Lend at your peril: two true tales of a borrowed gun on the foreshore

Perhaps readers will remember my strange yet totally true tale of the hardy and ambitious wildfowler, who set out on 1 September 1977 in pursuit of wild duck armed with a portable platform and a new and expensive gundog. I hope so. This might have been an unlikely tale, but it was by no means the first excursion into the world of the bizarre.

In the days when the wildfowler was saving hard for the new gundog, which was destined to set new heights in disaster for him, his old and ailing spaniel committed untold war crimes, though very ably aided and abetted by her master. This is another true story in which a dog plays a leading role; on this occasion, however, the real star of the piece is a borrowed gun.

A trek across the low-tide muds took our fowler and a friend to a large salting island, which flooded almost entirely at the top of the biggest spring tides. They fully expected to slay many ducks and return home triumphant. But as usual, this was not to be. Things did not go entirely according to plan.

The tide rose steadily, severing the island’s muddy links with the mainland. It seeped in through the breaches in the crumbling sea wall, then flooded the creeks and little mudflats, all the time creeping remorselessly towards the cunningly set decoys that would be sure to lure any ducks within range of the hidden gunner. Soon the decoys were afloat, bobbing realistically and temptingly, in a pattern no duck could resist.

A mallard to surprise and delight

This proved to be the case, for soon a solitary mallard hove into sight, spotted the decoys and came planing in on stiffly set wings. Our fowler raised the borrowed gun and an instant later the mallard dropped into the water on the far side of the decoys, with a loud splash, perhaps somewhat to the surprise of those present. Delight of delights – our hero’s family could eat meat again.

Here the spaniel took a hand for, despite frantic urgings, it steadfastly refused to enter the water; the mallard lay dead and out of reach. But was not the mallard floating in shallow water? Could not our hero wade out and complete the retrieve for himself without the assistance of his fussy dog? Yes, indeed he could – and would.

All went well at first. The water was never more than knee deep, the mallard was almost within reach, but then – as in all good stories – disaster struck. A creek, hitherto hidden, announced its presence and our hero found himself up to his chest in freezing water. But once wet he saw no point in denying himself the bird, for which he had suffered so much.

A few more sodden steps and he had the bird firmly clasped in a frozen hand. He rose like Neptune from the waves, the mallard his trident borne high in triumph. Did the aged and crafty spaniel suppress a smirk as it considered the plight of its master?

Our fowler’s first thoughts were for his sodden body and clothing. Then his thoughts turned to pride in his great conquest and to enmity for the scoundrel of a dog, but gradually these emotions gave way to curiosity. This drama had taken place as the tide had flooded rapidly through the island, covering ground with remarkable speed. Indeed, the tideline had advanced by several yards since he had entered the water.

A feeling of impending doom

Curiosity increased, as did a feeling of impending doom. Just where had he put that gun? The answer was simple – on the tideline, which meant that the gun was under 2ft of water and nowhere to be seen.

The wait for the tide to make its mark and begin to drop away was long and cold. He spent it in his companion’s hide shivering and alternately cursing his fickle spaniel and dreaming of the day when he would have a new dog, which would answer his every command and would undoubtedly lead him to new horizons and greater successes. It was a sodden fowler, and an equally sodden gun, that made the long journey back to the mainland.

A council of war on the saltings

The second part of this story is no less bizarre, though here it was our hero’s good-natured willingness to help others that landed him in trouble.

He flighted a stretch of salting without any success to his own gun. However, he was not alone and one of his companions had been fortunate enough to shoot a right-and-left at teal. In the darkness and among the mud and saltings he had been unable to find either bird, and they met after flight and a search was initiated. As usual the spaniel did sterling work – neither bird could be found.

A council of war was held and after some discussion it was decided to leave assorted bags propping up one of the guns as a marker. Thereafter the search would be carried out in ever-widening circles until the birds were found, or until they were given up as totally lost. A first-class plan.

The search began, with the sound of wader-clad feet squelching through the saltings being the only noise. At last one bird was recovered lying dead on the dark mud. The search continued, the circling became ever wider, until the second bird had to be given up for lost.

A gun out of sight

What of the gun? It had fallen over and now lay out of sight in the gloom. Another council of war, another plan. And another search. Again the tramp of feet, but now an occasional curse could be heard coming out of the darkness. For more than an hour the search went on, but the gun lay hidden from sight, snug in its nest of bags and gun cases.

At length the gun too had to be given up. The wildfowlers retired in disarray to lay their plans anew. Only one course was left open to them – they would have to return in the morning and continue the search. This they did, and found the gun easily, though not before it had been bathed by a very salty spring tide.

It was a red-faced wildfowler who scuttled off home to remove as much of the rust as possible, and later return the gun to its unfortunate owner.

The moral: “Never, never, let your gun / Borrowed be by anyone.”

This article was first published in the 11 October 1979 issue of Shooting Times.