It was a Sunday
morning in early December, a hoar frost coated the grass of the
seawall as my guide and I marched seawards. The morning was still
and cold and the sounds of curlew and redshank feeding on the mud
could be clearly heard from a great distance away. These sounds,
however familiar, will always be the sounds for me associated with
estuaries and the marshes of the east coast.
The tide was well
out when we reached our flighting position, which was as the back of
a small piece of salting intersected by a few small creeks. Behind
the seawall was a piece of land that had been flooded by the club by
creating a breech in the seawall, along this ran a large creek,
travelling parallel to the seawall. New plants were already
colonising this area, by high tide I was able to see what a
wonderful wildfowl habitat this was.
My guide soon had a hide erected as well as this a few decoys had
been deposited in the creeks in front of us and a pair in the large
creek behind us. As dawn broke a few teal started to flit out from
all directions although few provided a shot. The sight though of
duck, particularly these tiny streamlined ones flighting against the
dawn sky, instantly caught my imagination. As the sun rose I was
able to study the entire scene properly. The muds were thronged with
all sorts of waders and in huge numbers. Dunlin flew about in their
teetering flocks; curlew trilled their wonderful bubbling song a
sound so reminiscent of their moorland breeding grounds and
oystercatchers probed for tit-bits on a far scaup bed. At length the
tide began to noticeably turn and a few teal and mallard began to
move about.
Once the decoys
were afloat a few began to decoy although my terrible shooting
prevented any reaching the inside of the gamebag. My guide soon put
this right however by ‘finishing’ off a drake teal I had supposedly
clipped. The beauty of this duck was quite astounding, the
iridescent green speculum, the bright under tail coverts and most
noticeably the striking green and rich chestnut head, a truly
perfectly formed creature, handsome in every feather. A few minutes
later and a hen was lying next to him for the journey back to the
van.
That was the end of my first morning out ‘fowling. I don’t know what
made me realise from then on that wildfowling was the sport I wanted
to pursue; it may have been the sight of teal scurrying across the
salmon of the eastern sky, or the musical piping of the wader bands
or possibly the sheer wildness of that vast expanse of mud and
water. Probably it was a combination of all these factors and more
that made it an experience I wanted to experience time and time
again.
So later that season my father and I managed to speak to the
secretary of a local wildfowling club who very quickly obtained us
day tickets and readied us for membership. It was still necessary to
shoot with my father as I was only 14 at the time, unfortunately
keen shooting man though he was wildfowling was not to prove to be a
sport for him. Our first day was undertaken in the January of that
season on a large inland marsh in the Waveney valley in Norfolk.
These had a look of the Washes about them, it was a place that
suited the drabness of winter, when the floods were up and a full
moon was riding in the sky it becomes a truly beautiful landscape.
The marshes on this
day however were relatively un-flooded with only a few small flashes
about, this however I was informed was perfect for teal, wigeon and
our daytime quarry, snipe. The day was relatively windy and the
shooting tricky however a few snipe did find their way into the bag.
Some of the flashes had a few signs of duck feeding in them so the
prospects seemed exciting and the evening flight was eagerly
anticipated.
The marsh chosen was extremely low lying and probably had the most
even spread of water over it. This was in general two too five
inches deep and just ideal for all species of dabbling duck to drop
into. As the evening sky turned through its autumnal colours a lone
duck appeared heading for me, this was missed rather easily. As the
last of the light vanished a strange noise hit my ear through the
wind, a sound like tearing paper. I glimpsed them briefly, of course
they were teal, what other ducks sound quite like that. The shooting
was fast but only lasted a few minutes. It was an unforgettable
experience, suddenly seeing those tiny shapes against a last gash of
light, the sounds of their tiny wings seeming to come from all
quarters and the occasional plop as a one manages to drop into the
flood water. Since then I have only been where the teal want to be
once or twice but when it happens it is well worth the wait!
A week or so later my father and I were invited to join the same
chap on an evening flight on one of the saltings at the mouth of the
clubs main estuary. Again there was a strong wind and a real chill
in the air. The estuary here is divided from the sea by a shingle
bank, to the north the estuary winds its narrow course before
heading west. Out to the west of us the marshes had a Dickensian
feel, they were very flat, the main interspersions being an old
pumping station and the prison. The salting itself ran along both
sides of a large creek, on its eastern side were a pair of large mud
pans where the curlew and redshank were busy feeding. This has
become one of my favourite marshes for some reason. The chances of
duck here were not great due to over shooting as the access was
rather easy and the prison on its western horizon were hardly
factors likely to enhance my enjoyment of the place but somehow it
did not effect my appreciation of the place. The over shooting
problem was however overcome as I hope to explain later.
Well back to the flight. The tide was quite a distance out on
arrival although a few duck were moving a bout over the shingle spit
on the far side of the estuary. One of these groups, a band of
mallard swung over our guide who missed them handsomely with three
shots. A tufted duck then swung in high over myself and was missed
by myself and then my father. Evening flight was a bit of a let down
although I did manage a shot at a group of teal. The important thing
was though that afternoon had confirmed that I did really have the
desire to become a wildfowler and that I did have a love of these
wild tracts of land where the land meets the sea in the world of the
shore birds and wildfowl.
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