Every peck is a plant destroyed

Even with the wind behind them, the crows approached deliberately. Against the tarnished silver of April clouds, their unhurried progress seemed funereal — a pair of black-clad undertakers choosing their path with care.

“Patterns must be faultless if they are to fool wily birds”

I crouched low in the hide and hissed at the dog to keep still. For over half a mile the birds had been 40 yards up and 40 yards apart, surveying all that lay around them on their stately journey. They missed nothing: the beetle bank, rough cover, fresh drill and — of course — the hedgerow in which my daughter Elizabeth and I had cut ourselves a hide. They tilted and hung, hovered and dipped, two pairs of keen eyes working together on