Fishing and shooting: Extend an olive branch to a twitcher

This is the time of year game gets its own back. Did you see, for instance, the enraged pheasant attacking an ornithologist? I wouldn't myself need to be terribly enraged to attack an ornithologist. Just a mild frustration should be enough.

Ever since I was turfed out of the Fair Isle Observatory by a resident twitcher, I have been suspicious of ornithologists, although of course when you meet them on a one-to- one basis they tend to be annoyingly OK. Not normal; but pretty harmless.

So I can understand this pheasant's actions. Being a cock pheasant and spring being in the air he just couldn't take the ornithologist pratting about on his territory.

So he just went for him. The ornithologist had to defend himself with a walking stick. Many years ago there was a giant white rabbit that lived somewhere in Suffolk, I think he was known as Paws.

It was one of the best photographs I have ever seen: a huge rabbit flying through the air about five foot off the ground, snarling horribly and aimed straight at its bat-wielding owner who was cowering behind a metal dustbin lid.

Up at Glentanar there used to be a capercaillie who went for cars at this time of year (probably still is). This was in the days when cars had polished hubcaps rather than alloys. Investigating the car he would spot his own reflection in the hub caps and, taking it to be a rival, attack.

He stopped short of actually trying to bury his beak in the chrome, but he would rush at it, and then like all sensible males, draw back at the last second in the hope honour would be satisfied.

But if you think furious pheasants, crazed capers and bonkers bunnies are surprising, consider the case of the cyclist-hating grouse.

I would not believe it of grouse had I not been sitting next to a friend's daughter at supper who said she was training for a round-Britain bike ride, the sort of event about which one feels obliged to make encouraging noises while feeling faintly ill at the thought.

"I had started coming down the hill over this Yorkshire moor and a covey of grouse swooped down and one of them flew alongside me down the hill."

At this point she felt a wave of overwhelming wonderment to be careering downhill over the heather accompanied by a grouse gliding alongside, keeping pace at shoulder height. This is like swimming with dolphins.

For one overwhelming moment of pure joy she believed this bird that had so specially chosen to fly with her over the moors, was her reincarnated father, a great shooting man who had died much too young.

At which point the bloody bird, did a sharp wheeling stall turn and rammed her repeatedly and furiously in the shoulder. It wasn't just a bit of dodgy flying. It was a deliberate attack. Feathered friends indeed.

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• This article was first published in The Scotsman on Saturday, May 1, 2010