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The man who shoots partridges
over an September stubble may delight in the warmth of the early
autumn sun on his back as he relaxes whilst awaiting the next
drive. When driven pheasants are the order of the day, what
better than a crisp frosty morning with the merest whisper of a
breeze and a cloudless blue sky? But the wildfowler's most
stirring memories will inevitably involve a howling gale, dark
storm clouds and, for good measure, torrential rain. When the
weather turns to the cruellest extreme that our fickle climate can
produce, then the longshore gunner will relish every minute spent
below the sea wall.
Despite the international reputation which the British have for
complaining about the weather, a real raging tempest is an
infrequent occurrence on our coasts. Only once or twice each
winter will the optimum combination of conditions coincide and
lucky is the man who can pick up his gun and head for the marsh
as soon as the isobars on the weather chart threaten to merge
into a single thick black line.
Early one season an unexpected storm provided just such an
opportunity to make an unscheduled visit to the estuary. Plans of
spending a lazy evening immersed in a good novel were rudely
interrupted by rising winds and the sudden onset of a bucketing
deluge. Soaked to the skin following a quick run around the
garden to shut in the chickens and tie down the beehives, there
was really no other possible course of action than to look out
gun, cartridges, waterproofs and wellingtons in the hope that the
foul weather would remain until morning.
Despite many years of wildfowling, I have singularly failed to
learn how to fall asleep on nights such as that. I lay fitfully
awake, listening to the rain battering against my bedroom window
and to the telltale overflow which indicated a roof gutter
blocked by autumn leaves. I suppose that I must have dozed
intermittently but, long before the alarm clock was due to sound,
I was out of bed and preparing an early breakfast.
Driving to the fowling grounds that morning was not without
incident. Because the trees still have some foliage to offer wind
resistance, storm damage occurs more readily in autumn than in
mid-winter. Several times I was forced to turn the car and make a
detour where fallen branches blocked the road. There was also
deep flooding on some sections of the route and I was glad to
have risen earlier than intended as, otherwise, the delays might
have resulted in a missed flight.
Eventually, with windscreen wipers fighting a losing battle
against the downpour, I turned along the forest road which led to
the shore. Driving down the narrow track, trees were swaying
drunkenly in the beam of my headlights making me fearful that, at
any minute, several hundredweights of prime spruce might come
crashing through the roof. With relief I reached the parking
place adjacent to the dunes and, rather than risk a thorough
soaking, went through the contortions of donning waterproof
overtrousers, coat and boots in the confined interior of the
vehicle. Then, with my sou'wester tied firmly on to my head, I
opened the door to brave the storm.
So fierce was the tempest that I hesitated before letting Meg out
of the car. Moy, my younger labrador, was in peak condition
following a few arduous days on the grouse moor but the elderly
bitch had the benefit of no such fitness training and, as
befitted a companion which had given a canine lifetime of valiant
service, was no longer expected to perform any task more
strenuous than swimming for a duck in a flight pond or picking a
woodpigeon from a clearing in the roosting wood. After a moment's
thought, I succumbed to the anthropomorphic notion that Meg would
remember the thrill of previous storm flights and would pine
unhappily if left behind so, with both dogs at heel, I bowed my
head against the gale and set out over the dark sand dunes
towards the distant foreshore.
Finding a suitable place to occupy while awaiting dawn proved no
easy matter. A little stream which normally meandered over the
flats to join the main river had been transformed into a raging
torrent. Its gully provided no sanctuary whatsoever and crossing
the swirling spate proved to be impossible. Giving up any
thoughts of progressing farther along the shore, I settled for
the simple expedient of sheltering behind one of the massive
concrete blocks which remained as a perpetual reminder of the
threat of enemy invasion during Hitler's war.
The hope that there might be geese out on the gale-ravaged
mudflats was little more than an act of faith. On other, calmer
days I had hidden near that spot listening to the pinkfeet
preparing for flight and thrilling to the calling of thousands of
dunlin and redshank as they moved in front of the tide. As I
removed my gun from its sleeve that morning, no sound was
discernible above the howling of the wind and the relentless
splatter of the rain against my cement shelter. On account of the
dark cloud cover the eastern sky was very slow to lighten and it
was some time before white-crested waves could be seen pounding
the far mudbanks. At this sight, my spirits rose perceptively.
Not only should the unremitting gale cause flighting geese to fly
low over the marsh, the state of the sea almost certainly meant
that any pinks in the vicinity would have spent the night
roosting on the saltings rather than afloat on the water.
There is a positive cosiness to be experienced when sheltering
from wild weather. As a boy I had been aware of the sensation
whenever a sudden shower of rain sent me scurrying for the refuge
of the garden shed or, later, while sitting in a tent listening
to a storm flapping at the canvas and watching puddles rapidly
forming on the ground outside. Enjoying the private sanctuary
provided by the lee of that wartime tank trap I reflected upon
those earlier feelings until my reverie was rudely interrupted by
Meg snapping to attention.
Picking up the direction of her gaze, I was just in time to see a
pack of wigeon streaking past with the wind in their tails. Any
chance of a shot was gone before I could mount the gun but their
fleeting appearance did serve to put an end to my daydreaming and
caused me to consider whether any other duck which came within
range should be shot. The normal rule on the marsh at dawn is
that no shots should be taken at duck if a goose flight is
anticipated lest the sound of gunfire sends the larger fowl
fleeing in the opposite direction. On a really stormy morning,
however, the risk of this is very much lessened and I resolved
that no other wigeon should pass unsaluted.
As it happened, the situation did not arise. The cold grey light
of morning slowly extended over the cloudy sky and, although a
few small parties of duck could be seen following the course of
the flooded stream, none came my way.
I had all but given up hope of getting a shot when Meg again
detected birds in the air. Alerted by her tail thumping against
my leg, I strained my eyes to pierce the torrential rain and
cursed the fact that my misted spectacles hindered rather than
aided vision. Then there they were. A ragged skein of about a
dozen geese less than 30 yards high and side-slipping across the
wind. By the time that I had scrambled to my feet they were
almost directly in front. The Beretta barked twice, two pinkfeet
folded in mid-air and, their forward momentum virtually
unchecked, they slanted down to hit the saltgrass fifty yards
along the shore.
By the time that the labradors had returned with those birds, the
sky was filled with geese. Skein after skein passed along a
mile-wide front, the "wink-wink" of those immediately
upwind being just audible above the tempestuous ferocity of the
storm. It was an awe-inspiring sight and, although no more passed
within shotgun range, I was well pleased with the two in hand.
Opportunities such as those have to be grasped eagerly or else
the chance is lost. By lunchtime that day the rain had ceased,
the gale had blown itself out and, with the sun drying roads and
verges, only a few flood flashes in the fields and some broken
branches remained as a legacy of the storm. Those and a pair of
pinkfeet hanging in the game larder awaiting the attentions of
the skinning knife.
**********************************************
Not all foul weather expeditions are as successful. While a good
offshore gale is welcomed by the wildfowler, it is never an easy
matter to predict the effect which stormy conditions will have
upon the normal flightlines of duck and geese. There was an
evening when Andrew and I misjudged things terribly - in more
ways than one.
The trip had been planned for several weeks, our intention being
to try for a dusk duck flight in the middle basin of the estuary.
For such an attempt, the tide had to be well out so that the
expansive mudflats would be uncovered at sunset. During the day,
along with a small group of friends, we had been walking-up some
rather scarce and wily pheasants in a forestry plantation but,
due to worsening weather conditions, gave up the shoot at
mid-day. Throughout the early afternoon Andrew and I sat in a
local roadside caf‚ discussing the prospects for a good
evening flight and watching the rising wind gust the last
remaining bronze-coloured leaves from the tall swaying sycamores
outside. Our optimism growing with the gale, we decided to have
one last cup of tea before setting off for the shore.
When we parked beside the paper mill weir, the rain had stopped
but low dark storm clouds scudded across the heavens in the teeth
of a near-hurricane. It was a long walk round the perimeter of
the airfield but, hastened by the wind on our backs, the journey
was made without any delays. Then, calculating that the wild
conditions would cause the wigeon to flight close to the winding
river channel, we struck out over the mud towards the banks of
dark seaweed, to the slimy brown fronds which provided the only
cover on that desolate landscape.
Spaced 60 yards apart, we waited and waited. As the sky grew ever
darker a few redshank flew low up the river, their plaintive
piping hardly competing with the howl of the gale. A pair of
shelduck passed with steady, goose-like flight, the bright
contrast of their black, white and chestnut plumage seeming
starkly out of place amid the all-pervading drabness of the
estuary. But, as the dying light of day was finally extinguished,
we caught neither sight nor sound of a single wigeon.
In total blackness, Andrew carefully picked his way toward me and
we concluded that, in such atrocious weather, the duck must have
left the foreshore earlier than usual to seek some sanctuary on
inland ponds and flooded fields. Standing, cold and miserable, on
those remote mudflats we regretted the hours spent drinking tea
in the caf‚.
We should then have retraced our steps to the high water mark and
followed the grassy banking back to civilisation. So wretched was
our condition, though, that we set our aim at the distant lights
of the paper mill and attempted to take a shortcut over the mud
alongside the foaming river. That was a great mistake. Less than
quarter of a mile had been covered before we found ourselves
plowtering through soft ooze and, almost simultaneously, we both
stuck fast in the glutinous mud.
Luckily, I was able to fall on to my back and remove my feet from
the grip of my wellingtons. Andrew, on the other hand, was less
fortunate. He lost his balance, tumbled forward and discovered
that he could not haul himself out of the thigh waders which he
wore. To help him, I had to roll sideways over the thick, wet mud
and pull him on to his back. By the time that we had retrieved
our footwear and regained firmer ground we were sweating
profusely and covered from head to toe in evil-smelling sludge.
Two filthy fowlers and two equally filthy dogs drove home in
exhausted silence to a somewhat less than rapturous welcome from
Andrew's wife. We had used her much-loved little car for the trip
and the state of its interior defied description.
**********************************************
The outing which will always rank in my memory as the best ever
wildfowling expedition occurred many years ago in weather
conditions which would have had most sane people scurrying for
the comfort of a warm fireside. For a long time I deliberately
avoided retelling this tale because, although there was no great
danger to either of the participants, it did not seem wise to
encourage any newcomer to the sport to spend a protracted period
on a wild shore in mid-winter. I have also always hesitated to
make any public mention of double-figure bags of geese because,
under normal conditions, responsible wildfowlers will stop
shooting after killing two or three of the great grey birds.
The passage of time, the redistribution of wildfowl populations
and the increased shooting pressure on the estuary in question
now make it unlikely that the feat could be repeated. I am also
satisfied that most novices are today sufficiently safety
conscious to recognise real danger if they encounter adverse
conditions on the marsh. Despite those observations, I will make
no excuse for returning later to the questions of safety and
excessive bags of fowl.
Peter joined the wildfowling club a few years after me, coming to
the area from the Midlands and bringing with him one of the best
fowling dogs I have ever known. Zulu was a big, sturdy black
labrador with a broad, noble head from which glistened two of the
wisest eyes I have ever seen on a dog. Our "flight of a
lifetime" was also Zulu's finest hour, a morning when the
skill and endurance of man and beast were tested to the limit.
Although we lived in the centre of the Kingdom of Fife and, at
any time between October and April, had up to 20,000 geese
resident within a 20 mile radius of our homes, Peter and I
regularly travelled hundreds of miles in search of new pastures,
confident in the belief that, one of those days, we would find a
fowlers' Mecca, a marsh which would put our local grounds to
shame. With Meg and Zulu in the rear of the Land-Rover we
journeyed to Montrose Basin, the Ythan, the wild Firths north of
Inverness and, on occasions, deep into the lands south of
Hadrian's Wall. We enjoyed some wonderful times, met many
wildfowlers throughout the country and, let it be said, had our
share of disappointments. Quickly we learned to appreciate that,
no matter how highly we had heard a particular estuary or marsh
praised, without both skill and local knowledge the visiting
fowler was on a hiding to nothing. Peter once calculated that we
drove over 300 miles for every bird shot. Certainly, just as at
home, we had more blank flights than fruitful ones.
For one particular expedition we had not only loaded the vehicle
with all the usual fowling gear but had added sleeping bags and
sufficient provisions for an overnight stop. The north shore of
the Solway Firth was not exactly uncharted territory as far as we
were concerned but we did want to get to know the area better and
a two day trip would permit us to explore more of the marsh.
Eastern Scotland had, for over a week, been in the icy grip of a
severe freeze-up but, approaching Galloway, we were unprepared
for the thick snow cover which lay in the fields and blocked all
but the major roads. Even where snow ploughs had cleared a single
track, the going was difficult and often we drove between high
white walls through which only telegraph poles and the highest
trees sprouted skywards. By mid-afternoon we had to engage
4-wheel drive to achieve striking distance of the coast and,
despite the benefit of full traction, were eventually forced to
abandon the vehicle a mile from the shore.
We had timed our visit to coincide with the full moon in the
expectation that we might enjoy an evening flight, spend some
hours on the moonlit merse and then retire to the comfort of the
Land-Rover for a few hours sleep before returning to the marsh to
do business with the fowl in the morning. Our plan was then to
travel farther along the coast to sample a different location on
the following evening. Taking account of the conditions, however,
we elected to carry all of our clothing, together with the food
and a camping stove, down to the sea wall and cache them within
easy reach of the saltings. That way we would suffer from neither
exposure nor hunger if, as appeared likely, the conditions
worsened.
A high spring tide covered much of the marsh when we eventually
slid our guns from their covers. Watching the light slowly fade
from a cold cloudless sky we tried to pick a place where duck
might form a flightline but, in the event, darkness fell without
a shot being fired. We did hear the music of flighting pinkfeet
from farther along the shore but, even had we chosen the right
location, they almost certainly would have passed over well out
of shot.
There was time for a welcome fry-up before the tide turned and we
spent an hour wondering whether another fall of snow might maroon
us on the foreshore for a week or more. With only sufficient food
for a couple of days, the prospect was not particularly inviting,
especially if we were unable to shoot enough fowl to augment our
rations. Such idle speculation was, of course, the sort of
romantic nonsense to which wildfowlers are prone as, no matter
how deep the drifts on the roads, we could readily have walked
ten miles along the high water mark to reach a coastal village.
When the moon came up and the water began to recede, we worked
our way out over the shore, carefully noting every gutter and
taking frequent compass readings as we progressed. With the
silver orb of the moon rising higher in the sky a few wigeon
began to whistle as they passed overhead but there was no chance
to pick out the birds against the inky blackness of the clear
sky. For a couple of hours we waited before Peter remarked that
the chill had gone out of the air. A westerly breeze began to
blow and soon some clouds drifted over, perfectly veiling the
heavens and providing exactly the brightly illuminated backdrop
for which wildfowlers pray.
For some time we shot steadily as small packs of duck traversed
the saltings. A few pinks could be heard in the distance but none
came our way. Then, with ominous suddenness, I was aware of a
warm blast from the south as the wind abruptly changed direction
and, almost immediately, the merse began to to crackle as ice in
the creeks and gullies started to thaw. The thin covering of
cloud was rapidly dispersed and replaced by dark towering masses
which totally obscured the moon and, by the time we had regained
the sanctuary of the sea wall with half a dozen wigeon apiece, a
strong gale was driving rain across the marsh.
Attempting to steal a few hours sleep in those conditions was
futile but, rather than try to return to the Land-Rover, we chose
to shelter through the night in the lee of a large hawthorn
thicket. In the knowledge that the tide would be flowing again by
dawn we checked our bearings and, 90 minutes before the time
scheduled for sunrise, headed for a raised portion of the
saltings alongside a deep creek. With the storm becoming fiercer
by the hour, two tired fowlers positioned themselves 100 yards
apart to await the coming of first light.
Handicapped by my spectacles, I was cowering behind a bank,
attempting to keep the rain off my face, when the sound of a shot
echoed above the unrelenting howl of the wind. Glancing up, I was
just in time to see a skein of geese racing towards me, not more
than 25 yards above the flattened saltgrass. With the wind in
their tails I doubt if their speed was much less than 70 mph and,
just as so often happens, it was two hastily taken snap shots
which brought a right and left crashing to the ground. Meg ran
out, unbidden, to pick up the pinkfeet and she had barely
returned with the second bird when another clustered group of
seven or eight geese came sweeping over the saltings. This time
it was Peter's turn to score a double while I had to be content
with a second barrel kill. For half an hour the pinks continued
to flight in, providing that superb quality of sport which far
surpasses anything offered on the grouse moor or beside a
pheasant covert.
Not until I dropped a bird into the gully did I notice the power
which was behind the rushing water. Pushed by the incoming tide,
the flow should have been upstream but, doubtlessly as a result
of the exceptionally heavy rainfall and rapidly melting snow, the
brown torrent was gushing out to sea.
Paying absolutely no heed to my shouts, Meg leaped into the
raging water to retrieve the goose. Aided by the current she
quickly caught up with the dead bird but, when she turned to
bring it back, the bitch could make no headway against the
stream. Unable to scramble up the steep, slithery sides of the
creek, she began to tire and, as the minutes passed, started to
slip back in the spate.
Having realised our plight, Peter came over to assist but there
was nothing that either of us could do to help the stricken
labrador. We watched in helpless horror as the little bitch grew
weaker and I was on the edge of panic when Zulu slid down the
banking into the gully and swam towards Meg. To our amazement the
big dog took the goose from her and, demonstrating enormous
power, paddled strongly upstream. Relieved of her burden, Meg
succeeded in coming ashore and, although clearly exhausted, ran
along the bank keeping pace with Zulu.
Once both dogs were safely on the firm merse we collected up our
guns and bags and struggled back in the direction of the sea wall
where we laid out nine pinkfeet before brewing a restoring jug of
coffee. There were then decisions to be made. The choice lay
between trudging back to the Land-Rover, with all our gear and
the shot birds, in order that we might attempt to explore a
different section of the Firth or, on the other hand, remain
where we were for another day and night.
Noting that the thaw was continuing, we opted to stay put. That
way, we calculated, there was a good chance that in 24 hours we
would be able to drive the vehicle down to the shore and load up
at the sea wall.
By mid-day the teeming rain had eased off and, although the gale
remained unabated, we were rested and eager to resume our
engagement with the fowl. Neither of us had much experience of
tide flighting on the Solway but, after scanning the marsh with
binoculars, decided that the high wind and fast-flowing tide made
the experiment worthwhile. Aware of the dangers presented by such
wild conditions on a strange marsh, we were perhaps not as
adventurous as the situation demanded and it may be that we
missed out on some of the best opportunities. Nevertheless, by
continuously falling back before the advancing waves, we did see
a lot of duck moving back and forth in their search for
sanctuary. Not many passed within gunshot range but, by the time
darkness fell, Peter had accounted for several mallard while I
succeeded in getting a couple of nice cock teal and a single
pintail.
By that time our hawthorn bushes were becoming very familiar and
we felt almost at home while, once more, sheltering behind them
waiting for the moon to rise. A welcome meal of tinned ham and
baked beans was consumed as we laid plans for the night's
campaign. We knew that if the events of the previous evening were
repeated, we should have the best opportunity of getting under
the pinkfeet by moving a mile farther along the saltings.
However, faced with the choice of exploring uncharted territory
in the dark or settling for the chance of a few wigeon, we opted
to merely repeat the sortie of the night before. In view of the
success which we had achieved during the morning flight, there
was certainly no need to take any risks just for the sake of
another few geese.
Rather than separate, Peter and I stayed together in the creek
which I had occupied that morning. This strategy enabled both of
us to obtain a degree of shelter from the gale, allowed us to
watch two directions simultaneously and, most importantly in view
of our earlier experience, meant that assistance was readily to
hand if any difficulties arose.
The cloud cover was thin and variable with just sufficient
moonlight to persuade the fowl to move. At first it looked as
though we were to witness a repeat performance of the previous
night's sport as small packs of wigeon flighted across the merse.
Between us we shot almost a dozen of the whistling duck, with my
companion getting the lion's share of the action, before their
flightlines altered . As the ebbing tide progressively uncovered
more of the saltings, the wigeon chose to frequent the freshly
washed saltgrass farther out on the marsh.
For another half hour we sat, enjoying the sensation of being
protected from the storm by our deep gutter. Just as we were
discussing whether or not it was time to brave the elements and
return to the sea wall, the music of pinkfooted geese was carried
in on the gale and heavier cartridges were hurriedly loaded in
the hope of a shot. The clamour of the geese grew in intensity as
the ragged flock approached. Although it is never easy to
estimate numbers at night, I guessed that there were over 2000
pinks silhouetted against the moonlit clouds with even more
invisible against the darker sky.
For fully five minutes we crouched in that gully watching the
geese overhead. There were orderly skeins and disorganised
groups, high geese and low, silent parties and noisy. So
enthralling was the spectacle that we let them all pass
unmolested until the last shootable birds were directly above us.
Misjudging their speed, we each had time for only a single shot
and, as it happened, mine connected while Peter's went astray.
During the wigeon flight I had kept Meg securely tethered by my
side so that Zulu had to pick all of our duck but, as the
pinkfoot was clearly in sight, lying on firm ground, I decided to
release the little bitch to let her regain her confidence after
the morning's ordeal. I need not have worried. She bounded out,
picked up the dead goose and carried it high as she trotted back
to our creek.
Despite our excitement, fatigue was beginning to have its effect
and, notwithstanding the mildness of the night, both Peter and I
began to feel chilled. It was not quite midnight, the moon was
still high in the sky and we could have remained on the marsh in
the expectation of getting some sporadic shooting but,
surrendering to our shivers and feeling decidedly hungry, we
repaired to our base to feed, rest and recover our energies for
the morning flight.
It was totally unreasonable to expect another dawn like the one
before yet, as the first pale streaks of morning were accompanied
by a heightening of the gale and a resumption of the previous
day's torrential rain, our anticipation of exciting sport was
sharpened.
To add a little variety to the situation, Peter and I swapped
places. This unfortunately meant that I had to keep my eyes open,
being unable to rely upon the sound of my pal's shots to alert me
to approaching birds. Despite my limited vision in those
circumstances, the sight which unfolded as daylight strengthened
was really quite incredible. Geese passed inland from their roost
at the tide's edge, other geese crossed back over the merse after
feeding under the moon, duck flew past in all directions and
waders circled and spiralled in front of the advancing waves.
The effect of rain on my glasses did nothing to improve my
standard of marksmanship but, by the time the marsh had
quietened, Meg had retrieved three geese and several duck while
Zulu had been working even harder for Peter. Our joint tally for
the morning flight amounted to eight pinkfeet, a greylag and a
dozen assorted duck.
Buffeted mercilessly by the gale, the trek back to dry land was
even more arduous than previously. Eventually, breathless and
soaking with sweat, we regained the shelter of the sea wall and
thankfully slid down to our beloved hawthorn thicket. After
shedding our load and recovering our breath, we drew lots to
decide who would walk inland to collect the Land-Rover. Needless
to say, I lost and, leaving Peter to guard the guns, dogs and
equipment, I trudged up the track to reach the vehicle. For the
first time in 36 hours my feet touched a metalled road.
**********************************************
Without any doubt, that was wildfowling with a capital
"W". Wild duck and geese in extremely wild conditions
provide the ultimate challenge to the sporting Shot. A bag of 19
geese and over 30 duck might seem excessive and certainly there
is room to criticise people who kill dozens of geese over decoys
or, worse still, shoot them flighting in to a roosting loch at
night. Nevertheless, although neither Peter nor I ever shot
similar numbers before, or since, we did feel that less than one
bird per man-hour in the wildest of winter weather was not an
unreasonable reward for enduring such cruel conditions.
To any novice who reads these words, it must be emphasised that
although wildfowling in foul weather can be a most exhilarating
pursuit, the world of howling winds and racing tides, of oozing
mud and treacherous sands, contains many pitfalls for the
untutored beginner. The sport of fowling must be learned over
many years and any unknown estuary treated with the utmost
caution.
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.
