Ian McAndrew – författare

Poultry, but more especially game, is a subject close to my heart. Why? Wellfor the last eight years or so I have been, and indeed still am, a keen shooting man. Shooting for sport, I know, is a subject many people find disagreeable, and the an- bloodsports league is a powerful lobby. Nevertheless, it is a pastime that is becoming more and more popular as years go by and one I hope to continue enjoyingfor many years to come. Without it not only would a part of our history and culture be lost, but our wildlife would become threatened, wildlife and habitat conservancy a thing of the past, and the countryside turned into even greater areas of wheat and rape deserts. No­ one would know the pleasures of the first woodcock or the first English partridge of the season. Imagine a cold winter's morning: a thin covering of snow, the grey skies heavy with more, ready to discharge their cargo without notice. Pick up the gun, call the dogs and set out across the fields. Silence prevails. In the distance, a handful of pigeons are heading this way. Crouching in the hedgerow I wait for them to come within range. Pigeon terrine, pigeon salad with a few toasted kernels, all the menu ideas running through my head, but to no avail, I've been spotted. Truffle and Bella (my dogs) are worrying a patch of brambles, not too keen on going in. Bella scrambles in, belly flat to the ground.

Poultry, but more especially game, is a subject close to my heart. Why? Wellfor the last eight years or so I have been, and indeed still am, a keen shooting man. Shooting for sport, I know, is a subject many people find disagreeable, and the an- bloodsports league is a powerful lobby. Nevertheless, it is a pastime that is becoming more and more popular as years go by and one I hope to continue enjoyingfor many years to come. Without it not only would a part of our history and culture be lost, but our wildlife would become threatened, wildlife and habitat conservancy a thing of the past, and the countryside turned into even greater areas of wheat and rape deserts. No­ one would know the pleasures of the first woodcock or the first English partridge of the season. Imagine a cold winter's morning: a thin covering of snow, the grey skies heavy with more, ready to discharge their cargo without notice. Pick up the gun, call the dogs and set out across the fields. Silence prevails. In the distance, a handful of pigeons are heading this way. Crouching in the hedgerow I wait for them to come within range. Pigeon terrine, pigeon salad with a few toasted kernels, all the menu ideas running through my head, but to no avail, I've been spotted. Truffle and Bella (my dogs) are worrying a patch of brambles, not too keen on going in. Bella scrambles in, belly flat to the ground.