Jottings for wildfowlers: a first foreshore greylag on the Medway, and the wigeon that stole the show

It was a bright blue late September day in 1986, with a gentle north-easter blowing, and around the time of the full moon. A few days earlier I had finally submitted my PhD thesis, and I was genuinely on top of the world, with nothing more important to do than go out to play.

I set out for a low-tide walk around my favourite Medway marsh, just me, dog, gun, gamebag and a few cartridges in the pocket of a battered old tweed blazer. There was little prospect of much shooting in such benign weather, but I hoped to bump an early teal, or perhaps a home-bred mallard. In the end, the result was beyond all expectation, with the hoped-for teal joined in the bag by my first ever foreshore greylag.

The teal was bumped from a creek as expected, but the goose was much more dramatic. I spotted it in the distance, and realised it was heading my way, straight and low. It clearly failed to see me as I ran and jumped into the nearest creek, keeping its line till it offered the perfect shot.

To say I was a very happy chap is clearly an understatement; any old goose would have done, but this was a tender youngster that ate as well as any other I can remember, with the possible exception of my one and only whitefront. But there was another reason why that day was so memorable: migration.

Wigeon making landfall off the North Sea

The whole estuary was buzzing with birds, with great flocks of waders spread across the low-tide mudflats: dunlin, grey plover and knot, with more widely scattered curlew, oystercatchers, godwits and redshank all busily probing for food.

As I reached the north-east corner of the marsh, I settled down in the grasses of the old broken sea wall and gazed out towards the estuary mouth and the North Sea beyond, watching pack after pack of wigeon materialise on high, dropping and turning back into the breeze at the last minute to land on the tideway.

I convinced myself then, and I still believe now, that these birds were making their first landfall after crossing the North Sea. I suppose they might just have been crossing from Essex, but they were coming from such a height that this seemed unlikely for a relatively short hop. Whatever, I found the whole scene so spiritually uplifting, and that, of course, is a key part of wildfowling.

Why wildfowling is about more than the shooting

Those who say that the shooting doesn’t matter are fibbing, but there is much more to wildfowling. Being out there with the ducks and geese may be challenging, but it is also exhilarating. We love our visits into the world of wildfowl, and I heartily endorse Chris Wright’s words in the latest BASC magazine: “Remember, most people spend a lifetime searching for where they belong, but wildfowlers already know.”

I suppose the fact that life’s necessity has led to me living over an hour from the coast makes my visits to the marsh even more special, but I do not think I would be any less excited by my wildfowling if I were lucky enough to live just above high water mark. I also count myself lucky that little reminders of the coast happen at home in the downs of north-east Dorset. Walking the dogs under the stars last evening I heard a couple of oystercatchers going south-west. The migrants are on their way, and I am itching to meet them.