First Flight on Loch
Leven
Eric Begbie
recalls a great day |
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Back in the early 1980s my 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 the Tay Estuary, my
friend 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 "Dundee
Courier" 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 on automatic pilot. 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 St Serf's island and traversed the
length of the loch to pass high over the lights of Kinross. 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 stretch of shoreline. 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 of
the North Queich 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 rage. 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 Loch Leven declined and eventually we had to give up the
lease. For those short years, however, it was a fantastic privilege
to be able to go wildfowling right on the shore of one of Europe's
principal waterfowl wintering sites. Admittedly, having access to
only a few hundred yards of the loch's 12-mile shoreline meant that
the geese did not always flight over our patch but, when the weather
was suitably wild, watching the great skeins battle against a gale
as they come off that expansive inland water was the next best thing
to being far out on the foreshore. |
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