Shooting Times & Country Magazine
Delight in a wet night
On a dull, wet evening, excellent wildfowling conditions offer A E B Johnson a chance at ducks, and he’s determined to make the most of it
The afternoon had been one of light drizzly rain and low cloud, with only the hint of a breeze from the east. I had arrived quite early for evening flight as, with the prospect of a really dull evening, I felt confident that the ducks would move early and that there would be a good chance of a prolonged flight. This is far preferable to those clear evenings when a flight may last a matter of 15 minutes or so at the most.
Having left my car at the farm, I was soon squelching along the rough cart track that leads towards the marshes. The yellowing elm leaves along the tall, unkept hedgerow contrasted sharply with the clusters of dark red haws hanging in crimson profusion. A pigeon clattered out of a small oak just ahead of me, causing a shower of heavy drips to patter down on to the bushes beneath.
Blackbirds seemed everywhere. They burst from the hedgerow on both sides, ‘penk, penk, penking’ along the dry ditch in confusion.
Marshland drain
Just as I was about to climb over a gate, I heard the chattering of a party of mallard somewhere ahead but obviously on a different route. I finally came to a halt quite close to a bunch of old willows that stand at the junction of a wide ditch and a marshland drain. It is a spot where, more often
than not, you may get a shot or two at ducks as they head inland or, occasionally, in the opposite direction towards the estuary.
Like woodpigeons, ducks have their recognised flightlines and you can usually have some sport, under the right conditions. This was, in fact, the first evening of real fowling weather we had had here this autumn. Bright, mellow weather, little wind and bountiful stubbles everywhere had been all in the ducks’ favour so far. Tonight there was a good chance of one or two for the table.
Commotion
With quite a commotion, a moorhen fluttered down from among a bushy growth of willow and flew low up the drain and out of sight in the gloom. Peewits wailed nearby and four birds came swerving and thrumming out of the misty drizzle to carry on over the rough grazing of the marshes. Sounds carried far on this still, damp evening.
A bullock bellowed somewhere ahead, cars and motorcycles roared along the distant roadway, a foghorn sounded mournfully from the main estuary and a dog barked in the village. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the light was fading.
A small flight of mallard swept past at no great height to my right, in quite a tight wedge, heading for the stubbles and arable land of the uplands. A snipe ‘scaiped’ into the air from the marshland ahead and I imagined it climbing diagonally upwards into the drizzle. I wiped the barrels of my 12-bore with my jacket sleeve to remove some of the raindrops that had accumulated. More mallard swept dimly past, again well wide of my position.
Then, out of the drizzle and heading straight for me, came some 15 or so ducks, strung out in a wide V formation. Before they actually came in shot, however, they began to veer away to my left, leaving me a longish shot at the end bird. Fortunately, I was well on target and the duck plummeted into a patch of thistles, hitting the ground with a rare thump. A second barrel was out of the question, for the remainder of the flight flared up and disappeared into the gloom.
I hurried over to collect my prize and found it was a fine mallard drake, apparently in full winter dress. I was disappointed to discover later that the dark variegated feathers I use for tying such artificial flies as the Mallard and Claret were still little more than stumps. I can only assume that these feathers are some of the last to moult.
Wild call
By this time the drizzle had changed to a steady rain, and the light had become progressively worse. A pair of ducks flighted past out of shot, and then I heard that wonderfully wild ‘whee-oo! whee-oo!’ of wigeon in flight, the first time I had heard the call this season — they seem to have been rather late in arriving this autumn.
The next calls were closer, and obviously quite a pack of wigeon were approaching. When at last they swept into view, there were three separate flights — a long wavering line, followed by two smaller bunches. They passed tantalisingly close but just a fraction out of shot. Had I been another 20 yards to my right it would have been a different matter, for they were no more than 30ft up.
Scarcely had the calls of these wigeon died away when I heard another pack approaching. From the direction of their calls they were following a similar line of flight. I stared hard into the gloom, trying to spot them in good time for a shot.
This time they came swishing over the willows to my left in a straight line. Such was their speed that I felt sure my first shot must have been well behind, but as they climbed rapidly higher in alarm my choke brought an outswinging bird tumbling down in that slow-motion way that ducks have of falling in the fading light. It really seemed to be ages before the ‘blob’ struck the meadow. When I picked it up from among the wet grasses it was stone dead. A plump young hen wigeon — the first of the season.
Shortly afterwards, I had another shot at a single duck just as it was fast disappearing into the darkness behind me, but failed to connect. Then the flight was over and the rain was pelting down in earnest. Funny how you don’t notice the rain or how wet you are getting while a flight is on. Afterwards, you scurry along trying to get into the dry as quickly as possible. Nevertheless, such utterly miserable nights are a real blessing to the fowler, and may we have many more this season.
“Three separate flights of wigeon passed tantalisingly close but a fraction out of shot”
This article was first published in the 1 December 1966 issue of Shooting Times.