Most of the day I sit upstairs at my computer, facing the outside wall of my
room, with a window to either side of me,
overlooking the lane below. For the 15
months we've lived here, a couple of times a
day, strolling, casual-as-you-like, out of
the driveway to my left comes my pal the
pheasant. Phil (as I think of him) walks
along the lane from left to right, through
the blind spot of the wall, appearing in the
window to my right and trotting off into the
garden beyond. An hour or so later he'll
make the return trip. He's a creature of
habit.
I think pheasants are magnificent birds.
Dumb, but magnificent. What I find hard to
grasp is why, when we're out walking and a
pheasant spots us from two fields away, it
will run in panic as if it's very life
depends upon it and yet the very same,
seemingly cautious bird, will blithely hop
out from a hedgerow onto a noisy main road
and into the path of many oncoming vehicles
and certain death. I can only assume that
they associate humans on foot, however
innocent and distant, with guns, which often go off around these parts when some of our
neighbours indulge in the barbaric slaughter
they call sport. Maybe the pheasants are not
so dumb after all.
Meet Phil.
We had a big snow flurry yesterday afternoon
and the picturesque views from my windows
were an easy distraction from work. As I
gazed down onto the lane, along came Phil.
Perhaps the wintery aspect confused him, or
maybe he was just looking for a little
shelter, because he didn't follow his usual
path, wandering in circles until he found a
suitable hedge to scurry under. I don't
blame him, it was icy-icy.
Stay warm Phil and keep your head down.
