Foxglove-October 8 2008

Thus the 'keeper on his rounds includes a process known as "dogging-in", which is the gamebird equivalent of rounding-up sheep. Any dog may be used so long as it is quiet and biddable, but the wrong sort of dog would cause a disaster, for the pheasants must not be chased willy-nilly, or even disturbed overmuch.

The dog or dogs should set the birds moving on foot rather than have them taking to their wings, gently moving them away from the furthest points of their straying and back to safety. Today, the gamekeeper being busy, my dogs and I are fulfilling this task in the morning.

The dogs know the job. First they trot along beside the wall, bringing those birds that thought they might cross it and go onto the road back into the field. I stand by the corner of the strip of woodland so that the pheasants see me and move obliquely away and so towards where we want them. Some of them are in danger of getting flustered, so the dogs halt to a hand-signal and let the birds get well ahead.

Then when the first groups are moving satisfactorily, I walk along the wood on the meadow side and the dogs weave in and out of the trees with quiet intent. If a bird hesitates, or sits and hopes to remain hidden, a long canine nose pushes it up onto its feet and gets it going again. After each one, the dog holds my gaze for a moment, telling me that such a bird could easily have been caught, or 'pegged' as the term is, but has not been, and so approval is required.

Approval is given in a smile and a nod, and the dog, having made its point, moves on to the next bird. The pheasants scuffle and scurry, run and stop, run and stop, not in any fear, simply increasing the distance between themselves and the dogs.

Once out on the stubbles, where we want them, there is plenty of food to be found, and the sun is shining every bit as delightfully as it is in more dangerous places. They slow down to peck and scratch about, like a yard of gaudy chickens, forgetting about us completely.

That side completed, the dogs and I take the long route back in case we have missed any stragglers, and then work our way down the long side where the old iron fence has been bent and pulled down by decades of scrub and cover growing up around it. Even small saplings have worked their way through and then become trees. Here is excellent wildlife refuge, and pheasants take full advantage of it.

We move them forward in the same steady manner, and I am so relaxed with the sunshine and crisp morning that I am totally caught out when a fallow buck erupts crashing out of the brambles, tendrils dangling from his antlers, and sets off at a smart trot. The dogs come back to heel as they have been taught, and the three of us watch the buck away. He pauses in the dark of the trees to look back at us, and then he is over the rise and out of sight.

The dogs and I exchange glances, and then continue on the last few dozen yards of our task. The pheasants are safely back, and the 'keeper will return later to do the same job over again, for it is a constant job this time of year.

Pleasantly exercised, we turn for home, where a mug of coffee and perhaps a few biscuits would fit into the morning just right.