A whirling, floating massed army

A trip to a low-lying Essex stubble brings vintage 10-bores into play and sparks a touch of goose fever in Simon Garnham’s young son

In the early 1990s — before I had a dog but well after I was completely bitten by the wildfowling bug — I remember staring at a teal that had skimmed over my head and fallen to a single shot about 100m behind. It had made it to a creek and into fast-flowing tidal waters. From there, it was heading out to sea at a rate I thought I could manage if I swam really hard.

Knowing that to lose a bird was akin to murder, adultery, dishonoring thy father and mother and against most of the other Ten Commandments, and being young and foolish, I was in the process of stripping off to go in pursuit. At the point at which I was in my socks but little else, a mysterious and magical apparition appeared.

In a meticulously ordered, battleship-grey punt with the most enormous gun attached to an improbably thick rope, sat a man who resembled Sir Ranulph Fiennes on his journey back from the North Pole. His beard matched his grey smock and woollen hat and his weather-beaten face wore a mildly amused expression as if it were not entirely surprising to see a student wearing next to nothing prancing about on the saltings.

“I’ll get it if you like,” he offered, before I’d even had time to ask sheepishly whether he wouldn’t mind awfully, if it was no inconvenience.

With a deft flick of a single paddle, he manoeuvred the punt beyond the teal and had the bird in hand. He returned it to me with a respect for the gallant little bird I will never forget.

“Beautiful thing,” he mused. “We probably shoot too many of them. Take it home and enjoy it. And if you’re after a dog, get in touch.”