It was too hard to resist. This Hertfordshire patch of woods was reaching out to me, beckoning, inviting. I could discern many mature oaks, fresh with new leaf, on that sunny day in May. Also, some hazel and alder, the odd deviant pine. I heard a woodpecker jabbing somewhere within like an avian pneumatic drill.

There was a slight problem. This arboreal gift was ringed by a low barbed wire fence and the all too pervasive sign: PRIVATE PROPERTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. It had been crudely painted in red and some of the paint had run so it appeared as if the sign had been written in blood.

I contemplated whether to break the law of the land when I saw a sparrowhawk emerge from the emerald forest and let out a cry. I’m sure it was saying “hey, human, I’m finished here. It’s your turn.” My entire contemplation lasted about two and a half seconds. I reached for an old IKEA bag I kept in my rucksack, placed it over the wire, then neatly straddled the fence. I was in.

There were no paths since there was no general public allowed to walk them. I made my way through some brambles to a grove of English oak, their mighty boughs reaching out, grasping for the light. Some silver birch were gleaming over to my left, white as ghosts. I stopped for a moment to take it all in. A lone deer fleeing through the forest, blue tits chattering away, crows cackling roughly, pheasants running here and there, a small rodent scurrying through the undergrowth.

And a gunshot.

The sharp BANG! echoed through the trees, wood pigeons scarpered in all directions, then everything was eerily quiet. It made sense at that juncture to turn around, exit the wood and not look behind me. Anyone else would have. But, no, that insatiable, inquisitive nature of mine always took precedence. They say “Curiosity killed the cat” and I’m sure that one day, my curiosity will be the death of me.

I carefully made my way towards the sound. Any doubts were partly assuaged by the assumption that country folk were firing off their shotguns as casually as they’d sit down to an evening meal. I wasn’t expecting a grisly murder. Nevertheless, I approached quietly and cautiously.

I observed a man about twenty feet away near a large bed of stinging nettles. He was around 50, dressed in the usual rustic gear, corduroy jacket and trousers. He could have passed for someone from a century ago if it weren’t for the well-worn baseball cap perched on his head. He was carrying a shotgun, perched loosely over his left arm. I stayed out of sight, wondering what he’d just fired at. I didn’t fancy locking horns with someone who looked like he belonged here when I didn’t.

Then my mobile phone bleeped loudly from an incoming text message. Damn it! Of all times. The man turned, startled.

“Who’s there?” he cried out.

I emerged, a little sheepishly, hands outstretched to show him I was harmless.

“It’s alright,” I offered. “I’m just….just-“

-“what you doing ‘ere? This is private land.”

I walked towards him, hands still outstretched. The shotgun was raised slightly so that now it was pointing at my knees and not at the ground.

He glanced behind, briefly. “That’s far enough” he warned.

“Hey, look where you’re pointing that thing, mate” I said. “You could have my legs off.”

He didn’t waver. “Don’t you worry ‘bout me. You start worrying ‘bout yourself. What you doin’ in these woods, nosin’ around?”

“Look, I’m just….I like woods, alright? I’ve got a thing for trees and stuff. So, I, sort of-

-“you sort of jumped over the barbed wire fence. That’s what you did. Yer a bloody trespasser, aren’t you?”

I shrugged. “I don’t mean any harm.”

“There’s a bloody great sign warnin’ folks like you to stay away.”

“Well, why can’t the landowner open up the woods for people to enjoy?” I asked him. “No-one else is using them.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong, see. They’s for breedin’ pheasants. For the shoot.”

It was then that I discerned an unusual number of pheasants, cocks and hens, milling about.

The Gamekeeper glanced quickly behind him again.

“So,” he continued. “you’d best scarper right quick. Or I’ll call the police.”

“You can’t call the police” I replied. “Unless I refuse to leave.”

“So, are you bloody leavin’ or not?”

I knew the game was up and had no choice.

“Alright, alright, I’m going.”

“Good! Just bugger off somewhere else.”

I backed off and was about to turn when I heard a pitiful high-pitched squealing and something moving where The Gamekeeper had first been standing.

“What the….” I went to the spot, ignoring him. I saw a buzzard, badly wounded with gunshot, its brown and white feathers streaked with blood. It was struggling to move away but its efforts were hopeless.

The Gamekeeper joined me.

“Bloody buzzards. They take all the birds. His lordship wants ‘em all dead.”

Bloody indeed. I turned to him. “Do you have a license for this?”

He looked evasive. “Don’t need no license. It’s private land. We can do’s we please.”

I squared up. “My cousin works for Natural England” I lied. If they haven’t approved a license, then you’re killing these birds illegally and it’s you, not me who’ll get prosecuted. And don’t think “his Lordship” will save you. He’ll throw you to the wolves.”

The Gamekeeper tried to maintain his composure but looked somewhat mortified.

“I-I’m just the gamekeeper. I do’s I’m told, thass all.”

“Yeah, that’s what they said at Nuremberg” I muttered.

I looked him in the eye. “Right, here’s the deal. First, you put this poor creature out of its misery. Then you let me walk about these woods for the rest of the day. And I won’t mention any of this illegal shooting to my cousin and you don’t say anything to anyone about me trespassing. Alright?”

The Gamekeeper didn’t say a word. He nodded slowly, downcast.

I walked off and, as I did so, heard another gunshot as he finally delivered the coup de grace to the poor buzzard.

Despite the unfortunate episode, I made the best of my day, exploring ancient oaks, fallen logs, lichens and fungi and listened to birdsong.

I’m a man of my word. Usually. I think these things are important and a reflection of a person’s character. But I weighed up the legal consequences of my trespass with the estate butchering these beautiful birds of prey and I reported The Gamekeeper, and thereby his employer, to the Police Wildlife Crime Unit.

I was feeling rather pleased with myself when I got home. I felt I’d done the right thing and got one over on the landed aristocracy. My wife had earlier sent me a text indicating that there was an issue which needed my attention. Ten days ago, I’d had a bit of a fracas with some farm labourers on a private estate in Sussex. The police had cautioned me, then let me go. Now, it seems, the landowner had taken it further and created a false allegation of actual bodily harm.

I sighed. The bastards will always get you in the end.