A wade in the Wash

Alan Holden attempts to navigate Holbeach Marsh alongside his friend Arthur, but muddy conditions and treacherous creeks mar their plans

Some years ago, while based in Norfolk, I carried out quite a number of sorties on the Wash at the RAF bombing range of Holbeach. I had even come to terms with the geese, and the first sight and sound I had of them is indelibly imprinted on my memory.

My friend Arthur, although experienced in inland wildfowling, had never been on a coastal marsh, and I was determined that he should be initiated. I knew that the marshes were not as free as on my previous sorties but, after some letter-writing, all was organised. And so it was on a Friday evening that we found ourselves driving in the direction of Holbeach Marsh. Our headquarters for the weekend was a wooden cottage built by our host’s husband many years ago. She knew well the ways of wildfowlers and did us proud throughout our stay. That evening was spent in a pub much frequented by the local fowlers.

A tricky crossing

I was not happy at the thought of leading Arthur out for the morning flight after being away from the marsh for three years, especially as we were not quite on my old haunt. One of our hosts, however, volunteered to act as a guide, and all was arranged for the following morning.

It was cold and pitch black with a completely overcast sky as we stumbled towards the sea wall along the edge of a ploughed field. We reached the former before we realised it. There was a rush of wings and two mallard sailed over, silhouetted momentarily against what light there was, but not a gun spoke — all three of us were unloaded.

Arthur and I only had knee-length boots, so crossing the empty main creek on to the marsh was somewhat tricky. We then had a straight march along the creek out to the mud. There

was a sudden noise in the creek, but it proved a false alarm; we had disturbed a small seal left high and dry by the receding tide.

We arrived at our positions just as the first signs of light were appearing in the east. We lined out, using the creek for cover. I kept having to shift my position as my feet slowly sank into the muddy banks. There was a

“I pushed my luck and clawed for the far bank, but my boot filled with ice-cold water”

stiff breeze blowing in our faces and we could hear the odd calls of geese. Suddenly, I heard a clamour as they became airborne. I turned to my left and there they were behind me, a full 100 yards away, some 50 pinkfeet in all. We were in the wrong position, but we had seen and heard them, and that was what really counted.

Arthur, on being asked what he thought of his first trip on a coastal marsh, answered: “I’ve never seen so much mud in all my life.”

We scouted the marsh during the day and tried our luck on our own that evening, but without success.

Stuck in the mud

We had arranged to rendezvous the following morning with three other club members at their shooting lodge, which they had built near the sea wall. Frost was in the air as we trudged along the wall for some time before going down on to the marsh. Our guide was leading us to Wigeon Creek, but we had gone too far west and were faced with numerous small creeks that still carried a lot of water, so we continually had to double back to a spot where we could jump them.

Considering myself reasonably fit, and anxious to get in position before first light, I jumped two creeks a little too prematurely and narrowly missed a ducking when my jumping foot slipped at the critical moment. Then I pushed my luck a third time. Have you ever had that feeling you are not going to make it? I found myself descending, with water still below me. I jack-knifed, and brought my left knee up to my chin as I clawed for the far bank, but it was inevitable that something had to be left behind and my right boot filled with ice-cold water. Arthur hooted with laughter.

Brent geese and mallard

Finally, I settled by the side of a wide creek that was still emptying, with Arthur out ahead of me in the hope that he might have a better chance. A flock of brent started to paddle up towards us but, on spotting Arthur, turned 180 degrees and swum away again. There were curlew passing near us again and again, calling wildly in warning as they spotted us.

Suddenly, out of the gloom, two mallard passed between Arthur and me. I swung on to them late as they disappeared into the dark sky; my left leg was stuck fast and my kneecap nearly jumped out of its socket as I tried to make my leg twist still farther. I missed them most handsomely behind with both barrels.

Our trip did not bring us any prizes, but the hospitality we were given by our hosts was second to none.

This article was first published in the 25 November 1965 issue of Shooting Times.

“There they were behind me, a full 100 yards away, some 50 pinkfeet in all”

“I settled by the side of a wide creek, with Arthur out ahead of me in the hope he might have a better chance”

“Arthur and I only had knee-length boots, so crossing the creek to the marsh was somewhat tricky”