BY BERT BURNETT
Why ‘Official’ Conservation Fears Success
In the rolling hills and managed woodlands of Britain, a quiet war is being waged for the future of our native species. On one side are the gamekeepers and land managers, whose hands-on stewardship has preserved the very landscapes we hold dear. On the other, a powerful coalition of once well-funded conservation charities who, from their air-conditioned offices, seem to view a thriving countryside not as a victory, but as a threat to their business model.
The recent statement from ‘Operation Turtle Dove’ – a partnership led by the RSPB – objecting to the captive breeding and release of the critically endangered European Turtle Dove is a case study in this institutional inertia. It reveals a philosophy that prioritises paperwork and process over practical results, and one that views with suspicion the very methods that have proven, time and again, to be the most effective.
The reasons given for their objection are a familiar litany of excuses. They speak of “disease transmission” and “genetic contamination,” trotting out theoretical risks from the IUCN handbook to justify a policy of managed decline. They claim a “habitat-led approach” is the only solution, as if releasing birds into that restored habitat could somehow negate its value. It is a logic that baffles any working naturalist. You cannot have a sustainable wild population if you have no birds left to breed.
Ask yourself: why would an organisation ostensibly dedicated to saving a species actively block a well-intentioned effort to do just that?
The uncomfortable truth is that for these large charities, a species in perpetual crisis is a reliable source of income. The Turtle Dove, with its heart-rending 99% decline, is a potent cash cow. Its image adorns fundraising leaflets, drives membership campaigns, and secures millions in grants. A successful, widespread recovery, particularly one achieved through means outside their control, would see the crisis evaporate – and with it, the donations. They are in the business of managing the decline, not ending it.
Contrast this with the environment on gamekeeper-managed land. Here, the release of birds, from the glorious Pheasant to the delicate Grey Partridge, is not an experiment; it is a routine and resounding success. This is not by accident. It is the direct result of a land management philosophy that understands the fundamental rules of nature.
On these estates, predator control is not a dirty secret; it is the cornerstone of conservation. Foxes, crows, stoats, and rats are managed to sustainable levels. This creates a safe haven not just for released gamebirds, but for every ground-nesting species struggling to survive in the modern countryside. The Lapwing, the Curlew, the Skylark – they all flourish under the protective wing of the gamekeeper. The habitat is managed, yes, but it is also defended.
This is the element the RSPB and its ilk wilfully ignore. You can sow all the seed mix and plant all the hedgerows you like, but if you allow predators to run rampant, you are simply setting a dinner table for them. It is conservation on paper, destined to be picked apart by the sharp beak of a crow.
The success of gamekeepers in establishing and maintaining wild bird populations is a living reproach to the failed policies of the conservation establishment. We have developed a model that works. We have the land, the skills, and the proven results. When we release birds, they thrive. They breed. They contribute to a vibrant ecosystem.
So, when these organisations object to the rear and release of an endangered species like the Capercaillie or the Turtle Dove, we must see it for what it is: a protectionist racket. They would rather a species hover on the brink of extinction under their ‘expert’ guidance than see it recovered through the efforts of practical land managers whose methods they politically oppose.
It is time we stopped entrusting the fate of our natural heritage solely to committees and consultants. The real conservationists are not the ones writing statements about why something can’t be done. They are the men and women on the ground, with dirt on their boots, creating the conditions for life to flourish. It is on their land, and through their methods, that the true recovery of Britain’s wildlife will begin. The rest is just talk, and talk never fledged a chick.
Bert Burnett is a retired gamekeeper of more than fifty years’ experience.