This article first appeared in the August 2026 edition of Birdwatching magazine
The recently announced restriction on the taking of certain game birds is, if you’ll excuse the pun, a shot in the arm for conservation. Anyone with an ounce of sense would surely know that Woodcock, for example, have been declining both as a resident and winter visiting species, so need conserving, not disintegrating! That we have now agreed to limit the number of those that are blasted out of the sky at certain times of year is too little, although I fervently hope it is not too late.
I grew up in a very different age. In my rural corner of Kent there were still red squirrels in the woods; Greenfinches & Tree Sparrows were too common to count, and there was even the occasional nesting Shrike. Little Egrets were confined to cigarette cards. My father taught me how to blow chicken eggs to rid them of their innards, so I could collect those of wild birds. Luckily, I never followed my contemporaries in raiding birds’ nests, although, to be fair, even they were conservative in their collecting, never taking more than one egg from a nest.
At the end of WWII, Dad was a forester and his low wages and wartime rationing meant that his need for protein could not be met. He owned a shotgun that he had liberated from a German Schloss and with that he provided for himself and his family, taking rabbits and pheasants for the pot, while mum foraged before it became the province of fancy chefs.
Later, when he was a policeman and I was a teenager, he decided he needed to continue my country education by taking me rough shooting. He borrowed another shotgun (after I had been granted a licence) and we set off one frosty late February morning and walked the fields and wood edges – I discharged my gun at the space already vacated by a wood pigeon. As we rounded the corner of the wood, a rabbit popped out from the edge and we both raised our guns. An unseasonable, big-eyed baby rabbit looked back at us. We lowered our guns and went home, never to sally forth ‘equipped’ again, easily convinced that the only reason one should ever shoot wild animals is if you are poor and hungry. Killing living creatures should never be called sport.
My need to hunt, just like the readers of this column, is more than satisfied with finding, identifying and admiring wild creatures safe in their own habitats. Those who indulge in our pastime, but need trophies, can take photographs, preserving beauty for all time rather than turning it into flying feathers and sinew.
I have heard people defending the ‘sport’ as it gets them out in the countryside or because they love wildlife and being in nature. I’ve also heard it defended on the grounds that shoots conserve areas of land that might otherwise be farmed intensively. Both are true and neither are justifications.
I’d be more than happy to pay farmers not to create shoots, but to plant for wildlife’s over winter sustenance. I’d also be happy to enable anyone to get out and enjoy nature – millions of non-birders love to roam and are content with hiking, discussing their walk over a summer pint, or even chasing clues for prizes. The country economy is not in need of hunting with dogs or shooting to provide livings for country people. I for one would be more than happy to pay extra tax to turn gamekeepers into wildlife wardens, and to re-wild country estates.
