Generation game

For years my boy Harry was my constant companion, joining me on all my countryside pursuits. From fly-fishing on West Country rivers, to sitting in a pigeon hide, to enjoying duck flights on the Somerset Levels, he was keen. But as secondary school began that enthusiasm unfortunately started to fade, being replaced by long stints in bed and new-technology-based distractions.

This seemed to change after he attended a BASC Young Shots Day, which reignited a spark. He returned buzzing, having shot clays, scored impressively on the air rifles, and plucked and cooked pigeons. It wasn’t only the activities, it was the camaraderie – meeting children his age who shared his passion for the outdoors, which can feel like a rarity today.

Since then Harry and I have spent time at the clay ground. His confidence has grown and his ability to break clays is improving all the time. His gun handling has become instinctive and a pleasure to watch.

My friends Rich and Pete in Cornwall were experiencing similar journeys with their children. Pete’s daughter Elowen had taken to shooting like a natural. Rich’s son Jenson, on the other hand, had a rocky start, being left-eye dominant but right-handed. After some coaching, though, he is getting to grips with shooting off his left shoulder and quickly improving.

Recognising the kids’ growing enthusiasm, we dads decided to plan something special – a foreshore adventure cunningly disguised as a family holiday. I’m sure our wives saw right through it, but they agreed and the wheels were put in motion. The concept was simple: three families, a week on the Scottish foreshore, good company, quality food, hopefully a memorable flight or two on the mighty Tay estuary, and perhaps a few celebratory whiskies.

By setting alarms for an ungodly 2.15am we aimed to beat traffic, enjoy breakfast at Tebay Services and arrive with time to spare. Our three-car convoy, complete with dad-radio banter, ensured the journey was smooth, even if the rest of the families snoozed for most of it.

Unfortunately, the weather forecast for the week wasn’t great, at least for fowling. It was perfect if we just wanted walks in the woods and picnics. Mild conditions with hardly a breath of wind were expected all week, barring Saturday evening.

On that Saturday morning the dads ventured to the estuary for a recce. The place was stacked with geese, but the mild conditions meant they were leaving the sands late. In fact they were so late that we were nearly heading back for breakfast when the main flock finally lifted. Pete managed to bag a greylag, and the sheer number of birds departing filled us with optimism for the evening.

The kids were keen for their first flight. Harry and I set off to the sands. As the sun dipped and the wind howled, we lay flat on our backs, watching and waiting. Then I heard it – a lone pinkfoot calling in the distance. Using a whistle trick I’d picked up from wildfowl artist Simon Trinder, I managed to draw it in.

“Can you see it, Harry?” I whispered.
“No,” he replied.
“Straight in front, 80yd, dropping fast. Got it?”
“Yes!” he confirmed.
“Get ready,” I said.

But before I could clarify my instructions, Harry had sat bolt upright, gun at the ready and the goose immediately flared. It was entirely my fault. When I told him to get ready I had meant mentally, not physically. The chance had gone and, although we stayed there in the driving rain, expecting to hear a roar of pinks any second, nothing came.

Darkness fell, the rain worsened, and we trudged home cold and wet. Rich and Jenson had a similar experience, as did Pete and Elowen, but that’s fowling for you.

The next few days were calmer. Harry took a break while I treated my wife to a rare morning flight, which is my idea of romance. She’s a lucky lady. Our outing was fruitful – mist rolled in and we bagged a greylag and a pinkfoot. I couldn’t help but wish the youngsters had been out with us; the birds couldn’t have come any better.

The following morning, Rich wanted to take his wife Nic out, so I offered to accompany Jenson instead. He finally got a chance at a goose. Though goose fever got the better of him and he failed to pick a bird, two shots rang out somewhere skyward. Nevertheless, seeing his grin was priceless. There is nothing quite like the clamour of pinks as they leave the estuary in the morning to get your heart racing.

As the week neared its end we decided to shift our focus to ducks. A tide flight was planned, with three separate locations chosen via the time-honoured tradition of rock-paper-scissors. Armed with a handful of decoys, we set off.

Harry and I had the furthest walk, battling through towering reedbeds that felt more like a jungle than a marsh. Anyone who has shot the Tay will know exactly what I mean.

We were nearing the edge of the reeds when I heard it – the “bleep-bleep” of teal. Using my binoculars I spotted a pack sitting on the edge of a small creek. Harry took the lead as we crept forward, the sound of our movements amplified by the stillness of the marsh.

When the teal came into range I whispered to Harry to be ready. Almost immediately, he was up and at them before the first bird had fully stretched out its wings. The speed of a teenage lad is impressive. I clearly saw his second shot connect and a single bird crumpled out in the small creek. We celebrated and I sent our young labrador, Tilly, for the retrieve.

To my amazement she returned with a different teal, which must have resulted from Harry’s first barrel, a bird I hadn’t even realised he’d hit. I sent her out again and she repeated the process, retrieving another bird I hadn’t seen fall. Three teal for two shots; a proud dad moment if ever there was one.

For the next hour, ducks continued to move on the tide and few came for a look at the decoys. Harry missed a couple, but another well-placed shot brought down a final teal. Tilly, showing her promise as a young fowling dog, made a stunning retrieve, diving fully underwater to pick the lively bird.

The last evening brought its own triumphs. Elowen had her first shot at a goose and, although she didn’t connect, her excitement was palpable. Rich and Jenson, meanwhile, had a magical flight. Jenson’s shooting was superb, bagging four ducks – including a cracking teal that took some finding in the thick reeds.

As the week ended, the kids couldn’t stop reliving their trip. Harry, Jenson and Elowen had each experienced the highs and lows of wildfowling, from first shots to missed opportunities, from soakings to success and everything in between. At home they prepared their birds with the utmost respect and both Harry and Jenson cooked their respective families a full roast dinner – a perfect way to honour their quarry.

It was a week none of us will forget. Sharing these moments with my son and seeing his passion for the outdoors grow was a privilege. These are the stories we’ll retell for years to come, the kind of memories that bind generations and inspire futures. Let’s hope there will be many more just like it.