An unequal dogfight is taking place over open country at the foot of the ridge. In these midair tussles between a red kite and a carrion crow, the heavyweight never wins. The kite offers no defence against its light, agile opponent, behaving as if it were an unresisting pin cushion. The twisting crow harries the kite persistently, jabbing at wings, back and tail. Eventually, the battered bird tires of its beating and turns with the wind in its wings to be borne well away. And then it comes back. The grass track we follow is on a gentle curve, so there comes a reveal when a kite appears on the path ahead, stood in the middle with its back to me, leaning forward. A crow flies down, dive-bombing, trying to dislodge it. This is not the same kite as before – now hanging low immediately over us – nor is it the same crow. What is the attraction that has drawn four intelligent and highly observant birds to prize this spot? All kites and crows have cleared away by the time we catch up with a halo of body feathers in cinnamon, chestnut and black. A cock pheasant lying in the centre of this feather drift looks immaculate, but for the fact that his breast has been plucked and pulled open, showing bright, pig-pink flesh. Over the last few weeks, we have seen dead swans and geese strewn around the local lakes and rivers, all most likely victims of bird flu. Has this bird succumbed too, or was it shot? We continue our there-and-back walk. By the time we return about 20 minutes later, others have joined the scavenging party. A buzzard affects a low glide, before settling in a tree to weigh up its chances. A magpie crosses the path right to left, left to right. When we draw close, the birds scatter. The downed pheasant now looks like the Christmas turkey after Boxing Day, ribs prised apart and a flat plate of bone, its keeled sternum, completely stripped of meat. Past the carcass we go, leaving the watchful birds behind us to fight it out.