I watched as the sun slowly crept above the hillside, its warm glow stretching gradually over the autumn landscape. Deep in the valley below, the young poults started to crow as the light began to find its way between the trees where it warmed the edge of the pen, hidden away just out of view in the woods.
Far in the distant farmyard, the old cockerel voiced up once more, partly to awaken the farm and partly, perhaps, to reassure all who would listen that he had survived yet another night, despite his ageing years. As the valley began to fill with colour, I was able to make out, even from here, the patch of fresh copper-coloured pheasant feathers strewn in the grass a short distance from the wood. Another victim taken the previous day and a stark reminder of why I was here.
