Read the first part of Sam’s duck hunting experience here.
We’ve driven to Freckleton through four miles of winding country lanes. Earlier in the morning, Tom had been to check the conditions and laid feed to encourage the ducks to stay. ‘I were checking for signs, feathers and shit.’
‘And was there plenty about?’
‘Oh yeah, loads of shit. It should be a good show.’
When we get to the marsh we take the earlier ‘kill’ out of the boot and line them up in a ditch behind the car to give them a chance to air and cool. ‘We'll lay ‘em out in order so you can get a good picture,’ Tom says thoughtfully. ‘I don’t mind if someone comes and robs these – they’d actually be doing me a favour – but I’ll keep the woodcock in the boot.’ Tom had marked a woodcock he’d shot earlier by removing the feathers from the crown of the head, to ensure it would end up on his plate. Woodcock are his favourite.
Looking at the birds laid out by species, I couldn’t help but think of the work involved to prep all these birds for the oven. Tom’s dad has someone who works at the shop processing the wild game, plucking and eviscerating. He has been there for over forty years and Tom remembers being a toddler watching this man at work. ‘I don’t know who will take over when he goes, he’s a machine – he’ll never retire but one day he’ll have to stop.’
We clamber through a stile and come out of a copse of trees onto a flat horizon. It’s late in the afternoon. The clouds hang on a low, flat ceiling of pale blue grey, parting in wisps to reveal the day’s last pinks and golds where the sun is setting behind a long strip of foamy white. The river Ribble appears as a bright streak of silver separated from the sky by the hard black line of the bank opposite. Underfoot, the ground is a series of humps and ditches. It is extremely hard to tread – there’s no footing and you have to anticipate a fall with every step. Tom picks a spot a little way from the bank. We empty the decoys onto the floor and turn the crates upside down for seats.
‘There’s ducks everywhere. See ‘em all on the water? I squint, tilt my head and take his word for it. The upturned crate I am sat on is almost bobbing on the marsh. It’s not very comfortable but trying to stay afloat might keep my mind off the cold.