
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