Bog Myrtle & Peat

After a day spent working at the computer, a fine evening with the chance of a woodcock seemed too good an opportunity to miss. Although it’s still a new moon, I wanted to see what effect (if any) the snow and subsequent freezing temperatures has had on the woodcock, so I drove the car out onto the Chayne as far as it would take me before abandoning it and walking the last two miles on foot.

The snow thawed away yesterday evening, then what remained of it froze hard overnight last night. It’s pretty useless for finding tracks, and even my walking boots were hardly making a dent in the crusty layer. No wonder I didn’t see any sign of foxes, but as I reached the flightline, a familiar sound came echoing up the ride towards me. It was a dog fox, and his bark became oddly booming amongst the silent, frozen trees. He could have been half a mile away, going about his own business without a care in the world.

Within ten minutes, the first woodcock came silently whirring out of the trees. I followed him with the shotgun but let the barrels fall as he flicked past me and out into the frozen emptiness. A thin crescent moon rose up from behind the dark spruces and stars began to sparkle in the east. One by one, the woodcock passed dimly overhead. One came high up against the stars, turning and twisting madly in a huge circle over the trees. I don’t think that I’ve ever seen a woodcock so high and flying with such mad energy, and it distracted me for a moment from the birds who were speeding out from the low cover. Anyone who says that it’s unsporting to flight woodcock should see how these birds come blazing silently out from the darkness of the forest – the sport is wild, unpredictable and extremely demanding. It’s also a pleasure just to stand under them as they go.

In all, twelve woodcock passed within range, but I only fired one shot. There was something so bleak and forlorn about the evening that the sound of gunfire was vile. I regretted pulling the trigger as soon as I had done it, but thankfully the little silhouette flew briskly on into the fading light. I find that when you miss a flighting woodcock, they often drop to the deck and zigzag away at about knee-height. As the retreating figure skimmed away over the snow-loaded rushes, I decided that there are times to shoot and there are times to watch.