A BEAUTIFUL, enigmatic and wild traveller, there is much that sets the woodcock apart from other game birds. Our resident population is boosted each winter by hordes of refugees from the frozen wastelands of eastern Europe, many arriving by the silvery light of the first full moon in November, known colloquially as the ‘woodcock moon’. Falls of ’cock continue to take advantage of our milder maritime climate throughout winter and can number more than a million visitors in a good year, but most will have deserted these shores by the end of March to return to summer breeding sites in Scandinavia, Finland, the Baltic States, Western Russia and Siberia.
The woodcock’s plumage is the rich tawny hue of autumnal leaf litter, set off by a pair of glistening black eyes that protrude from the side of its head to give warning of predators approaching from behind. A long, thin bill is testament to a life spent amid wet and unkempt landscapes, where the wader can probe soft ground for small invertebrates beneath the cover of darkness, yet there is no obvious benefit from the single pin feather that graces the underside of each wing. The tiny quills were stiff enough for 19th-century miniaturists to paint with and were also used to depict the narrow gold line along the side of Rolls Royce motor cars. Most now end up as a trophy on the headband of their slayer, for the bird’s jinking and erratic flight when flushed can outsmart the most experienced shot.
In spring, females reveal brilliant white tips to their tail feathers by flashing encouragement to suitors flying overhead in a courtship ritual known as roding—the crepuscular display is accompanied by a subtle orchestra of bullfrog-like croaks and mousy squeaks.
Denne historien er fra October 23, 2019-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Denne historien er fra October 23, 2019-utgaven av Country Life UK.
Start din 7-dagers gratis prøveperiode på Magzter GOLD for å få tilgang til tusenvis av utvalgte premiumhistorier og 9000+ magasiner og aviser.
Allerede abonnent? Logg på
Give it some stick
Galloping through the imagination, competitive hobby-horsing is a gymnastic sport on the rise in Britain, discovers Sybilla Hart
Paper escapes
Steven King selects his best travel books of 2024
For love, not money
This year may have marked the end of brag-art’, bought merely to show off one’s wealth. It’s time for a return to looking for connoisseurship, beauty and taste
Mary I: more bruised than bloody
Cast as a sanguinary tyrant, our first Queen Regnant may not deserve her brutal reputation, believes Geoffrey Munn
A love supreme
Art brought together 19th-century Norwich couple Joseph and Emily Stannard, who shared a passion for painting, but their destiny would be dramatically different
Private views
One of the best ways-often the only way-to visit the finest privately owned gardens in the country is by joining an exclusive tour. Non Morris does exactly that
Shhhhhh...
THERE is great delight to be had poring over the front pages of COUNTRY LIFE each week, dreaming of what life would be like in a Scottish castle (so reasonably priced, but do bear in mind the midges) or a townhouse in London’s Eaton Square (worth a king’s ransom, but, oh dear, the traffic) or perhaps that cottage in the Cotswolds (if you don’t mind standing next to Hollywood A-listers in the queue at Daylesford). The estate agent’s particulars will give you details of acreage, proximity to schools and railway stations, but never—no, never—an indication of noise levels.
Mission impossible
Rubble and ruin were all that remained of the early-19th-century Villa Frere and its gardens, planted by the English diplomat John Hookham Frere, until a group of dedicated volunteers came to its rescue. Josephine Tyndale-Biscoe tells the story
When a perfect storm hits
Weather, wars, elections and financial uncertainty all conspired against high-end house sales this year, but there were still some spectacular deals
Give the dog a bone
Man's best friend still needs to eat like its Lupus forebears, believes Jonathan Self, when it's not guarding food, greeting us or destroying our upholstery, of course