My husband was busy doing ‘man’ things in the garden at the weekend. Power tools, billhooks, rotting fence posts, brute force and bonfires. Those sorts of things.
In his orbit, nervously eyeing his flamboyant recreation, was a hen pheasant.
She was sitting on a clutch of eggs, in a not very camouflaged nest.
Eventually her tolerance waned. Amidst great whirring and flapping, reminiscent of an early incarnation of the Wright brothers’ flying machine, she lurched skyward and so revealed 17 beautiful eggs... much smaller than a chicken’s, with a seductive natural sheen, and in enough neutral shades to compete with any Farrow and Ball paint chart,
cardamom, beech bark, pebble, rain cloud, sapling, tail-feather taupe... now doesn’t that make you want to redecorate?
The sharp eyed among you will have noticed that there is one egg missing from the bottom photo. Yes, I did steal an egg (we're overrun with pheasants) and it’s sitting on my desk where I can admire it close up. And if mum abandons the nest I’ll be the first to borrow the whole lot!