Shooting Times & Country Magazine
Blown out the water by an alien ‘raptor’
A deafening helicopter passing low overhead surely ends all hope of a greylag — but the foreshore has a consolation prize for Gethin Jones
February offers an annual treat for wildfowlers. Game shooters have put away their guns, while coastal fowlers relish the best sport of the season during the shortest month. Inland, you sense the change of season with snowdrops heralding the approach of spring. Not so on the foreshore. February, despite longer days, is often the coldest month and winter was still showing its teeth with snow on the foothills of Eryri this year.
A fellow fowler reported geese, mainly greylags, flighting from the estuary to nearby fields each morning. It was unusual for geese to be here at this time of year because they prefer the open fields along the coast. Here, they’re rarely disturbed and can find ample grazing as well as numerous splashes for some anserine R&R.
If I could get into position between where the geese were roosting and the fields where they fed, I’d have a chance of a shot. I knew their flightline from watching their movements in October. And I knew there were hiding places in the river channel where I could lay in ambush. The tides were right on Saturday morning, with low tide at 7am allowing me to get into position in the dark and wait for the geese to lift.
Sustenance
I woke up before the alarm sounded and headed to the kitchen to heat a couple of tins of tomato soup to pour into my Thermos. Combined with black pepper and a splash of Worcestershire sauce, there’s no better sustenance on a cold winter foreshore. I’d loaded my gear into the car the previous evening, leaving my gun, myself and Chester for the morning. Chester was wide awake and bolted through the house and leapt into the back of the car. He knew we were going wildfowling.
On arrival, I squeezed into my chest waders, slung my game bag and gun over my shoulder, let Chester out and we set off into the darkness. A 20-minute trudge with the cries of oystercatchers and curlew to guide us brought us to our first landmark, a headland near the channel into which I had to drop to get into position 200 yards away. We reached our post and tucked into the bank to keep out of sight as well as out of the wind. We’d wait here and listen for the calls of approaching skeins.
Almost imperceptibly, the monotone of our surroundings gave way to a few subtle browns and greens as the estuary came to life. The calls
of hurried redshank speeding past at low level were interspersed with gentler cries of lapwings in their tumbling flight.
More trusting than redshank, a few alighted on the shore next to us. Chester seemed captivated by their grace and trusting nature and stared at them with curiosity rather than any desire to give chase.
I heard the first chatter from the distant greys. It is the sound of a farmyard goose but this voice, carried by the wind across the dark estuary, was from the domestic bird’s wild ancestor. The geese were where I’d hoped they’d be about half a mile away. I slipped a pair of steel No 2s into the chambers of my AYA and closed it with a gentle click. We were ready and waiting.
I hoped the geese would come over in small skeins covering a wide front with some overhead. The wind was behind them, meaning they’d fly at speed but would, I hoped, be low enough for a shot. I’d have to be ready to reload quickly, too, as once I’d fired, the remaining geese would lift. The odds were very much in the birds’ favour but I was hopeful.
I suddenly became aware of many birds flying up the main channel. Gulls, curlew, oystercatchers, redshank and even wigeon and teal, all hurtling into the wind, some taking evasive action from an unseen predator. I scanned the sky but could see no sign of a scythe-winged peregrine that are common here.
Then I saw the cause of the panic. First appearing as a bright light to the
“This chatter, carried by the wind across the estuary, was from the wild ancestor”
north-east, a helicopter was heading straight towards me only a couple of hundred feet up. It’s effect on the birds was more dramatic even than any raptor as it flushed every one on the estuary.
As the deafening metal bird roared overhead, my plan lay in
ruins. After it had passed, I heard the unmistakable clamour of greylags taking flight. The panicked geese scattered in all directions except towards us and vanished into the distance as a cloud of shrinking black dots. What terrible luck.
Down but not out, I decided to try to make the most of what remained of the morning. I moved towards an old tree, long ago stranded in the middle of the channel to see if any duck were still flighting.
Black dots
As we reached our spot, the wind was gaining in strength and the rising tide might push some fowl towards our position. Chester knew where we were heading and set off, splashing through the shallow waters and swimming the deeper parts until he got to the old tree, where he stood waiting on a branch, just above the waves. No sooner had we taken our position than I started to see little black dots over the mudflats heading in our direction.
I crouched low, leaning against one of the twisted branches, trying to keep as still as possible with the flight of around a dozen wigeon heading straight for us and only about 10 yards up. On they came but drifted with the wind to pass low, around 60 yards off. Another group was on the same flightline. Again, I kept motionless but they also passed wide.
As so often when wildfowling, nothing moved for ages, apart from the tide, which was rising rapidly and would soon push us both off this mark and back on to the shore.
Sleek
I peered into the distance, wondering how long we’d have here. More black dots appeared in the distance. As they grew bigger, I could see they were ducks but were more loosely grouped than a pack of wigeon. They were pintails. I kept still and prayed they’d pass within range. They came so close I could see the shape of the sleek drakes with their chocolate-coloured heads and long pointed wings and
tails. These beautiful ducks look their very best at this time of year and, even when I realised they’d pass wide, were a tremendous sight.
Just when it looked as though we would be flooded off, another group of ducks headed across the water towards us. With gun muzzles tracking the birds, I kept low in the rising waters. These were wigeon and it looked as though a shot was on. Onward they came and flashed past at about 30 yards. I swung on to a cock wigeon and fired. It folded and splashed down into the channel.
Everything then happened at once. Chester splashed into the water to retrieve the wigeon and the rest of the birds flared, gaining height in the wind. I fired another shot at a single bird and it planed away from the others and dropped. Chester returned with the dead bird but hadn’t seen the second duck drop and I’d only a rough idea of where it fell.
I sent Chester toward the far side of the channel where I’d last seen the falling wigeon. He was unsure at first but swam off and emerged from the channel about 40 yards away. I saw him put on a burst of speed and knew then that he was on to the fallen duck. He dived into the shallows and emerged with it held firmly in his mouth. He completed the retrieve in the nick of time, as the waters had risen above my waist and I had to wade as Chester swam the 60 yards back to the shore.
My plan to intercept the geese had been blown out of the water by the helicopter. The pintail had frustrated us and just when it looked like we’d come off the shore with an empty bag, we were rewarded with a brace of wigeon. Such is fowling. I sleeved my gun, tickled Chester under his chin and off we trudged through the mud back to the car, where there was a snack waiting for Chester and hot tomato soup for me.
“Chester made the retrieve just as the waters were rising”