There’s a bird in Scotland that never truly belonged there, yet somehow became part of the soul of the landscape.

The Pheasant.

Originally from Asia, introduced into the UK for one reason only… to be shot for sport.

I lived for five years in Blair Atholl in the Scottish Highlands, where wealthy shooting parties would arrive every September 12th for the start of pheasant season. Men in tweed jackets with Labradors by their side blasting these extraordinary birds from the sky. I’ve always hated the term “game bird.” They are living creatures, not targets.

The strange thing is, over the years the pheasant became part of the soundscape for me. Their abrupt rasping calls echoing across woodland edges at dawn and dusk became woven into the atmosphere of the Highlands.

And yes… I got into trouble many times.

Before the shooting season started, I used to quietly release birds from the holding pens. I was warned repeatedly by estate workers and gamekeepers, but I could never stand the thought of these magnificent birds being raised simply to be killed for entertainment.

I can still remember opening those pens in the half-light of morning and hearing the explosion of wings as they disappeared into the forest mist.

To many people they were trophies.

To me they were part of the living voice of the wild.

One more sound that deserved to exist.

www.thelisteningplanet.com