Urban Coutryman

Under speckled starlight we busily got to work setting homemade silhouette decoys into the short, grazed marshland. I took instructions from my father to space them well apart and carefully angle each one head into the wind, tilted slightly back from the direction we expected the geese to approach. Every act was blind in the inky darkness and carried out by feel alone. Pulling, pushing, unravelling, twisting, and tucking nets and poles to make low slung hides which only day light would judge if they provided adequate cover.

We were ready just in time. A soft blue light stole across the eastern horizon, seeping through a rip in the veil of black velvet sky. My father reached out with a cold muddy handshake, “good luck, keep still ‘n keep your head down” were his brief words of advice before turning and melting away into the twilight to settle in his hide 50 yards away.

Unfamiliar landmarks emerged as light gradually won over darkness. Towards the estuary a smart row of uniform ash trees stood with their skeleton branches reaching skyward like open arms to welcome the new day. Inland, the impressive craggy profiles of Criffel and Merrick stood tall and proud. And behind me, the rhythmic blether of the Balmae burn provided welcome company as its peaty water reeled merrily away into the bay.

My mind whirled with excitement that we were finally here, my father and I together on the hallowed Scottish goose grounds. On the very farm I had read about in his game book, awash with wildfowling stories that spilled across pages and eventually into my dreams.

Just past 8 o’clock and the unmistakable call of wild geese banished my early morning weariness and sharpened senses. Greylags! I twisted to peer through the hessian net and find them. There… two skeins losing height after clearing the Cairn Croft plantation. Nothing more than a string of vague seemingly headless and wingless forms in the half-light, yet moving swiftly against the strong southerly wind and swinging ever closer. Close enough to set my heart thumping so hard I thought they would hear it long before they saw me! But still they remained too high, passing wide across the back of the decoys and eventually out of sight over the adjacent farm.

Then cause for more excitement as several straggly skeins of yelping Pinkfeet crested the line of ash trees and beat a path towards our ambush. I’d watched them lift from the bay and followed progress through binoculars, willing them nearer and for my father to give them a well-timed call. He did, but stubbornly they didn’t react. Resolutely continuing high along the course of the burn, no doubt drawn to sweeter grass in the flooded silage fields beyond.

A single bird suddenly caught my eye. It too was following the burn but much lower than the previous lot and this time, upon father’s calling, reacted instantly. On set curved wings it swung towards us across the field, called once upon seeing the spread of decoys and showed no hesitation in wanting to join its fake wooden friends.

The chance was an easy one, even for an inexperienced gun. As I scrambled to my feet, the bird realised its misjudgement and spun on the wind like a weathervane. But one single shot proved to be enough, the goose tumbled at the shotguns’ bark and fell to lay perfectly still. Suddenly nothing more than a neat bundle of lifeless feathers. I turned to see my father watching proudly, with a broad approving smile.

I reverently picked the goose, a Pinkfoot, and was pleased to find it unmarked apart from a small bead of crimson blood on its beak. Slowly, I ran my hand over the subtle blend of soft plumage, admired the birds’ wide wings, pink paddles, neat little chocolate head and felt its weight in my hand. A very special moment, and the only time in my life that I would shoot my first wild goose.

Lack of further activity marked the end of the flight, so we reluctantly packed away. A young wildfowler now appropriately christened with salty Solway mud, and with a goose to proudly carry home and later enjoy at the dinner table.

Reflecting on that morning 30 years later, I now understand the significance of my father’s unexpected handshake and wish for “good luck” in the blustery dawn of 11th January 1989. It was so much more than a simple gesture. It was a heartfelt act delivered with meaning to welcome his son into a new way of life. His way of life. To extol the virtues of wildfowling with its rich heritage and countless characterful folk who have also shared a passion for wild lonely places and the birds that inhabit them.

I still have two tail feathers from that first goose pressed within the pages of my own game book, and alongside them a scribbled quote from that great and revered countryman ‘BB’ which reads…

“To hear and see the wild geese flying and to roam the lovely lands they fly over, that is my life, my joy”.

I am gladdened to say that thanks to my father, this too has been my life and joy.

———-

This piece was shortlisted for The Field magazine Nature Writing Competition 2023.

Specific location references have been changed out of respect for current landowners.