I had a first-time-ever experience last week: I tagged along with a shooting party. In a beautiful Cornish background cloaked in autumn colours, I watched men and women fan into a line across a valley. As the beaters began their work flushing the birds, so too did the guns, and sharp cracking sounds echoed in the woods.

I was worried about how I would react to the spectacle. I eat meat. I believe in being honest about one's choices. I knew that the pheasants that fell today would be collected and sold for food.

Yet my eyes prickled with tears when I saw the first: a big cock pheasant, cruising fast after a flurry of wing beats, somersaulted in a burst of feathers and thumped to the ground.

The spectacle was dramatic. There would be a long silence, when the guns stared into the woods. Then, a flurry of birds would dash for safety. Many got through, and cruised into the undergrowth unscathed. Others fell like lead.

Labrador retrievers were picking up the fallen birds, and their passion and athleticism was amazing. They would spot a bird fall and take a flying leap over water or bushes to get at it. Carefully they collected the birds and, head high, brought them to their masters. Their huge satisfaction in their job you could read like a book.

The springer spaniels were fun to watch, too. Tails frantic, they dashed to and fro, wriggling into the undergrowth to flush the birds. Seeing these dogs do the job for which they were bred was a revelation. It was a partnership.

"You really have to come to Britain for this kind of shooting – there's so much tradition," observed one guest. I thought of this comment as I observed how the woods had been designed and shaped over time. So much beautiful English countryside owes its existence to hunting in various formats.

One assistant, thoroughly enjoying his day out, said that as a boy he used to beat at this same shoot, jogging to keep up with his father.

Everything – the clothing, the format, the mannerisms, the vocabulary – all spoke of centuries of British tradition. Whole communities and lives were woven into this sport. They still are today.

On the drive home I thought long and hard about whether I approved of killing birds for pleasure. I suppose man is a hunter. Sports like shooting allow people to express that side of their nature, and to interact with animals and the landscape. Maybe if more people could do that there would be less anti-social behaviour.

As far as death goes, there's something to be said for a noble end: the pheasants meet it in their prime, strong wings beating. They've got a chance. The same can't be said for pigs or cattle, expertly extinguished in an abattoir. Does it amount to the same thing? I couldn't say. It's complicated.

I don't think I could do it myself, though. That's where I draw the line.