A Buzz in the Meadow by Dave Goulson Read Free Book Online Page A

concrete and laid a new floor. Ben attempted some wiring. A slightly scatty girl named Callie spent most of her time trying to catch the numerous wall lizards by luring them into beer bottles – an eccentric and wholly unsuccessful endeavour, intended to stop them becoming accidentally entombed by Alistair’s rendering. It did nothing to help progress.
    Midway through our stay, the French hunting season began. We were woken at dawn by the sound of gunfire. It sounded as if war had broken out, for there was a near-constant crackle of gunfire. The French are famous for their enthusiasm for shooting and eating almost anything that moves, and this is no myth. The French countryside is full of wildlife, but any animal larger than a blackbird tends to be nervous and secretive, for it is in constant peril of being shot. French rabbits are scarcely ever seen, although their pellets and digging activity suggest that they are common at Chez Nauche. Unlike their British cousins, which brazenly graze by the side of busy roads in broad daylight, French rabbits are strictly nocturnal, for good reason. If they were not, they would soon find themselves on a dining table.
    We tried to ignore the rattle of shots and carried on with our work. On that morning I was helping the roofers, the three of us perched on the ridge of the building, from where we had a fine view in all directions. The wack-wack bird, which had been calling every day previously, had sensibly fallen silent. We spied a party of hunters heading along the green lane at the northern boundary of the meadow. There were five of them, each armed with shotguns and with several dogs gambolling excitedly around their feet, ready to collect the carcasses of any animals that their owners shot. As the hunters reached the nearest point along the lane to us, perhaps 150 metres to our north, one of the dogs put up a red-legged partridge. These are lovely birds with cream-and-chestnut barring on the sides of their breast, and this one was particularly plump. It took off with a clatter of wings and a squawk, heading towards us. One of the hunters swung his gun to follow it and fired two shots in our direction. After a second’s pause, lead shot rained down upon us, its force largely spent, but nonetheless causing us to scuttle for cover behind the chimney pot. The bird must have been clipped by one of the shots, for it crashed to the ground in a puff of feathers, but then picked itself up and ran for it. One of the hunters pushed through the hedge and set off in pursuit.
    I was hopping mad, both at being shot at and because the hunters were clearly intent on exterminating wildlife on my intended nature reserve. I shinned down the ladder and ran towards the hunter, shouting and waving my arms. I’m not sure what I was shouting, but in the heat of the moment I had lost all my flimsy command of French, so I’m sure it made little sense. As I got closer I realised that the hunter was a stout woman of late middle age, wearing one of those hunting, shooting and fishing waistcoats that has hundreds of pockets for ammunition, knives, and so on. She even had a bandolier of shotgun cartridges slung diagonally across her chest. What I didn’t immediately notice was that her tweed cap was covering a pair of ear-defenders, which would explain why she didn’t hear me shouting. She was still intent on her prey. Her dog had run ahead, and suddenly the partridge took to the air again, rather wobbly this time, and she swung her gun and shot it. It was at close range, and the creature was obliterated. I was shouting very loudly indeed by this point, and finally she heard me and swung her gun in my direction. For a moment I thought I was going to get the second barrel. Thankfully she was able to tell the difference between an angry Englishman and potential dinner at such close range and didn’t pull the trigger. We had an interesting and somewhat heated debate, during which I