Walking up woodcock and snipe in the Welsh wetlands 

The magic of the Welsh marshes

The moss-covered landscape lay eerily around us. It was blanketed in a thick low laying fog. This fog billowed over dykes and through ancient woodlands like smoke from the red Dragon. Here on the outskirts of Criccieth lays bogs, marshes, and unkept thickets. It is away from the sea lapped beauty of the Welsh coast. Few people venture here. Migratory waders travel from Russian and Scandi homes for winter. These birds haunt the dreams of many Guns.

As the fog began to burn off, our host Gethin Jones laid out the plan. Gethin is a Shooting Times contributor. He spoke in his typically lyrical tone. With a hint of concern, he gazed up into the sapphire blue sky. He was alerted to the lack of wind. We all know the aerobatic agility of woodcock and snipe. They hit lines of Guns like fighter jets. They turn this way and that. Shooters used to pheasant airbuses often leave them untouched. However, these birds listen keenly. With no wind to carry away noise, they may be very flighty.

Pursuing the first snipe of the trip

With a splash of peaty water we landed on a glorious marshland. It was a forest of low sedge with blankets of emerald moss. Dry bushes reached out like skeletal fingers. Lining out, we started to walk across this sunken terrain. Only 100 yards in, there was a single report. It came from my father’s AYA side by side. My brother Angus wielded the gun. A cheer went up from Peter. He bore witness to the first bird of the trip.

After a thorough search the bird was found. It was a tremendous moment. This was the first ever snipe for Angus. The dog Willow placed it delicately into Peter’s grasp. Our happy chatter echoed across the marsh. We disturbed a group of semi wild ponies. They charged through the landscape. They sent a spray of fine droplets into the air. This flushed pockets of snipe and teal in their wake.

Across this sopping landscape we saw unearthly numbers of snipe. These tiny creatures flushed with noise and chirping. A handful more fell to our efforts. Generally, they kept out of our range. Wise Gethin had predicted this behavior. Most birds fell to Angus that morning. This was a hard pill for a brother to swallow. He kept finding himself in the right spot. He was also taking some fantastically long birds.

Searching for cover in the thickets

We emerged from the marsh for elevenses. A new plan was hatched. Thicker cover might hold birds longer. This would help us close the gap. Riverbanks and woodlands were probed by black labs. Although this revealed more birds, they remained wild. Their nature pushed the majority away from our ambush positions.

We marched onto another high-top marsh. Our wellies filled with water. There was not a dry sock between us. Hopes began to rise as Peter and Willow risked wet ground. Birds started lifting in greater number. Scott is a pigeon enthusiast but a wader novice. He “wiped Peter’s eye” with a rangy first barrel kill. This snipe was reaching for orbit.

I must admit my head was down. After many shells fired, I had no luck. My heart was out of the game. So much of this sport is about confidence. My confidence in my own abilities was waning. In one last thicket I stood near the back. Peter worked Willow hard through the brush. All three comrades shouted my name. A woodcock broke from Willow’s nose. It came straight at me. He fell to my shot and my head rose. Chester the lab completed victory laps with my prize. With new confidence, I took a snipe at the death of the walk.

Flighting woodcock under the stars

That evening we stood in a mature woodland. A blanket of stars lay above our heads. Woodcock began to flight. The birds turned on like a tap. They poured through the air silently like bats. They hammered towards the shore at incredible speed. Under the strong light of Jupiter, Scott swung through with perfect form. He brought his first ever woodcock to earth. A first of each species in one day is a great memory. It will stay with Scott forever.

Day two brought the wind we were hoping for. Willow, a Hungarian Wirehaired Vizsla, really came into her own. Working upwind, the first bird came from a wonderful point. She held it with shuddering intensity. Peter and I pulled up behind her. On his command she dove into a tangle of roots. With no bird, she reset and dove once more.

Incredibly, a large male woodcock held tight. This second attack provoked a flush. With barrels roaring, he was soon picked by the dog. Angus soon followed with another good woodcock. With each hedgerow explored, we found more birds. With renewed confidence we hit our mark. They really are everywhere here. They seemed to sprout from every tree like apples.

Testing agility in the Welsh woods

The performance of the birds was breathtaking. We were being tied in knots by experienced birds. They jinked left and right. We floundered in their wake. These birds often stare you in the face. Their large marble-like eyes look one way and zip the other. They are like an avian Shane Williams mocking a rugby team.

Our legs wearied after many miles. We started to play with some “mini drives”. Gethin and Peter searched the woods with their dogs. Peter was back gunning while Gethin acted as a beater. Birds broke and I found a lengthy crosser. It even made my brother take note. But the best was yet to come. We found our way to the last drive.

Angus, Scott, and I lined out in a field. A thin woodland stretched for 400m ahead of us. Angus waited at the far end. Scott followed Gethin and the labs through the trees. I held a steady line ahead of him. Multiple woodcock started to dart out. They broke cover for only a split second. It was an amazing dance of snap shooting. The frequency of wild birds was like nothing I had seen.

A dream end to a wetland trip

I could hear Peter in the farthest edge. He was working his wonderful dog. She had provided so much of our sport. Yet Peter had not seen as much action. Hearing his barrels warming filled me with hope. He deserved a good end to his day.

The dogs cleared the end of the woodland. We had all seen action. Loose cartridges were fished out of the grass. Labradors worked the margins to pick our birds. Then Peter emerged grinning from ear to ear. He had filled his boots with sport. It was the dream he had travelled from Northern Ireland to find. His young dog had been phenomenal. Gethin’s Welsh waders had lived up to all expectations.

Charles’ kit list

Caesar  Guerini Tempio Light 12-bore shotgun
angloitalianarms.com

  
Seeland Woodcock plus-fours
seeland.com

 
Aigle Parcours 2 ISO neoprene wellington boots
aigle.com

  
Peltor electronic ear defenders
3m.co.uk

  
John L Chapman canvas  game bag
chapmanmade.uk