As I trundled the Jeep past the estate’s tenants’ cottage, I spotted Ian, the tenant, making a rather hurried dash to intercept me. It was the kind of determined shuffle you only see when someone has urgent news or they’ve just remembered they’ve left the kettle on. I brought the Jeep to a halt, jumped out, and met him halfway, thinking something dramatic was afoot.
Ian, catching his breath, gave me the heads-up: Her Ladyship had granted permission for the RSPB to poke about on the estate. Now, for the uninitiated, that’s the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds—an organisation with deep pockets and an army of bird enthusiasts who are on a noble mission to protect all things feathered. Basically, they’re birdwatchers with better funding and fancier binoculars.
Ian explained that while I wasn’t in any danger of committing a felony, the Lady had requested a bit of “sensitivity,” what with these conservationists roaming around, jotting notes and clapping eyes on every creature with a beak.
“They’re doing a survey,” he said, with a tone that suggested a mild level of exasperation. “You know, counting birds, checking species diversity, that sort of thing.”
“Oh, right,” I said, rather surprised.
“They’re in a blue Kia,” Ian added, then launched into a description of the couple. “Bloke’s got straggly hair, scruffy beard, looks like he’s auditioning for a folk band. The woman looks posh and has that serious, I-love-animals look.”
“Sandals?” I ventured, already picturing the type.
Ian laughed hard and responded, “I last spotted them down by the river in the water meadows.”
I assured him I’d conduct myself with all the decorum and finesse of a seasoned vermin shooter…and promptly marched off in the exact opposite direction!
Well, that was a misstep. I was tracking a grey squirrel that was busy foraging along a patch of rhododendrons, bound to scurry up into the trees. I knelt behind a shrub, ready to spring into action. Suddenly, dozens of roosting woodpigeons erupted from the trees about two hundred yards away. That could only mean one thing—man, walking. I slipped back into the shrubbery to keep an eye on the situation. Across the brow of the hill on the woodland track, I spotted a beanie hat bobbing along. Then two faces came into view, deep in conversation and scribbling in a notebook. They both had binoculars hanging around their necks.
The bloke was your classic hipster: straggly hair peeking out from under his beanie, paired with a scruffy beard that surely had its own Instagram following. He sported jeans that had seen better days and a vintage band T-shirt that practically shouted, “I exclusively shop at thrift stores.” No harm in that! I’ve got long hair and a beard myself, just putting it out there… The lady? Well, let’s just say she looked like she’d stepped out of a style magazine—definitely more runway than woodland. As they drew nearer, I could see she was sporting a floral dress, complete with a pair of wellies that were far too chic for muddy fields. They were clearly not your average wildlife enthusiasts; I half expected them to pull out a macha latte and a gluten-free biscuit any moment now.
Classic dilemma: either sneak back into the bushes and risk being spotted and labelled a woodland terrorist, or play the gentleman and introduce myself. I opted for the latter and stepped out onto the path. Seeing they were ‘miles away’—and I don’t mean in the literal sense, more like deep in their own little world—I let out a cough that was unintentionally awkwardly loud.
They looked up, startled, and began to approach. I slung my air rifle over my shoulder like a proper country gent, the game bag resting at my feet. As they sized me up—probably debating whether I was more of a farmer or a feral creature—I extended my hand to the chap. He took it and shook mine with a grip that could rival a well-cooked sausage.
Well, this was off to a splendid start!
We chatted for a while, both of them keen on my purpose, and I just as curious about theirs. They explained they were out surveying to check the diversity of bird species but then raised an eyebrow at the airgun, clearly puzzled about my intent. I replied that I was merely doing my bit for species diversity too—by keeping the vermin population in check. I then inquired about their route and suggested I keep to the other side of the estate for everyone’s safety. Just as we were parting ways, I casually asked, “So, have you spotted many magpies?”
They exchanged a glance, looking a bit sheepish before the guy chimed in, “Oh, about five pairs so far.” I feigned surprise, raising an eyebrow, “Oh, that many?” I replied, laying it on thick with a dramatic sigh of disappointment before turning to carry on my way.
The magpie is my avian version of Legion, the Devil’s advocate, and I see part of my purpose in life as its exorcist. The RSPB and other feather-huggers can bury their heads in the sand ad infinitum. As someone who spends uncountable hours watching and protecting our songbird species with substantially more in my hands than a spotting scope and a day pass, I can assure you that magpies are basically the mob bosses of the bird world. They raid nests, steal eggs, and murder chicks. The smaller and more vulnerable, the better. If it’s got a pulse and a bit of fluff, it’s magpie dinner. A pair of magpies will scuttle through a hawthorn hedge with the kind of finesse you’d expect from a covert military operation. There won’t be much left when they’re finished. They’re efficient, let me tell you. And the moment they sense danger, they’re off!
While blackbirds and song thrushes might squawk and flap in protest when magpies come knocking, it’s usually only vocally. The only feathery warriors smaller than the magpie that I’ve ever seen physically challenge them were a pair of mistle thrushes, who, in a proper showdown, drove those marauders away from their nest as if they were guarding the crown jewels.
Aside from that sort of mild threat, the magpie reigns supreme over the lesser birds like a tyrant, and I must admit to some satisfaction when I stumble upon a scatter of magpie feathers left behind by my hunting mate, the sparrowhawk. Now that chap earns his keep with skill and agility—not by sneaking around like a petty thief. If the sparrowhawk happens to make a magpie its lunch, I tip my hat in admiration—because there’s no doubt about it, magpies are as wary as a cat near a bath.
Today, I had brought some help in the form of a little owl decoy and a Fauber rattle. The ruse is old and simple: just set up the decoy to antagonise any magpies about and retire to deep cover to make the faux calls.
I set the old plastic bird—now sporting a yellow pencil as a makeshift beak, since the original had long since vanished—on a woodpile near where I’d first spotted the RSPB duo. Nestled well in the undergrowth, I settled down, rattle in hand, trying to lure in a few magpies.
After what seemed like hours, my patience paid off. A couple finally took notice of the suspicious newcomer and began flitting about the wood, determined to chase off my owl dummy.
Then, fortune favoured me when one of them landed just a few feet away from the decoy. A satisfying thud as the pellet struck true, hitting the magpie squarely in the neck. It crumpled to the ground, leaving its mate flapping about in a frenzy. I quickly shifted my aim to the frantic companion, who was now perched on a bough halfway up a tree, still in a state of utter panic. I squeezed the trigger, and the hit was clean and decisive again. Headshot. Down for the count.
As I drove out of the estate, I saw my new RSPB ‘friends’ and stopped the Jeep. I wound down the window as they walked over.
“Better change your list to four pairs of magpies,” I offered with a smile.
The chap smiled back. “No worries,” he said. “We’ve seen another two pairs since.”
Ouch… Touché!
