Jottings for wildfowlers: the arrival of the wigeon, and a first solo duck at 17

For me, the old Midland Game Fair, held in mid-September, always marked the transition from the fishing season to wildfowling. The first of September was a pilgrimage to see in the new season, but by the time the game fair came around, there was a noticeable change in the air. The night-time temperatures were falling, an autumnal freshness was returning, and I’d wake to the soundtrack of passing Canadas and greylags.

My dad and I would be enthused by a weekend talking tactics, swapping stories and discussing our plans for the season ahead. The journey home would see tide tables being scrutinised, X’s against all the best tides and, just like that, plans would be set.

A first solo trip to the marsh

One such trip remains particularly vivid. I was 17, not long past my driving test, and had hatched a plan for the following weekend. I remember the date because Dad pulled out at the last minute; he’d forgotten it was his anniversary and was off out for a fancy meal. I, meanwhile, elected to head out on my own and took all my kit to work to ensure I could get away early enough.

I arrived at the car park, loaded up and set off for what would be my first solo venture. The tides were big, due to push hard just before dusk, although there would be no sign of the flood for several hours after I arrived.

Back then, the island I’d chosen was cut off from the mainland from half tide. Its back gutter has since silted up, so it is no longer a true island; today it is a very different, but perhaps safer, marsh. A landlocked lake lay in front of it, trapped among the sand dunes, while the steep marsh cliff offered enough cover to build a hide and settle in unseen.

The walk out carrying all my kit was warm work. As the sun slowly disappeared behind a distant hill, the temperature began to fall. I regretted not removing some layers earlier; I now had nothing to put on. I was in my own little world, watching through my binoculars, when a large group of birds flashed through the lenses.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d have said they were wigeon,” I said to myself.

I lowered the binoculars just in time to see 30-odd wigeon over the decoys veer off at the last minute and pass directly over my head. The rush of their wings is a sound I can still vividly remember. A few expletives followed. I had come all this way, only to miss the one opportunity I might have because I wasn’t paying attention.

Fortunately, they made a wide circuit of the back marsh and came straight back over my right shoulder. This time there was no mistake. One shot later, my first solo duck lay belly-up on the sand: an adult wigeon still in eclipse plumage. What a result.

I remember interrupting Dad’s anniversary meal to tell him. It was understandably a short conversation, partly because he was out celebrating, but perhaps also because we both knew where he would rather have been.

When the wigeon arrive in the West Country

Ever since, 25 September has been the date in my head when the wigeon arrive on the West Country estuaries.

Those early trips are never far from my thoughts. Now, back in Cornwall, I’m hopeful this season will bring a few more of them. Recently we visited the local gunshop’s open day and had a go at the clays, where it quickly became clear that the practice was needed. The highlight, though, was watching my best mate’s boy and my lad shoot. They did exceptionally well on some difficult targets, and both are keen to get out on the marsh and put that practice into action.

A fascination passed to the next generation

It was reassuring to see that the fascination is still there when today’s youngsters are given the opportunity. I hope that one day I’ll watch those two lads bring home their first solo ducks and feel the same excitement, anticipation and sense of achievement that drew me, and generations before me, to the marsh. When that happens, I’ll know our tradition is still alive and being passed on.

James Green is a conservationist and head of wildfowling at BASC. As the son of Chris Green, the Cornish Countryman, shooting sports are certainly in his DNA.