Welcome to the party

A. E. B. Johnson makes good use of a strong wind to catch some early wigeon — he knows they’re out there, it’s just a question of finding them

Winds will be fresh to strong, force five to six, possibly increasing to force seven,” warned the weather forecaster. I immediately had visions of straggling parties of duck beating low into the wind over the wide expanses of estuary mudflats and along the edge of the saltings as the tide steadily covered the muds. Surely this could be the opportunity of getting a few ducks?

There were already plenty of wigeon in residence, I knew, for only recently I had been out on an unproductive evening flight and seen several large flights heading upriver. Since daybreak, the sky had become overcast and the tops of the tall trees at the bottom of my garden were swaying in the face of a freshening breeze. On the exposed mudflats, I thought, the wind would be even stronger and, with a making tide, I certainly ought to get some shooting.

Duck on the move

When I arrived at the estuary, a strong south-westerly blow was indeed in progress, flattening the sere, whitening grasses along the side of the sea wall and sending shimmering ripples scudding across the shallow puddles left by the previous tide.

Far downriver, the tide was already beginning to flow and soon, I hoped, both waders and duck would move to the upper reaches of the estuary. After a rather buffeting walk across the squelchy muds, with here and there a little easier going on patches of firmer shingle, I reached the junction of a wide creek and the main river. Half a mile downriver the tide was flowing over the muds, the area of water gradually expanding in width and creeping progressively nearer.

Between creek and main river lay a triangular portion of saltings and, towards the seaward point, the tidal currents had eroded and undermined the brown and vermilion-tinted clays of the saltings’ edge to form a series of nooks — almost natural hides. The clumps of seablite that overhung

“The tidal currents had eroded the brown clay of the saltings into nooks —

almost natural hides”

the lip of the saltings made these positions even more desirable, and I selected one such spot on the side of the creek, with the wind blowing directly from my rear and downriver.

“

Tearaway flocks

As I settled in, a redshank rose in alarm from the saltings and, calling incessantly, flew around me once as if to size up the extent of the danger, before flying off across the muds. Shortly afterwards, small, tearaway flocks of dunlin began rushing past at intervals, heading up the creek, while three oystercatchers, looking ducklike at a distance, flew over the main river. The bubbling call of a curlew