Its a long time ago now,
but some of the adventures I shared with Peter, when we both lived
in central Fife, will be remembered for even longer. One of the
great joys was travelling to distant fowling grounds, despite the
fact that for most of the season there would be upwards of 20,000
geese within a few miles of our homes. 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.
|