Close encounter with the partridge family

We’ve got three partridges. Or rather my neighbours have three partridges. Waffle put them up out of a gorsey bank of old stone and barbed wire between a grass and a stubble field. Considering absolutely nothing is done of an agricultural nature to encourage their survival I am pretty surprised we have any at all. First the two adults appeared, before Waffle got near them, a common ploy intended to draw a predator’s attention away from hidden young. A few seconds later she was onto it. It flew down the hill to join its parents.

We are talking here about the native grey English partridge, as opposed to the plentiful but introduced French or Red Leg which form the bulk of partridge bags. The greys have had a hell of a time. Once they were hugely plentiful across Lowland stubble fields in the late summer and autumn. But that old bogey “modern agricultural methods” has hammered their numbers save in the few areas where farming is adapted to encourage wildlife. Here the most we have ever seen has been a lone covey of 12. Always over or around the same four fields. But over the years the numbers have fluctuated wildly.

It’s hard to believe that 200 years ago the grey partridge was a more common game bird than the pheasant. Probably only rabbits were killed in greater numbers. Up until 50 years ago, partridges accounted for more cartridges fired than pheasants. In 1909 a Hampshire estate claimed a four-day record of 2,038 brace and these were largely wild birds. Rearing greys is possible but not easy. If it were we’d have a lot more of them.

Instead, we have the easy to rear and pretty enough Red Leg as a sporting substitute. But it is rather the rainbow trout of the game world: it doesn’t breed satisfactorily in the wild, certainly not up here, unless constantly fed and protected from predators. But it proved it could be reared in large numbers and has become an excellent replacement for grouse in bad grouse years.

Now almost every pheasant shoot has a percentage of Red Legs for added variety. Whether we can hold onto our three resident greys round here is another matter. They seem to have survived without any help from anyone and under increasingly onerous circumstances. There may even be a few more young tucked away, but if that really is all that’s left I’m not hopeful. Granted, having my dog poking about the undergrowth on our daily walks cannot be entirely helpful, but until they tell me for certain where they are holed up all I can do is tell Waffle severely “No partridges today” and hope she is listening. n