Reviving an old ritual

A traditional final pheasant day is the perfect chance to take stock after a strange season of aborted days as well as memorable ones

- LAURENCE CATLOW

The other day, after the end of this most frustrating of seasons, I was out at High Park doing what I do almost every morning for something like two-thirds of the year.

I was feeding pheasants. I was also trying to keep warm in the bitter blast of the east wind. While scattering corn for birds that seemed to know the shooting was over and so were happy to come out of hiding, I occupied my mind by looking back over the sport my friends and I had enjoyed at High Park during those times of the season when sport had been possible.

First, I revisited the most recent day of all, 1 February, on which we reinstated a neglected ritual. For many years, I spent my final pheasant day out at High Park with only my dogs for company, tramping the ground in search of a last bird or two. It was a very enjoyable ritual and the last time it happened was four years ago when Sir Fred, as he then was, broke a leg in a bed of rushes and became Sir Tripod.

Disappearing act

Since then, I have not had a dog suitable for rough shooting but, now that Zac has decided he prefers being a gundog to a disappearing act, I have decided to restore my traditional end to the pheasant season. Even though this time it brought me only one bird, it was a very good way of bringing another season to a close.

Almost windless and blessed with unbroken sunshine, it was the sort of February day that makes you think spring cannot be too far away, though only a few days later it suddenly seems infinitely remote.