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Although, almost by definition,
wildfowling takes place on the windswept marshes, desolate
foreshores and muddy estuaries which extend far below the sea
wall, it is possible to shoot duck and geese on inland waterways
or, at times, over arable land and rough pasture. In such
situations it is vitally important never to take unfair advantage
of the fowl but, provided that the unwritten ethics of the sport
are observed and any temptation to take large bags is steadfastly
resisted, then some exciting adventures may be experienced.
Several years after I joined the local wildfowling club we were,
in the middle of a season, offered the shooting rights on Loch Fitty, a 160
acre loch in the south of the county. Arriving to meet the owners
one Saturday morning in early November, a sweep of the area with
field glasses revealed over 300 mallard and tufted duck riding
out a gentle wave. A tour of the perimeter in a motor boat then
resulted in dozens of teal springing from the reeds around the
edges and it was clear that the marshy ground at either end of
the loch also harboured a goodly supply of duck.
The proprietors, whose principal interest in the water was as a
put-and-take trout fishery, had erected rough wildfowling hides
in strategic positions and advised us that the rental included
two boats with outboard engines and the use of the heated fishing
lodge for changing before and after flights. The prospect of such
unaccustomed luxury, coupled with a glorious abundance of
wildfowl, led to the lease being signed without further ado.
At 5.30 am on the following Saturday morning 8 eager club members
assembled at the lodge and, as numbers were drawn for hide
positions, the discussion centred around such topics as the
adequacy of cartridge stocks. Should a bag limit be imposed upon
each Gun? If so, should the maximum be set at 8 duck or might 6
birds be more prudent? Would an open-bored skeet gun be more
appropriate than a heavy 3" magnum? As it turned out, all of
those questions were to remain strictly hypothetical.
Our first indication of impending disaster was presented
immediately we trooped out of the lodge. Instead of stepping down
from the jetty into the boats, wadered legs had to be swung up
over the gunwhales, a week of torrential rain having raised the
water level by fully two feet. The second surprise came as we
motored out to the hides. Duck which we confidently expected to
flight in to the loch at dawn were already there. Many
doubtlessly decided that nocturnal boating was not to their
liking and forsook the water for more peaceful sanctuaries.
At last, just as the first faint streaks of morning appeared
above the eastern horizon, all the Guns were deposited at their
allocated positions and our troubles really began. The high water
level meant that most of the hides were remote from dry land and,
whereas those fowlers with the foresight to have donned thigh
waders were able to avoid wet feet, the few wearing wellingtons
had to reconcile themselves to a soaking. The problems of the
fowlers, however, were slight compared to those encountered by
our dogs. While I discovered that to lower my head below the top
of the hide entailed crouching in such a fashion that my backside
became submerged, Meg was committed to an hour of swimming in
circles. Although a cold, wet bottom did nothing to improve the
standard of my shooting, I fear that the effect of circular
paddling had disastrous consequences for my labrador's interest
in the sport. The poor beast was too busy keeping her head above
water to mark any bird which was shot - and those were few and
far between.
Around the loch the same story was emerging. Guns were unable to
get cover or reasonable shooting stances and the odd duck which
was sufficiently unlucky to collide with a charge of shot was
left unmarked, to be searched for at the end of the shoot.
Despite our high expectations, the bag at the end of the day
consisted of 3 tufties, a mallard and a shoveler. Fortunately
wildfowlers are not easily daunted by adverse conditions so, as
dogs and clothing were dried in the lodge, the conversation
turned to the remaining two months of the season and the sport
which surely lay ahead.
A fortnight later we returned with hopes renewed. The water level
had dropped to near normal and conditions looked perfect for a
splendid flight. Well before daybreak, nine men were ensconced in
their hides, dogs were sitting high and dry on the fish boxes
which we had brought down during the week, full cartridge bags
hung inside the butts and we awaited the arrival of the quarry.
We waited ........ and waited. Eventually, a good hour after
dawn, the first shots were fired from the east end of the loch.
Just as Meg looked at me as if to ask what anyone was finding to
shoot at, a pair of mallard suddenly flashed past slightly out of
range. The dog's eyes followed them as they circled the water,
doubtlessly hoping that they might come back round. It was not to
be. A shot rang out from a neighbouring hide and the drake
tumbled out of the sky while his mate made herself scarce in the
direction of the sun. At 10 o'clock we persuaded ourselves that
no more duck were coming and stood back to admire the morning's
bag of 2 teal and the single mallard.
So was set the pattern for the rest of the season. The keener
members of the party continued to arrive at unearthly hours of
the morning to be ferried out to hides and await the flight which
never materialised. There were duck frequenting the loch - a few
mallard one week, a dozen teal the next; a pair of goldeneye on
one occasion and, twice, a small flock of greylag driven off the
foreshore by storm-force winds. But never the prodigious stock of
birds which had initially lured us to the water.
When January drew to a close the consensus of opinion was that
our club had wasted its money and a decision was taken to
terminate the lease. Not being convinced that the water had been
afforded a fair trial, I arranged for my own name to be
substituted as tenant and, accompanied by a group of friends,
spent the following autumn and winter critically examining the
comings and goings - principally the goings - of the fowl on the
loch. Their numbers seemed slightly higher than we had
encountered during the previous season but sport continued to be
somewhat sparse.
The highlight of that year occurred in early November. I had
invited WAGBI (as it then was) to base a wildfowling course at
the loch and a morning flight was arranged as part of the
curriculum. For once fate was kind and, although the bag was not
enormous, our students succeeded in shooting an interesting
variety of duck. Mallard, teal, pochard, goldeneye, tufted duck
and gadwall were proudly carried back to the hotel to augment the
specimens for a wildfowl identification session later in the day.
A useful bonus from that course derived from the fact that
veteran fowlers Arthur Cadman and Allan Allison were amongst the
lecturers and each was able to offer constructive advice
regarding potential improvements to the shoot.
Throughout the following summer we worked to put a fresh
management plan into operation. New hides were required in
different positions so trailer loads of timber pallets were
unloaded at strategic points. Whoever invented the fork-lift
truck certainly rendered a considerable service to wildfowling.
Never had hides been constructed so rapidly nor so solidly before
the advent of the ubiquitous pallet. As a fiery August came to
its end we witnessed an unprecedented number of mallard
frequenting the water and a few families of teal appeared to have
bred successfully in the vicinity.
It was, therefore, with renewed optimism that a breezy group of
fowlers arrived for the first shoot of the new season. The
effervescent mood of the party belied the fact that each had
risen from his bed before 4 o'clock and anticipation was
heightened when the fishery manager reported that a steady
build-up of duck had continued throughout the first fortnight of
September. In contrast to previous flights on the loch there was
no anticlimax that morning, no let-down as dawn came and went.
Only one Gun failed to score but even he saw enough action to
have made his journey worthwhile. The bag was by no means
fantastic but it did demonstrate that careful thought and some
hard work were necessary prerequisites of successful sport on
that loch. Lessons had been learned the hard way and unrealistic
expectations tempered. Perseverance had not only shown us how to
shoot the loch to maximum advantage; those who possessed the
resolve to stay the course had also learned how to gain
satisfaction from moderate sport coupled with a greater
involvement in the management of the shoot. Instead of going out
weighed down with 50 cartridges, we settled for carrying a
pocketful of ammunition together with a bag of tools to repair or
improve our hides.
**********************************************
A few years later, also in mid-season, the wildfowling club had
an amazing stroke of luck when an opportunity arose to rent some
shooting rights adjacent to Loch Leven. Frequently, when
motoring south with empty bags from a sortie to one of the
estuaries, Leon and I cast covetous glances at the great flocks
of geese grazing in the stubbles alongside the motorway or
filling the sky as they moved from field to field in search of
the richest feeding. We knew that the loch itself was a nature
reserve and that the estate which surrounded it was so carefully
managed that no itinerant fowler was likely to be permitted to
set foot on its verdant pastures.
What we did not realise at that time was that a small section of
the loch's shoreline was in independent ownership. It was a
vigilant club secretary who noticed a small advertisement in the
local newspaper offering the sporting lease of a single field
which ran down to the water's edge. A letter was written, an
interview arranged and it said a good deal about the reputation
of the club when, from over 100 applicants, the landowner chose
us to be his shooting tenants.
Needless to say, the responsibilities placed upon the shoulders
of the club committee were enormous. Under the watchful eyes of
the nature reserve warden and the keepers of the adjoining
estate, no lapse of good conduct could be permitted nor any hint
of greed be tolerated. Fully aware of the burden resting upon its
membership, the committee drew up a rota which ensured that both
the frequency of shooting and the number of Guns were strictly
controlled.
It was under this arrangement that, with considerable excitement,
I prepared for my first flight at the loch. Days of rain had
transformed the landscape into a patchwork of flood and flash
while the temperature plummeted to deliver a final deathblow to
the Korean chrysanthemums in the garden. From my window I could
see that the first snow of winter had capped the hills and I
retired to bed on the night before the flight with modest
optimism for the morrow.
As always on shooting days, I awoke long before the alarm clock
disturbed the rest of the household and washing, shaving,
breakfasting and dressing were performed in a most perfunctory
fashion. My mind was firmly on the hours ahead - a preoccupation
which, judging from the scuffles emitting from the kennel
outside, was shared by the labradors. As gun, clothing and dogs
were packed into the Land-Rover, I noted that not only had the
wind of the previous evening dropped to a gentle breeze but,
perversely, the clouds had cleared during the night and a full
moon brightly illuminated the snowy hilltops. Such conditions
inevitably spell disaster for a morning flight on the estuary so
I feared that the geese on the loch might already have deserted
the roost to feed in the silver moonlight.
In the event, I need not have worried. I met the other two Guns
who were scheduled to shoot that morning and we walked down the
long narrow field to an accompaniment of goose music from many,
many geese out on the water. Although the eastern sky was tinged
with only the merest hint of dawn, the grey flocks were clearly
preening in preparation for another day. We each ensconced
ourselves in the tangle of reeds, rushes and hawthorn which lined
the shore and slipped cartridges into the chambers of our guns in
readiness for the flight.
Duck began to move very early. From my own position I was unable
to catch sight of them until they had cleared the black backdrop
of trees behind me and most were well out of shot before the gun
could be brought to shoulder. A single bird did, however, give an
advance warning quack and paid the price for its noisy approach.
At last the pinkfeet and greylag began to grow restless. First a
few small skeins rose from the vicinity of the long island and
traversed the length of the loch to pass high over the lights of
a nearby town. For a period of 20 minutes the activity increased
until the sky seemed full of geese - skeins large and small,
orderly and ragged, silent and calling, high and low. But only
the high ones, it seemed, came over our field. There were a few
to which guns were raised but, discretion prevailing, triggers
were not pulled. The possibility that a warden might have had his
field glasses trained upon us added an extra margin of caution to
our range-judging.
When we reckoned that the flight had ended we gathered by the
boundary river to discuss the prospects for the remainder of the
season. Certainly harder weather was required and a good gale
would not go amiss. We were earnestly considering whether an
evening duck flight might pay dividends when a loud
"wink-wink-wink" caused us to dodge behind a thorny
briar. Being the only one who had not slipped his gun into its
cover, the youngest member of the party hurriedly thrust a single
cartridge into the chamber of his 20-bore and brought the gun to
bear upon the leader of four pinkfeet which had caught us
unawares as they flighted the wrong way back towards the loch. As
so often happens with a snap shot, his aim was spot-on and the
goose tumbled out of the sky stone-dead. For once Meg did not run
in and I was able to send my younger dog over the wide stream to
collect the bird. While we were watching her swim back, another
small group of pinks emerged from behind the trees and passed
directly overhead well within range. This time no-one succeeded
in getting a cartridge into his gun.
Sadly, as the years passed, the number of club members who were
willing to pay a small additional subscription for the privilege
of shooting at the Big Loch declined and a few of us were
fortunate in persuading the landowner to make a private
arrangement for a continued lease. Admittedly, having access to
only a few hundred yards of the loch's 12-mile shoreline means
that the geese do not always flight over our patch but, when the
weather is suitably wild, watching the great skeins battle
against a gale as they come off that expansive inland water is
the next best thing to being far out on the foreshore.
**********************************************
Wildfowling below the sea wall is essentially a solitary
occupation. Shooting duck or geese inland, on the other hand, can
have its social side and, occasionally, the pursuit of fowl might
be coupled with a few hours of roughshooting.
Just such a day of mixed sport resulted from a telephone call
from Patrick Keen who, at that time, was a director of one of
Britain's largest shotgun distributors. He had, a year earlier,
provided me with a new gun to test for one of the shooting
magazines and suggested that I returned it to his Perthshire
retreat one Saturday morning. There followed an invitation to
arrive sufficiently early to have a crack at the geese which
frequented the loch near his cottage.
Patrick's directions were easily followed and I located his
hideaway without difficulty. Then, over a very welcome cup of
coffee, I was introduced to fellow guests Johnny and Angus and to
Caroline who most efficiently combined the roles of cook, driver
and official photographer.
The value of reconnaissance and preparation for a goose foray
cannot be overstated but Patrick took the matter to an extreme of
thoroughness. Setting up a large scale map on an easel he
explained that, while he was away on business, Caroline had spent
her mornings crawling along ditches to check up on the movements
of the geese. The positions for each Gun were marked on the map
as the plan of campaign unfolded. Greylag would make a short
flight from the loch to a nearby grass field, Patrick asserted,
and would do so in skeins of 20 to 30 birds. Any shots fired at
that stage would disturb the geese still on the loch and send
them off in the opposite direction.
The strategy, therefore, was to take our places while it was
still dark and lie low until all the birds were feeding on the
pasture. When he adjudged the time to be right, Patrick would
fire a single shot into the air and, if the scheme worked, the
greys would take to the sky and flight over the waiting Guns. It
was absolutely forbidden for anyone to pull a trigger until the
signal had been given. On many previous occasions I had heard a
similar plan related by a hopeful host and I knew only too well
that the geese usually had other intentions. To observe the
common courtesies demanded of a guest, however, I resolved to
abide by his instructions.
After a short drive in the Land-Rover we disembarked in the
darkness beside some farm buildings. The sound of the greylag on
the roost served to quicken our steps as we headed for the
appointed field where I was dropped off in a ditch on the
southern boundary while the others crossed to the opposite side.
Barely 10 minutes passed before the calling of geese in flight
rose above the general music of preening birds.
My gutter was half-filled with flood water yet, to avoid being
seen, I was forced to crouch low with my face practically pressed
into the mud. In the semi-darkness I risked an occasional furtive
glance over the top to watch small groups of greys circling the
field before pitching confidently into the centre. Now and then a
party would pass directly overhead, not more than 20 yards high,
and if the itching of my trigger finger was difficult to quell,
preventing Moy's eagerness from giving the game away was even
more problematic. Almost half an hour elapsed before the stream
of geese from the loch showed any sign of abating, by which time
well over a thousand birds were grazing contentedly on the lush
grass.
Some of the greys were within six feet of my ditch and, through
the stalks of herbage, I surveyed the scene with amazement. Never
before had I been so close to unsuspecting geese. The noise from
the great flock was overpowering. Angus later described it as
being akin to the buzzing of a billion butch bees and I was hard
pressed to think of a more appropriate phrase. Moy grew
increasingly excited as the noise level increased and, in the
end, I had to lie firmly on top of the poor labrador to prevent
her from sticking her head up for a better view.
Suddenly the sound of a single shot rang out from across the
field and the busy murmuring of the feeding birds abruptly
changed to the roar of threshing pinions and then into the
cacophonous flight call of a huge flock of greylag. Up the
pasture they swept, rising into the wind. At the head of the
meadow the birds turned and. still gaining height, flighted back
towards our positions in several long ragged skeins. Without any
conscious decision I sprang up, threw the gun to my shoulder and,
just as I realised that my feet were firmly stuck in the mud in
the bottom of the ditch, pulled the trigger. The goose at which I
had fired thumped into the grass at exactly the same instant as I
landed on my back in the water. If I had possessed sufficient
presence of mind I might have been able to take a semi-submerged
second shot to complete the right-and-left but I have to confess
that the thought never entered my head.
Taking the bird from Moy, I crossed the field to where Angus was
picking up another grey. Soon we were joined by Johnny, also
proudly bearing a goose, and we spent a few moments remarking
upon the wonder and excitement of the occasion. When a gooseless
Patrick strode into sight the injustice was obvious. After
planning the campaign so perfectly, he had failed to score. Then,
as if to ensure fair play, a single greylag called from high
above the trees. Patrick's gun went up and the goose came down.
Angus had to leave at that point so, after Caroline had taken a
couple of photographs for the record book, she added the role of
beater to her varied repertoire of skills and accompanied the
remaining three Guns for an impromptu walk around the few hundred
acres of farmland over which Patrick had permission to shoot.
We crossed a narrow wooden bridge and lined up to walk through an
area of rough grazing. Towards the end of that field we came to a
dry-stane dyke and, as was her wont, Moy trotted forward and
placed her front paws atop the stones to view the land on the
other side. As she surveyed the vista, a covey of five or six
partridge rose from the shelter of the wall and whirred away from
us. Once more I was denied a right-and-left. My first shot
brought down two of the little brown birds and such was my
surprise that I forgot a second barrel was available.
A short drive through a field of turnips brought a pheasant and
another partridge to Johnny and then we crossed a small paddock
at the top end of the shoot. Over a barbed wire fence lay a
little triangle of rough grass and whin bushes through which we
would have to pass before reaching another area of turnips. We
were all astride the wire, guns correctly unloaded, when a strong
covey of partridge erupted from the base of a clump of whins and
escaped, unsaluted, over the field. A few mild expletives were
exchanged but we had not altered our stances when a single
partridge took wing from the same bush and followed its fellows
over the horizon.
Quickly we untangled ourselves from the fence, reloaded our
weapons and sent the dogs forward with a faint hope that yet
another perdix might be lurking in the cover. Instead of a
partridge, however, Moy nosed a large cock pheasant which
rocketed skywards, protesting noisily. My shot stopped it dead
and, at the report of the gun, a rabbit and a big brown hare fled
from the whins. Patrick accounted for the bunny. Next, Caroline
and Patrick drove a sloping field of turnips which yielded three
pheasant, all of them superbly grown wild birds. Finally, heading
back towards the rickety timber bridge, Patrick placed the
efficacy of his little 20-bore beyond doubt by taking a
right-and-left from a covey of partridge which appeared but
fleetingly before disappearing into a tall stand of trees.
Fifteen minutes later we unloaded four geese, five pheasant, six
partridge and the solitary rabbit from the Land-Rover and retired
into the house for a gargantuan meal of porridge, bacon, eggs,
tomatoes, mushrooms and black pudding. I was halfway through a
huge plateful of the delicious fry-up before I looked at my
wristwatch and discovered that it was only 10.45 am.
**********************************************
Decoying geese on inland stubbles is a subject which never ceases
to arouse a great deal of emotive controversy whenever
wildfowlers debate the ethics of their sport. There is no doubt
that excessive numbers of wildfowl can be killed by unscrupulous
shooters when decoys are employed and, as dead wild geese cannot
legally be sold, there is never any excuse for shooting large
bags of those magnificent birds. When practised with restraint,
however, attempting to lure pinkfeet or greylag into gunshot
range by the use of calls and decoys can be a challenging and
satisfying branch of the sport.
One fowling guide who became noted for insisting that his clients
stopped shooting after three or four geese had been shot was Mal
Kempston. He operated in an area not far from my home and, once
or twice each season, he used to invite me to accompany him on a
dawn outing. The pleasure of such mornings lay not only in having
the opportunity to shoot a goose or two but, more particularly,
in witnessing a master at work. Not that the geese invariably
co-operated!
It was a thoroughly miserable day to be engaged in any pursuit
other than fowling. Torrential rain had fallen throughout the
night and my 10 mile drive had to be taken with the utmost
caution to avoid the deep flood water under which several
sections of the road were submerged. Doubtlessly the local
authority would have its standby squads out to clear blocked
drains long before the commuter traffic took to the highways but,
at 5.30 am, I passed several stranded motor cars on my journey to
meet Mal at the hotel from which he worked.
When I drew up in the car park the rain had abated to a
persistent drizzle. Under the street lights I was introduced to
the two Irishmen who would be shooting that morning and I nodded
sagely as Mal recited his ritual briefing. No guns were to be
loaded until the hides had been built and decoys set out. The
geese should be allowed to circle until they were within easy
range and no-one must shoot until he gave the word. Whatever the
outcome, we would leave the fields by 9 o'clock in order that the
birds might be allowed to settle and enjoy a full day's feeding
without harassment. His lecture concluded, our guide then climbed
into his van and led the small convoy eastwards.
At the farm we parked in an extremely muddy field where, our
boots squelching in a veritable quagmire, four bulky sacks were
unloaded from Mal's vehicle and hoisted on to our shoulders. Thus
laden, it was necessary to cross two fields of barley stubble and
one of soft rutted plough before reaching the place where geese
had been feeding the day before. Only a wire strand fence gave
any semblance of cover so the first task was to unpack camouflage
netting from one of the sacks and drape it over the wire. To give
our hide a more natural appearance, armfuls of straw-coloured
grass were piled against the base of the netting and a few tufts
woven into the mesh to break up the uniformity of its outline.
One of the other sacks contained half a dozen full-bodied plastic
geese while the remaining two held 40 lightweight shell decoys.
Under Mal's instruction we placed those out on the barley stubble
in an irregular pattern, taking care to ensure that the majority
faced into the wind. Some wildfowlers believe that they can make
do with 10 or 12 decoys but most professional guides consider
that a much larger number is required to give a realistic
impression of a feeding flock. Certainly, as we climbed over the
fence and crouched down behind our camouflaged hide, the spread
of surrogate geese before us looked exceedingly lifelike.
While we patiently waited in the murky dawn, the Irish fowlers
told tales of flighting whitefronted geese on the Wexford Slobs
and shooting mallard, goldeneye and pochard beside Lough Sheelin.
Then, from far away in the grey morning sky, we picked up the
faint music of pinkfeet. Mal put his wooden goose call to his
lips and began to talk to the, as yet, invisible skein. Peering
through the mesh of the netting we scanned the horizon as the
sound of the pinks grew in intensity. At last, through the mist
and drizzle, a wavering line of around 30 birds emerged and the
master changed the notes from his call to produce the low,
chattering murmur of feeding geese. Lower and lower came the
pinkfeet, circling the field once, twice and then a third time.
They were obviously interested in the decoys but hesitated to
approach too close. On their fourth circuit we thought that the
birds were about to alight amidst their plastic lookalikes but,
while still over the centre of the stubble field, the leader
wiffled from the sky and the others followed to land 150 yards
from our fence.
That is just about the worst thing that can happen when decoying.
During the next half-hour three more skeins of pinks approached
but, try as he might with his call, Mal could not persuade them
to come to our decoys in preference to the ever-increasing flock
of real geese in the middle of the field. Eventually, true to his
word, the guide announced that it was 9 o'clock and we drew
stumps without having fired a shot. Naturally, when the decoys
were collected and hides dismantled, the feeding pinks lifted
from the stubble. As we trudged back towards the cars the geese
were still circling high overhead and, before we drove away, they
had dropped back into the field to pick waste grain from amongst
the harvested stalks.
Over a hearty breakfast in the hotel a post-mortem was held. Were
the decoys a trifle too close to the fence? Had we interwoven
enough grass into the netting? Might the rain have caused the
plastic shells to shine despite Mal's care in painting them with
a matt finish? Definitive answers could not be found but the
visitors from Ireland were already eagerly anticipating the next
morning when, perhaps, a change of strategy might bring the geese
within range.
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.
