Joining a wildfowling club around the Wash could be a challenging experience. All had limited memberships and certainly up to the 1990’s waiting lists to join were common. Different clubs had different initiation meetings. However, I do recall one new member describing his initiation into a wildfowling club as, “like being interrogated by the Gestapo.” What happened was that he and five other prospective new members were invited to an initiation meeting. Once there they were told to stand against the wall of the meeting room. They were then quizzed by the whole room about their knowledge of wildfowling and quarry species. The whole room then voted as to whether to accept them or not. This was then followed by one of the committee members walking up and down in front of them whilst drilling into them what a privilege it was to belong to their club and that they had better behave themselves on the marsh!
In the 1960’s John Brannon of Spalding Wildfowlers wrote this about being a new member:
“13, unlucky for some, is a familiar cry in the plush seated bingo halls, but not for this lad. Friday the 13th, plus some help from that little lion that sits on top of my birth sign and I’m in, this lad is now a member of Spalding Wildfowlers Association. Now, at the appropriate time of the year, rise at the unearthly hour that fellow members rise, cloth myself in several pullovers, jackets and trousers, make a flask, a small parcel of victuals and drape the binoculars around the neck, lastly on with the footwear. Then around to my mates, with luck he’ll be ready and away we go. This sequence of events has taken place a number of times before, but on previous expeditions I was armed with the optics only. Now for the sum of 27/6 I can carry a piece of artillery that will make a duck or a goose (if I am lucky) feel less like flying than Christine Keeler has ambition to become a nun. On previous trips on arrival at the point where we were to begin the footwork that should, according to mate, bring us to the place where there’s a chance of getting a dinner, and there the difference began. We would ease tired bodies from the comparative comfort of the engine warmed cab then the ordeal began. Out with the burden I was to bear; optics, flasks, food, oilskins and shells etc. a small proportion of which were mine, the rest were mates. Mate would be off like a March hare into the darkness, and this lad would follow – the pack mule of the happy pair. Over vegetation, mud and creek in pursuit of mate who so (kindly) allows me to go on these expeditions. These events were also repeated on pigeon-shooting trips, not for me the pleasure of a shot at the end of it, only a pack mule’s job. Not anymore do I have the beast of burden, only for myself, and perhaps with a chance to equal mate’s performance with his gun. Mate will read this in the spirit its written, I hope, and I wish him good shooting and good luck.”
One of my first trips on the marsh with a gun was on Kirton Marsh , near Boston in 1986. The marsh was a good one for beginners and inexperienced as you had to cross one major creek near the sea wall and then you could walk out over a bridge and onto a rather wonderful saltmarsh that was dotted with ponds left by the tide that attracted duck an, at that time, the all too common Brent goose. As a non-quarry species the new wildfowler could easily identify the Brent goose because it was black and when it flies with other geese its formation is very untidy compared to the “v” formation or “line astern” of pinkfeet and greylag. In terms of identification understanding non-quarry species is possibly more important than quarry species. In poor light you learn to recognise the wing beats of different ducks, whether it be the “creaking gates” of Shelduck or the rapid flutter of wigeon and teal. Many a time I have had a wildfowler show me an “unusual mallard” fearing he has shot the wrong bird when in fact it is a Gadwall. The gadwall is a quarry species but it has a similar flight pattern to mallard and often individual gadwall will attach themselves to a group of mallard making identification even more challenging as discussed earlier. I was a keen birdwatcher before owning a gun so had a reasonable ability to recognise birds. However, I was a poor wildfowler, rather enjoying the moments on the marsh more than any shooting. Indeed, my shots were few.
The creek you had to cross on Kirton Marsh backfilled when the tide came in leaving the marsh in front of it dry depending upon the height of the tide. This meant that you needed to be aware of the tide and of your ability. In my case I cannot swim, and as I was soon to find out, my ability to wade in mud was poor.
On this occasion I was taken down the marsh by my future brother-in-law, Steve and he has both a heart of gold, but does not suffer fools gladly. In this case I was the fool! Returning from the marsh we crossed a patch where two creeks met forming a junction of soft mud about eight feet across. Steve gave me strict instructions not to jump, but to follow him and do as he did leaning on his wading stick and move forward steadily through the mud. Instead I slid down the creek slide feet first and took a giant stride into the mud patch where I anchored both my feet into mud that sucked at my feet and legs. I was stuck, and my struggling made it worse. Eventually, with much guidance, swearing, cajoling and prompting by Steve I crawled my way out of the hole covered head to toe in mud with a muddy gun to boot! Inexperience and lack of ability were my enemies and if I had been by myself panic would have also been an issue. In truth I was no dedicated wildfowler, but I enjoyed the environment, the wildlife and the people. Their knowledge could never be over-rated and I learned a lot.
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