|
Moy joins the Hunt
Eric Begbie
gets a new labrador |
 |
Old
Meg was turning decidedly grey around the muzzle when Moy arrived
upon the scene. The younger, slimmer bitch was entirely different
in almost every respect and, from the beginning, demonstrated the
potential to become and remain a top class gundog. Admittedly I
took considerably greater care with her training but this was
aided by a degree of overt dependence whereby her whole life,
outside the kennel, was dedicated to pleasing her lord and
master. Although her temperament in this respect was a huge bonus
when shooting grouse or pheasant, it had a number of
disadvantages below the sea wall. For example, while patiently
awaiting morning flight, she spent her time watching me rather
than scanning the sky for approaching duck. Only when a shot was
fired would her eyes turn to mark down the falling bird and then,
unlike Meg, she remained rock steady until sent to retrieve.
Despite Meg's advancing age there was a period of several years
when both labradors accompanied me on fowling expeditions. If
either Peter or Leon came along, bringing their own dogs, then
the pack of black labs present would frequently exceed the number
of duck or geese to be retrieved.
During this time we tended to favour the north shore of one of
the larger estuaries and, although the trip entailed a fairly
long drive, there were few Saturday mornings when Leon, with Foss
occupying most of the space in the rear of his van, did not pick
me up at some really unearthly hour. I very much doubt if dogs
relate to each other in the same way as people do but, on those
early morning forays, it always seemed that Meg and Foss were the
closest of friends while Moy remained aloof, appearing to prefer
human company.
Some of those mornings were spent at a spot halfway along the
shore of the Firth where a public road ran down almost to the
water's edge. Cars could be parked close to a small natural
harbour and fowlers would walk along the top of the broad sea
wall in either direction to find a hiding place in the dense belt
of reeds which lined high water mark. In many respects this was
"tame" wildfowling as it was very common to return from
a flight without ever having stepped on to soft mud nor crawled
along a flooded gutter. The attraction of that place derived not
only from the ease of access but also from the fact that, a few
hundred yards offshore, lay several long mudbanks which were
covered by only the highest spring tides. If undisturbed, geese
would roost on those banks and, when flighting off at dawn, might
pass over the grassy sea wall just within shotgun range.
It is tempting, years later, to look back on those days with a
measure of disdain, feeling perhaps that wilder opportunities to
do business with the fowl should have been sought. They were,
however, pleasant outings during which there was much to be seen.
While seated comfortably against a banking, sheltered from the
wind, wrens, goldcrests and a variety of tits might be watched as
they flitted amongst the swaying stalks of the high reeds. In
midwinter, when natural feeding was scarce, those tiny birds lost
all caution and would come within a few feet of an armed
wildfowler to hungrily devour a carelessly dropped sandwich crumb
or other titbit. As daylight strengthened, great flocks of
fieldfares swooped low over the foreshore, their
"chack-chack" calls mingling with the whoosh of a
thousand wings. Sometimes teal might unwittingly drop into the
ditch which ran behind the sea wall and then, discovering that
they had unwelcome human company, spring vertically into the air
to effect their escape. Little did those diminutive duck know
that, although only a few yards above high water mark, they were
safe from the guns of shore-bound fowlers. Less secure were the
pheasants which occasionally strayed from the adjacent estate on
to the shore. Much to the chagrin of the laird's gamekeeper, as
soon as his precious charges crossed the tideline, they became
legitimate quarry and, on mornings when the greylag skeins had
passed too high or too wide, consolation might be obtained in the
form of an errant longtail.
Unfortunately, but perhaps inevitably, the lure of the geese
roosting on the mudbanks grew too tempting for some fowlers and
it became common practice for boats to be taken out before dawn
from the town on the south shore of the estuary. Then, instead of
the chirping of small birds and the piping of waders, the early
morning silence was rudely broken by the sound of outboard motors
revving in mid-channel. Not surprisingly, the area was soon
forsaken by the geese and, to the best of my knowledge, they have
not returned to that part of the Firth in the numbers which Leon
and I used to see.
Knowing that the great grey flocks were still in the general
vicinity, we explored farther east and eventually discovered that
the greylag were frequenting the wide mudflats of a large bay
some seven miles along the shore. The terrain was so treacherous
that, at low tide, no-one could approach within three-quarters of
a mile of the roost and, in those circumstances, only a force-8
gale would cause the birds to remain within gunshot range as they
flighted inland to feed. For this reason we normally timed our
visits to coincide with a flowing tide in the hope that the greys
would begin their daily journey from a point closer to the narrow
belt of saltmarsh which skirted the shoreline. That bay was the
scene of one of the few sorties when the services of Meg, Moy and
Foss were required simultaneously.
Pulling in to a disused farm track, Leon switched off the engine
of his rusting van and, immediately, we could hear the calling of
greylag close to hand. Despite the sky still being pitch black,
we feared that the geese might flight early so, without wasting
any time, we donned our thigh waders and waxproofs and hurried
down to the foreshore.
It was a bitterly cold January morning with the merest smattering
of powdery snow clinging to each blade of grass on the hard,
rutted marsh. Even where the tide had washed only a few hours
earlier, the penetrating chill of midwinter had crispened the
surface of the saltings so that each footstep crunched in the
darkness. Drawn ever onwards by the anserine chorus, we at last
found our progress blocked by the deep gully of a stream which
meandered parallel to the sea wall before turning out to join the
waters of the estuary. Knowing that the flock of greylag was not
more than 300 yards in front, we sought cover in the reeded
verges of the little river and settled down to await the coming
of daylight.
Despite two layers of thick thermal stockings my feet were soon
numb with the cold and my beard grew brittle as condensation
froze in it at every breath. When a yellow and purple false dawn
changed, quite abruptly, to the weak pinks and blues of a new
morning the temperature seemed to drop a few more degrees and I
began to have a serious concern that my fingers might be
incapable of operating the safety catch and trigger of my gun.
Happily the geese did not tarry unduly on the shore that day.
Well before sunrise they grew restless and, perhaps spurred into
early flight by the sub-zero conditions, rose from the frozen
mudflats in a single skein which came towards us fast and low.
Because the long line of greys was little more than 20 yards
high, it was possible for the shots to be taken while they were
still well out in front. Presented with such an ideal
opportunity, no mistakes were made and Leon and I were rewarded
with one of the very rare achievements of a right-and-left each.
Indeed, I cannot think of any other morning when we concurrently
scored a double.
One of my birds dropped into the water of the stream while the
other three fell on the far side of the gully. Without waiting to
be sent, Meg lept into the river and, pushing iceflows aside with
her muzzle, paddled out to collect the floating greylag. I sent
Moy to pick my other goose and, as she swam across towards the
opposite bank, I noticed that Foss was already preparing to
re-enter the water with the first of Leon's birds in his mouth.
Its amazing how jubilation banishes discomfort. Once all four
geese had been retrieved, we stood for several minutes discussing
the flight and scanning the distant mud for any sign of more fowl
before turning to leave the marsh. That was when we became aware
that, instead of three black labradors, we were accompanied by
dogs which had turned white. Millions of tiny ice crystals
sparkled in their thick coats yet they did not appear to be in
the least troubled by their condition. It is little wonder that
labradors are so popular as wildfowling dogs - their evolution in
the arduous climate of Newfoundland has fitted them perfectly to
cope with the extremes of our own winters.
The next few years witnessed a marked expansion of my kennel. Moy
produced an excellent litter of pups, two if which - Flight and
Teal - remained with me until their training was complete and
gave a great deal of pleasure before going off to work for other
sportsmen. Another of that litter, Spartan Lady, was trained by
Jim Munro to achieve high honours in the field trial world,
including two remarkable performances in the International Retriever
Championship. Much as I enjoyed putting young dogs through their
schooling, however, I never seemed to have time to become
personally involved in competitive activity. My principal
criterion for judging a labrador remained its prowess on the wild
marsh. |
For Discount Gundog
Books in America:
For Discount Gundog
Books in Britain:
For almost any out-of-print
Wildfowling book, click below:
If your home
address is in UK, you can check the cheapest flights, hotels and car hire
immediately:
Click above to visit Ebay -
the No.1 site for buying and selling all kinds of hunting and wildfowling
items (Tip: do a search on keywords like WAGBI, ducks, geese, wildfowl,
wildfowling, hunting)
Wildfowling
Home Page
Wildfowling Discussion
Forum
Gundog Training Broadsheets
|