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Indentured to George Wilson, my
fowling apprenticeship was spent on the expansive, windswept
foreshores of East Lothian. Together we shared many golden dawns
and dusks, together we battled against gale-driven sleet,
together we prepared for the start of each new season.
Time passed and many things changed. First my studies and later a
wife demanded an increasing share of my scarce leisure hours. The
marshes upon which George and I met became a nature reserve and a
permit scheme was introduced to control wildfowling. Finally, in
his 80th year, George passed on to those great saltings in the
sky.
Other, more subtle, changes were also taking place. Politicians
told the nation that "we had never had it so good" and
one effect of the new prosperity was a huge increase in motor car
ownership. In consequence, those coastal areas where wildfowl
congregated in winter became accessible to greater numbers of
visiting fowlers. Within the population at large, increased
opportunities for access to the countryside brought a heightened
awareness of the problems facing wildlife. In the minds of many
townspeople the threats to wild birds and animals included not
only pollution, industrialisation, pesticides and intensive
agriculture but also traditional country sports. Along with his
colleagues in other branches of fieldsports, the wildfowler was
faced with the urgent need to demonstrate that his activities
were conducted responsibly with due attention to practical
conservation.
In response to those changes, wildfowling clubs began to be
formed throughout the land. It was hardly surprising that many of
the old breed of fowler resented this development challenging, as
it did, the uniquely individual nature of his sport. What did not
change, however, was the ancient relationship between each
wildfowler and his quarry in that dark hour before dawn in the
solitude of a remote marsh. As the world around grew faster, as
the pressure of everyday life became ever more intense, so too
did many wildfowlers grow to value even more highly the respite
afforded by hours spent with dog and gun on the lonely saltings.
**********************************************
One of the problems facing any wildfowler who also has to earn
his daily bread is the possibility that his work will take him
far away from the coast. In this case, "far" means any
distance greater than an hour's car journey from the estuarine
flightlines. The corollary of this is that, in seeking new
employment, he will most closely scan the "Situations
Vacant" columns for jobs in prime fowling country. It was
not, therefore, solely good chance which found me uprooting
family, goods and chattels to move to a situation where both my
home and my office were situated within a twenty minute drive of
three major estuaries.
Although I had harboured my own doubts about the desirability of
organising fowlers into clubs and associations, it proved to be a
considerable advantage to be able to join just such a body when
faced with the need to explore a new area. There can be few other
methods of making all the necessary contacts so effectively or so
quickly.
The club which accepted my membership application had been in
existence for only a couple of years and had been formed
specifically for the purpose of persuading the County Council to
declare a Local Nature Reserve on an estuary. For some time the
quality of sport on the foreshore had been steadily declining
and, rather than helplessly watch their wildfowling heritage
disappear, those local worthies took the brave decision to seek
some forms of control before it was too late.
Their battle with bureaucracy was to prove difficult and
protracted. From the early enthusiasm which abounded when I
joined that club, there were passages during which gloom and
despondency reigned and times when we were all tempted to give up
the fight. Finally, 17 years after the first application to the
Council officials had been lodged, the necessary declaration was
enacted and bye-laws were introduced.
The preoccupation with forming a nature reserve did not stand in
the way of many other club activities and, during those early
years, I was able to make new friends and become familiar with
stretches of coastline which, for almost two decades, would
provide the mainstay of my sport. Incidental to the main
wildfowling focus of the club, but important from the point of
view of maintaining a corporate identity, were the annual clay
pigeon shoot and gundog tests. The former eventually persuaded me
to lay aside George Wilson's old side-by-side shotgun and
experiment with the over-and-under design which was slowly
gaining popularity while the gundog tests gave an incentive to
improve upon my earliest attempts at dog training.
During the autumn and winter, however, it was the wild estuaries
which commanded both time and attention and one fellow member of
the club played a greater part than most in those early exploits.
Andrew had not benefited from the type of apprenticeship which I
had served in the Lothians but he did come to wildfowling with
considerable experience of roughshooting. Such is the addictive
nature of fowling that, before long, he virtually forsook his
days shooting woodpigeons or rabbits in order to devote his
weekends to the more fulfilling pursuit of duck and geese.
During much of our first season together we retricted our
activities to a few well-used sections of the shore and, in
consequence, suffered from a common problem of the times.
Although we might rise very early in the morning and travel to
the estuaries long before first light, it was a race to secure
the best positions before any other gunners arrived. Despite
this, we did succeed in finding reasonable sport and, more
crucially, became thoroughly familiar with much of the ground and
the local habits of the fowl.
Towards the end of that winter we began to range farther afield
and, as a result, met up with two visiting fowlers who always had
a lively tale to relate. Yapper Mike and Oil Can John hailed from
near Hull where, we were assured, such nicknames are neither
derogatory nor uncommon amongst the fisher folk. Several years
later one of my own less auspicious wildfowling outings
corresponded with one of the Hull lads' most memorable.
I suppose that fishing for Icelandic cod must harden any man to
the foulest of weather and nothing which a Scottish winter could
throw at those two stalwarts would deter them from braving the
shore of the Firth. On the morning in question, the BBC shipping
forecast had promised "Sea areas Cromarty, Forth and Tyne -
gale force 8, increasing severe gale 9, north veering north
easterly, imminent." Mike and John could hardly sleep - not
because their caravan was being buffeted by the rising wind but
due to excitement at the prospect of a worthwhile flight. An
earlier sortie in January had drawn blank and this would be their
last chance to shoot a goose before another season drew to a
close.
Their own description of the weather that day suggested that the
Met. Office had seriously underestimated the wind force and the
fact that it carried sleet in its teeth merely added to the
attraction. Arriving at the normally crowded car parking area to
find it totally deserted, the two trawlermen were able to pick a
prime position before settling down with their backs to the gale
to await the action.
They did not have long to reflect upon the prospects. Before the
first streaks of daylight appeared through the racing clouds,
great packs of wigeon began pouring over their gully seeking the
doubtful sanctuary of the sandbanks in the middle of the estuary.
With a near-hurricane in their tails, the duck presented
well-nigh impossible shots as they were whipped overhead and a
whole box of cartridges had been fired before Mike and John
realised that, in the unlikely event of connecting with a bird,
it would be swept out to sea before it could be picked.
The geese were a different matter altogether. Dawn was well
advanced before the greylags decided that hunger could be ignored
no longer and, for more than an hour, ragged skeins battled
against the weather to reach the fields beyond the sea wall. It
takes considerable determination to keep the gun barrels swinging
at geese which seem to present an almost stationary target but
the two lads quickly got the hang of the technique and ended the
flight with three birds apiece. Had they not showed admirable
restraint, there is no doubt that they could have executed
considerable slaughter but, being true wildfowlers, they knew
when to stop.
Now it so happened that on that very February morning I was
ensconced on the south shore of that selfsame estuary, driving
conditions having been so perilous that there was not time to
motor round to the other side. If ever there was a case of
contrasting fortunes, that was it. While Yapper and Oil Can were
enjoying the flight of their lives, it was a miserable wildfowler
who ended the morning frozen, soaking and half blind. Of duck I
saw not a sign but this did not in any way dampen my enthusiasm
as it seemed certain that the howling wind would keep any geese
which braved the elements close enough to the ground to offer a
sporting shot. Finding cover on the marsh was difficult as the
gale was flattening the sparse reed fringes. Hopefully, however,
the birds would be too preoccupied with the flying conditions to
pay too much attention to hazards below.
Perversely, as Mike and John were already discovering to their
delight, the greylags had opted to flight against the wind and
very few came to the south side. Those which did passed half a
mile along the sea wall, clearly bound for some prime feeding
about which they had knowledge but of which I was ignorant.
Normally it is worth remaining on the saltings until one is
certain that all the geese have left the roost but so miserable
had I become, as a result of sleet stinging against my face and
being blown down my neck, that after a couple of hours of
self-imposed torture, I elected to call it a day.
Then the inevitable happened. The gun had no sooner been securely
fastened into its slip than four greys sped straight for me.
Fumbling with frozen hands, my weapon was pulled out again and a
single cartridge thrust into one chamber as the hindmost bird
passed overhead. I threw up the gun and, just as the barrels
caught up with the tail of the goose, a contact lens was whipped
out of my right eye by the wind.
A very strange phenomenon occurs to we shortsighted individuals
under such circumstances. Deprived of clear vision in the master
eye, the left eye took over and an unconscious
"correction" of swing was applied. There was nothing I
could do to prevent the shot charge from passing harmlessly a
yard to the right of the greylag's starboard wing.
Trying to find a ¬-inch disc of clear perspex on a storm-lashed
shore is a futile task and my mood did not even permit an
attempt. Fortunately a pair of spectacles was kept on the parcel
shelf of the Land-Rover so I was not stranded due to lack of
vision. Nevertheless, it was a somewhat dejected fowler who
headed down the road. To complete an utterly miserable morning,
the sleet turned to snow and formed massive drifts along the
foothills. My slight smugness that 4-wheel drive would cope with
the conditions was soon dispersed when I discovered that several
vehicles had been caught out by the sudden worsening of the
weather and the way ahead was well and truly blocked. Just to add
a final touch, by the time that I had turned the Land-Rover, an
articulated lorry had become trapped behind me and all escapes
were thwarted.
Being stuck in a snowdrift is bad enough at the best of times but
when you are soaked to the skin, cold, hungry and convinced that
a dose of flu is on its way, the ordeal must be experienced to be
believed. It was almost dark before the snow ploughs had cleared
the road and a worried spouse failed to give the sympathy which
was so richly deserved. The subsequent telephone call from Mike
and John simply rubbed salt into my wounds and I later had to
explain to them the reason for my lack of enthusiasm for their
success that day.
The experience of losing a contact lens not only weakened my
faith in such fragile articles, it also brought home just how
much wildfowlers rely upon their senses. But, if eyesight is
absolutely essential to the participant in any shooting sport,
the longshore gunner also depends heavily upon his other
faculties if he is to fully appreciate the wonder of the
environment within which he pursues his quarry.
**********************************************
The haunting call of grey geese as they grow restless on their
roost far out on the saltings, the piping whistle of a cock
wigeon flighting over the sea wall at dusk, the unremitting howl
of a January gale which drives stinging rain across the pre-dawn
marsh or the persistent rustle from the reed verges of an estuary
as a labrador struggles to carry a heavy mallard drake through
the thick, dense stalks. All these are familiar sounds to the
wildfowler, notes which feature prominently in the symphonic
poetry of his sport.
A keen sense of hearing is of immense benefit to the coastal
gunner, not only so that he may fully appreciate the natural
chorus which pervades his hunting ground but also that he might
receive a timely warning of approaching duck or geese. There are
those who scoff at the notion of wearing hearing protection while
shooting but they unquestionably run a serious risk of suffering
impairment of that vital faculty in the middle years of their
lives. I must confess to once being doubting of the good advice I
was offered in this regard but, before I had been shooting for
many years, I had encountered so many half-deaf fowlers that I
rapidly revised my opinion. Fortunately it is possible to obtain
unobtrusive little earplugs which keep out the damaging high
frequencies of a gun blast without interfering with normal
hearing.
Never is aural perception more important than when wildfowling by
moonlight. There is something rather special about flighting
geese or duck under a silvery moon and it is an aspect of the
sport which will unfailingly provide a rich collection of
memories, many of which will be focused around the profusion of
sounds to which the night-time fowler is exposed.
For a few nights either side of the full moon, given favourable
weather conditions, wildfowl will flight to and from their
feeding grounds much as they do at dawn or dusk. In mid-winter
the hours of daylight are short and gone is the abundance of
waste grain, potatoes and fresh grass which lay in the autumn
fields. As a result, hungry birds willingly take the opportunity
of bright moonlight to search for extra victuals. This night
traffic normally commences an hour or two after the moon has
risen and it may continue almost until dawn approaches. Indeed,
many wildfowlers have discovered that morning flight frequently
is less intense at times of the full moon on account of those
nocturnal activities of the fowl.
Although there are six full cycles of the moon during each
fowling season, not all provide suitable conditions for shooting.
Cloud cover is of paramount importance; too much or too little
and the task becomes virtually impossible. Ideally we want a thin
veil of cloud to provide a light background against which the
birds will appear in silhouette as they approach. A clear night
sky is inky black and almost nothing will be seen and, believe
me, frustration runs high when the sound of geese or duck alerts
the fowler's trigger finger but his quarry passes over invisible
beneath the twinkling stars. Perhaps it is because night shooting
is such an infrequent pleasure that each occasion is particularly
memorable.
During the year following the episode with the lost contact lens,
the weather gods were especially unkind and the October, November
and December moons were each obliterated by dark, heavy clouds.
Knowing that January might provide the last chance, the radio was
anxiously tuned to the meteorological forecasts as the month
progressed. Snow had lain in the fields for almost a week and the
approach of the full moon was heralded by several nights of
cloudless skies and hard frosts. Not having managed a moonflight
at all that season, there was despair in my breast that the final
opportunity might pass without a wisp of cloud to lighten the
sky.
On the 24th of the month I decided that I could wait no longer
so, as soon as parental duties had been completed by the ritual
reading of bedtime stories, I packed the car with dog, gun,
waders and a camouflage net and set a course to the estuary.
Travelling north it was noticeable that the snow cover became
thicker with each mile and doubt crept into my mind as to whether
the geese would be finding much to eat in the fields. A slight
change of plan seemed appropriate to accommodate the distinct
possibility that normal wildfowl behaviour patterns might be
upset by this factor so, instead of turning down to the mudflats,
I kept driving until the foreshore changed from glutinous ooze to
grassed saltings.
Eventually I found a likely spot and steered down a rutted farm
track where, by good fortune, a cowhand was still at work in a
brightly lit byre. After establishing that there would be no
objection to a wildfowler parking on the land, the car was
unpacked and I followed Meg as she used her canine instinct to
choose the safest path down to the shore. Where the snow-covered
marsh had been washed by the tide there were little islands of
green vegetation amid the frozen merse and it was to the most
extensive of those that we headed, calculating that if the geese
were to move at all that night, it would be to such an area.
The striking of a distant village clock and the crunch of my
boots on the frozen marsh grass were the only sounds to be heard
as I warily picked my way over the foreshore to the chosen place
but then, as the hide was set up and I settled down in a shallow
gutter, new noises became apparent. Far out on the merse the tide
turned, causing flocks of wading birds to pipe their shrill
complaint as they were slowly moved forward by the incoming
waves. From time to time an eerie crackling was produced by the
flow of the sea under packed ice in each frozen gully and creek.
Then, my senses alerted by Meg's tail suddenly beginning to wag,
I strained my ears to discern the music of flighting pinkfeet a
mile or so down river.
Before long I noticed that a thin layer of cloud was slowly
spreading from the east, producing the effect of a delicate net
curtain being drawn across the night sky. For the first time that
season it began to look as though the weather conditions might be
perfect for a moonflight and, if I finally returned home with an
empty bag, I should have to look to my own shortcomings to
provide an excuse.
I very rarely use decoys below the sea wall and, on that evening,
I had not thought to take any surrogate duck or geese. Surveying
the panorama before me and knowing that any sign of feeding birds
would bring others tumbling in, I rather regretted not having
prepared better for the campaign. No sooner had that thought
passed through my mind than several dozen plover wheeled out of
the heavens and settled thirty yards from my position. Time
passed and by midnight I was beginning to feel the chill night
air creeping through my thermal underwear. Although I had heard
some geese flighting to the east, no more fowl had come to
investigate my green oasis. Then it happened.
A double whistle broke the silence and, as the Beretta was raised
in anticipation, a pair of wigeon circled into range. Two shots,
two thumps and the air was full of plover noisily protesting at
the interruption to their feast. By the time that Meg had
retrieved both duck, the flock of waders had settled once more
and were feeding as if nothing had occurred. For the next hour
wildfowl virtually queued up to come into that little patch of
green set in a white wilderness. Presumably hunger pangs had
finally persuaded them to seek out a likely source of food and,
when I ran out of cartridges at 1.30 am, two more wigeon, one
mallard, two pinkfeet and a greylag had been added to the bag.
Eight birds for ten shots - not a greedy cull by any standards
but a better tally than normally can be expected on the
foreshore.
Why is it that if someone invites me to shoot pheasants or a
farmer calls to complain that he is plagued by woodpigeon, I
never take less than twice as many cartridges as I expect to use
but, when wildfowling, I rarely pocket more than a handful of
shells? Perhaps it is to sustain dreams. Had an extra box been
available that night I might have doubled the bag. On the other
hand it is highly probable that the flight would have petered out
a few minutes later and I would have sat freezing on the saltings
until daybreak with the magic of the night slowly dissipating as
numb fingers or a damp backside cried for relief.
Next day I was telling Andrew about my adventure under the moon
and he confessed that it was an angle of the sport which he had
never tried although, as an accomplished naturalist, he well knew
the flighting habits of the fowl. I explained to him that
conservation-minded fowlers particularly welcome the opportunity
to go night-flighting on account of the fact that disturbance to
the marsh by gunshot is much lessened during the hours of
darkness. Also, because shots are generally taken at closer
range, there is less chance of merely wounding a bird than at
dawn or dusk. As I finished the story, the look in his eyes
allowed me to anticipate his request and we quickly arranged a
rendezvous for the coming evening.
As the moon was scheduled to rise more than an hour later than on
the previous night, it was agreed that instead of returning to
the estuary, we should attempt to intercept the pinkfooted geese
which roosted on the Big Loch. If the fowl were co-operative,
this plan would allow us to enjoy a couple of hours at the
water's edge and still get home at a respectable time. In effect,
it would be very similar to a morning flight except that the
moon, rather than the rising sun, would occupy the eastern sky.
At the appointed hour I found Andrew already waiting at the old
farm gate, his bright-eyed yellow labrador wearing the
camouflaged doggy-jacket for which it was famed in the locality.
Although half a mile separated us from the loch, the strains of
goose music carried clearly through the still night air,
prompting two impatient fowlers to waste no time in donning
waterproofs and boots.
The short walk through the moonlit fields was in itself full of
interest and, had we been in less of a hurry, we might have
tarried to watch the antics of a large, red dog fox hunting in
the verges. A flock of blackfaced sheep, taking advantage of the
full moon to graze the sparse winter grass, demonstrated no sign
of alarm at the presence of their vulpine companion and I
wondered whether they would have been so unperturbed had they
young lambs at heel. As we approached the narrow band of stunted
alders which divide the arable land from the lochside reedbeds we
did pause for a few seconds to admire the silent flight of an owl
searching for its supper amongst the frost-flattened rushes.
Twice it stooped, a ghostly form in the moonlight, and on the
second attempt was rewarded with a mouse or some other small
mammal.
When we moved on, Andrew whispered that the sound of the geese
and the sight of fox and owl had already made his outing
worthwhile; a comment which heartened me somewhat as it had
become clear, during our walk from the cars, that most of the
pinkfeet were roosting off the Policies Shore - a section of the
loch which was outwith our boundaries.
At the lochside we found adequate cover without resorting to
erecting hides so, spaced forty yards apart, we settled down to
wait for the pinks to move. Above our heads the naked branches of
the trees stood out in sharp profile against the thin clouds and
my sole regret was that only the merest hint of a breeze ruffled
the expansive surface of the water. It is rare to find the ideal
combination of a brightly illuminated sky and galeforce winds but
I rather wished that Andrew could have experienced such
perfection on his first attempt at a moonflight. On the other
hand, my optimism was boosted a little when a small group of
thirty or forty geese lifted from the water half a mile to the
west and settled again within fifty yards of our position.
During the next half hour there occurred several similar
movements of birds until well over two hundred pinkfeet were
swimming close to our shoreline. I knew that Andrew's pulse would
have quickened to keep pace with my own and I suspected that his
dog, like Meg, would be restlessly quivering in anticipation.
Then, with a tumultuous clamour, a huge flock of geese took off
from the Policies Shore area and circled close to the water
before sorting itself out into three orderly skeins. Those birds
passed inland well out of gunshot range but their noisy departure
caused the pinkfeet in front of us to grow restless and I knew
that it would be only a matter of minutes before they too decided
to take to the air.
When they did, they performed in textbook style. Their low
murmuring grew slightly in intensity before abruptly ceasing
altogether. There was complete silence for about two seconds and
then, with the characteristic babble of geese lifting from their
roost, the flock took off directly into the gentle wind, gained a
little height and turned towards the shore. Unfortunately,
although the pinks had acted according to the book, I had failed
to take account of the basic rules by remaining in position after
the geese first settled on the water in front. Had I interpreted
the signs correctly, I should have moved sixty or seventy yards
west so as to have been underneath their flightpath. As it was, I
could only watch impotently as they passed over to my right.
Andrew, on the other hand, found himself just within range and I
saw his gun barrels swing upwards before a single shot brought
the nearest goose tumbling out of the sky. That bird safely
retrieved we stood for a few minutes, marvelling at the silver
patterns of moonlight on the waters of the loch, before happily
retracing our steps to the farm gate. Of the owl nor the fox we
could find no trace but sheep were still grazing contentedly in
the fields and sporadic bursts of goose talk told us that plenty
of pinkfeet remained on the roost.
**********************************************
One of the talents which George Wilson had possessed but which I
never succeeded in mastering was the art of calling geese by
mouth. Often I had marvelled as my old mentor persuaded an entire
skein of flighting birds to change direction, simply by uttering
a few vocal notes.
Shortly after I moved farther north I teamed up with Bill Purves,
a veteran of countless seasons and a man who also could call
geese from the skies. Unlike George, however, Bill relied upon
wooden instruments to produce the requisite music and, from his
instructions, I gradually acquired some of that skill.
Not that the employment of goose calls is particularly useful at
morning flight. At such times the geese know where they are going
and are unlikely to break their journey to investigate a would-be
pied piper hidden on the saltings. Despite this fact, one of the
antics which never ceases to raise a smile amongst old hands is
the inappropriate use of wooden or plastic calls. The devices are
widely sold and many newcomers to the sport seem to believe that
they have magical properties below the sea wall.
One of Bill Purves' favourite stories related to a morning when
he became intrigued by two visitors to the estuary who appeared
to be having a two-way conversation on their calls. Situated
between the two, Bill decided to join in and dug his own call
from deep in his coat pocket. He also had a mouth organ tucked
away and this, too, he pulled out. Knowing Bill's prowess with
both instruments I have no difficulty in believing that he
successfully fooled the novices into thinking that there was a
real goose hidden in the reeds. The way he tells the tale, both
men left their places and crept towards him, meeting some 20
yards from where he was honking. They then stole forward together
and, just as they reached the edge of Bill's gully, he changed
from the sound of a distressed greylag to a harmonica rendering
of "Scotland the Brave." Judging from the language
which the two stooges are reported to have used, they appreciated
neither Bill's prank nor his choice of anthem.
When tide-flighting during the middle of the day there are
occasions when the use of duck calls can be of assistance. Not
long after joining the wildfowling club I was taken by Bill to a
part of the estuary which I had not previously visited. Morning
flight drew a complete blank but, to couple some further
exploration of the area with the chance to collect a duck or two,
we remained on the shore after the sun had risen.
At around 10.00 am the tide turned and began to flow over the
marsh. It was not a particularly stormy day yet we hoped that the
advancing water might cause some wigeon to flight along the
tideline as their favourite preening stations became submerged by
the sea. Scanning the marsh with binoculars it was disheartening
to note that the few duck which were visible had chosen to roost
on the waves rather than on the saltings. More in hope than in
expectation, we selected a deep, muddy creek which allowed us to
stand upright while remaining well hidden.
Two hours elapsed and three times
we were forced to move back along our gully by the rising water.
Then, quite suddenly, the breeze changed direction, strengthened
and dark clouds appeared over the ridge of hills which formed the
southern horizon. Within ten minutes rain was being blown into
our faces and that seemed to provide the signal for the duck to
move. The first little parties passed well out of shotgun range
and it appeared that a regular flightline was developing sixty
yards from our hiding place.
Rather than attempt to crawl forward to intercept the fowl, Bill
suggested that he would call them into range. From his voluminous
pockets he produced a carved rosewood mallard quacker and a
homemade wigeon whistle consisting of a 12-bore cartridge case
and a 20-bore case, each with the primer removed. By sliding one
inside the other while he blew through the primer hole, a variety
of pitches of note could be produced.
The next bird on the scene was a single mallard drake. Flying low
and taking exactly the line of the earlier duck, I was sure that
it, too, would pass out of shot. Bill put the wooden call to his
lips and, with hands cupped over the instrument, gave one quack
followed by a few seconds of low chattering noise. The drake
increased the speed of its wing beat, rose several yards higher
and then turned to sweep down on our position. Bill's magnum
barked once, dropping the bird right into our creek.
Before the flowing tide finally drove us off the shore, four more
mallard paid the price for responding to the artificial quacker.
During that time a number of wigeon flighted past but they
appeared to be oblivious to the whistles which Bill emitted. A
large spring of teal similarly failed to respond but, with five
fat duck in the bag, we left the marsh knowing that we had five
more than would have been possible without the aid of Bill's
wooden call.
This file is an
extract from "Fowler in the Wild" by Eric Begbie. It
may be reproduced, in whole or in part, by magazines or other
publications with the prior permission of the author.
