Urban Coutryman

A thin line in the distant winter sky catches my eye, like an unsteady pen stroke, but one that instinctively sets my pulse racing a little quicker and forces me to look again. I watch intently as the line wavers, breaks, reforms and slowly edges forward following the meandering course of the river below. Closer now. Close enough to see that the line is not a continuous stroke at all but formed from individual dots, all slowly undulating like the tail of a child’s kite in a lazy breeze. More come into view following the same path, drawn as if by magnetism to the same unseen destination.

I smile and count myself fortunate, having watched this scene on many a morning, I know exactly what they are. It’s the unmistakable signature of flighting geese. I say exactly, but that’s not quite true, as I don’t know precisely what species of geese they are. Possibly Greylag, more likely Pinkfeet, maybe the rare Greenland White-fronted geese that have a foothold in this part of southern Scotland.

Then a familiar sound, initially so faint that I am forced to listen intently, patiently, for another outburst of chattering before I know for sure. There it is again, like music in the sky, the wonderfully evocative calling of wild geese. They are indeed Pinkfeet, and now my heart is racing quicker too!

The sight and sound of geese flighting overhead, en-masse, against the first blush of sunrise never fails to be anything less than awe-inspiring. Their numbers can be vast, their calling so fantastically boisterous and clamorous that the observer can be left overwhelmed by the encounter.

Perhaps my enthusiasm is greater than most, particularly those poor city folk captivated by their busy lives. Surrounded by so many man-made distractions, they tend to look down rather than up, and consequently, they miss so much. But in my opinion, this remains one of nature’s greatest spectacles; evocative, primitive, and spellbinding with the emotive power to stir one’s soul.

My introduction to wild geese and wildfowling – the hunting of wildfowl – was a blessed gift from my father when I was a teenager. Yet surprisingly, my earliest recollections of wildfowling are absent of geese, ducks, waders, guns, and shooting. As a young child, I became aware that each winter my father would disappear, typically for a week each January. Perhaps I was told where he’d gone and why, but took no notice and carried on with more serious matters, such as playing tiddlywinks. During his absence, I would excitedly keep look-out for his return from my bedroom window. Eventually one morning I’d wake to see his car parked on the drive, always covered from bonnet to boot in mud! Perhaps this doesn’t sound strange or significant, but in our urban world where everything was purposely kept perfectly clean, and tidy, it struck me as unusual and caused my young mind to wonder… what sort of adventure had this been, and more importantly, when could I go too?

As my interest in wildfowling gained momentum, so did my quest for knowledge and I began to avidly read and learn from books by esteemed countrymen and naturalists such as Denys Watkins Pitchford, Peter Scott, Arthur Cadman, Ian Niall, and Douglas McDougall. Their stories of days and nights in remote wild places, lying in wait for the toing and froing of wild ducks and geese, became all-absorbing. The thrill of the chase sparked my imagination to the point where I thought of little else. My bedroom wall was soon decorated with scenes captured on canvas of lonely landscapes; desolate estuaries and flooded marshes stretching beneath broad wind-swept skies, all adorned with patterns of flighting wildfowl.

My first proper wildfowling foray eventually took place on our local estuary at Crabley Creek on the north shore of the Humber estuary. This particular marsh had featured regularly in my father’s diary which I had read many times. Even now, over 30 years later I can still draw on deeply ingrained memories of that morning. Hares bounding along frost-dusted verges caught in searching headlights; hushed excited chatter in the dim orange glow of the level crossing where we parked; a long slippery walk in the half-light along the sea wall; the sharp cold tang of salt water; packs of chattering mallard flighting back to the river under the waning stars; and the heart thumping sight of a low skein of geese heading towards us, which sent us scrambling for cover and hurriedly loading our guns.

I had entered an unfamiliar world, one dominated by marsh grass, reeds, asters, thick gloopy mud, brown brackish water, a myriad of waders, wildfowl, and a thousand acres of sky. To most folk the scene would be desolate, uninspiring, uncomfortable, and a place to avoid. I thought the complete opposite; this was a place for adventure and drama, a landscape that contrasted beautifully with the safeness of everyday life and took me deeper into the wilder natural world. More importantly, it allowed me to become part of nature’s story too.