PROTECT THE WILD POST ON CAMBRIAN SPORTING RE DISCARDED DEBRIS OF EGGSHELL and LIVE CHICK

Forwarded this email? Subscribe here for more “I Could Hear Them Chirping Beneath the Eggs” Can you imagine finding a live chick in an egg dump? Now you don't have to. PROTECT THE WILD JUL 22 READ IN APP We recently published an article which described the shocking story of one of our undercover investigators finding a LIVE chick in a pile of discarded eggshells on a so-called ‘game farm’ (see ‘Thrown Away Alive’). One paragraph in particular stood out: “Using their hand, the investigator began carefully working through the debris. Within moments, they found the bird that was calling out: a live chick buried beneath the discarded shells of its siblings, too small and too weak to free itself.” Many supporters emailed us to express their admiration for the investigator, telling us that they couldn’t imagine what looking for and finding abuse and cruelty like this would feel like. Neither could we. We passed this back to the investigator, who suggested that they write a personal account. This is what you’re about to read… Supporters also wanted to know which so-called ‘game farm’ this took place on. We didn’t name the farm in the first article for the reasons we explained, but we’ve now discussed with the investigation team whether naming the farm would jeopardise current investigations. They are sure it won’t, and they explained that many locals oppose this particular operation and that this information will be important to their fight. And after all, we’ve done nothing wrong here. This is all on Cambrian Birds… Become a Game Changer “During years crawling in cow slurry, squeezing through gaps in a barn wall and seeing the continuous abuse that animals are subjected to, you build a thick skin to keep going. Sometimes, the thick skin is so heavy that I need to touch base with others and show them what I’ve filmed, just to understand how others react to the grim and abusive conditions animals are subjected to on a regular basis. Other times, the thick skin does nothing to protect you from what you have to see. Surrounded by sheep in lamb, on a still night in early summer, I walk towards Cambrian Birds’ hatchery. Cambrian Sporting (“an unforgettable day in the field”) has made headlines recently, with locals on the border between Shropshire and Wales organising against the takeover of the shooting grounds in multiple villages in the area. I don’t know what to expect, but I know that whatever comes out of it will aid those locals in their fight against Cambrian Birds with even more evidence of their disregard for anything that isn’t money. They did not disappoint. As I approach the farm, the stench hits me. The smell, a mixture of rotten eggs and decomposing corpses, makes it difficult to ignore the enormous pile of eggs and shells in the open field. Beside it sits a fresher trailer of eggshells. As I approach it, breathing heavily, I hear chirping. With my heart in my throat, I run towards the waste trailer. I can’t breathe. I notice it moves, but it doesn’t move like I would expect it to; it moves like quicksand, wavy, like a thick liquid. It isn’t a liquid, though, well, at least not all of it. The movement is maggots, tens of thousands of maggots, crawling, digging, seeking something else to eat. I almost don’t pay attention to the maggots because something else forces me to frantically search. The chirping is faint, but constant, and it seems to come from everywhere, so I don’t hesitate. I climb onto the edge of the trailer and start shifting the maggot-covered eggshells. My hands are shaking. I search desperately, shifting eggs, then stopping to listen, then shifting eggs again, in what feels like a soup of eggs, and egg waste, and maggots. For a while, it feels like an impossible task. I feel hopeless. But then I find a chick, tiny, and wet, and probably only minutes old, and they are alive. Become a Game Changer As I reach for the chick I realise how small they are, how fragile, how vulnerable. I no longer feel that knot in my throat. Now it is in my stomach, heavy, all-encompassing. How can anyone let such a tender creature be born in a pile of trash? How can anyone leave them to die, discarded like rubbish? I turn around and hand the chick to my colleague, who runs back to the vehicle to keep them warm. Meanwhile, I am back practically swimming in the trailer, trying to dig out all the other chicks I can hear chirping under the eggs. No matter how much I dig, shift eggs, and dig again. I cannot find them, even when I can hear them, and an hour after my colleague left for the car, I reluctantly decide to call it a night. I leave a camera pointing at that trailer, which the day after would film corvids and a Buzzard picking around the eggs and eating the chicks. Somehow, the Buzzard knew exactly where to look. I don’t know if I’d rather those chicks had survived the night, or had died before the Buzzard found them. When I get to the car, the chick looks dry and the feathers look better. They’ve been nursed between the heat of the aircon and the skin contact of their caregiver. They don’t look great, though, so we hurry back to put them under a brooder. The day after, when we woke up, the chick had passed. We laid them to rest under an ash tree, with cornflowers, clover and buttercups. Maybe another Buzzard found them too, or perhaps a fox cub learning to hunt. Either way, it fed the Earth. Silver linings, I suppose, even if they’re bitter. Sometimes, the thick skin serves only to keep the anguish inside. That experience was likely one of those, desperate, hopeless, but eye-opening. Cruelty knows no limits, not even when it comes to babies. I guess to them, in their twisted, sick tradition, that chick meant nothing. None of the birds they breed mean anything but the money they produce. But to me, that chick meant more than anyone could imagine. I will not rest until bird shooting is nothing but a shameful corner of our collective memory. Fly free, little one.” Video and images recorded by our undercover investigator at Cambrian Birds in 2025. We are working to END BIRD SHOOTING. This suffering has to stop. Please share this article. Share our socials. Follow us for updates. Become a Game Changer End Bird Shooting Over the coming months our campaign will look at the shooting industry at every level. We will highlight the suppliers — the farms, hatcheries, importers and breeders producing tens of millions of birds under conditions that would provoke public outcry if applied to any other animal. We will expose the providers — the estates and syndicates that take those factory-farmed birds and sell the experience of killing them as leisure. And we will look at the clients — the paying guns who are fully aware of the wildlife crime, the trapping of native predators, and the mass suffering involved, and who have decided that none of it is reason enough to stay away. This industry survives because suppliers supply, providers provide, and clients pay. We intend to examine them all. Join the movement. Become a Game Changer. Months of investigation like the work detailed above. Hundreds of hours of footage obtained and more being gathered. Farms across the UK exposed. We are at the beginning of something that we think will change everything. But we can’t do it on our own. We are asking you to become a Game Changer. To help us fund investigations, to stand with us as we take this fight forward, week by week, piece by piece, until the public, the media and the politicians can no longer look away. The first 500 people to sign up will receive a limited edition pin badge. This is the beginning. Be part of it. 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