Bog Myrtle & Peat

Partridges call on the edge of darkness. Spring is rousing them to frenzy, and the shapes of the small birds linger in the peripheries from dawn to dusk. The cocks have grown wattles which swell up their cheeks, and many have been fighting as the covey continues to crumble and disperse. Their vocabulary has expanded to embrace all manner of shrieks and trills, and these ring across the rushes as I work in the yard at twilight.

The birds are growing wilder, but they are still anchored to the farm by a ravenous need for wheat and flaked maize. I often watch the covey browsing through rough ground and I’m impressed by how much wild food they eat – it’s mainly roughage and grass seeds at this time of year, but they are clearly learning to forage, albeit on scant fare. I have no doubt that the wheat is making up the shortfall and is helping them to stay in tip-top condition – they could hardly look better, and perhaps the supplementary nutrition is also a boost to alertness and wisdom.

Individuals have grown observant and sharp after several months in the wild – not so sharp as truly native stock, but they range far and wide across this landscape and have only lost one of their number since October; a single cock who was expelled from the group and loitered around on his own for a few days before vanishing.

We are still a long way from May and June when breeding might be possible, but these birds have been a useful pilot project in my first year here.