Don't rock the boat...

An evening spent in the wake of 18th-century duck shooters highlights the timeless nature of our sport and serves as a reminder of the precariousness of small boats

- JAMIE TUSTING

The hot summer sun beat down on my bare shoulders and I lamented my decision not to put on sun cream. The glare from the gently rippling water made me squint as I flicked my piece of sweetcorn out to a spot where I thought a tench might be lurking. It was a half-hearted attempt to catch a fish but, in truth, being out in the middle of a lake in the warmth of the day in a little boat, with only my thoughts for company, was the real aim of the day. A million miles from anyone in what had been an odd, and at times hectic, summer.

A shadow skitting across the water just caught my eye. Looking up, I saw a mallard flitting across the sky, then landing on the water close to some reeds a stone’s throw from me, joining a handful of others.

Skulking

If I had had my gun in hand, I would have had a fair shot at bringing it down, but with just a stick and line, and a piece of sweetcorn in the armoury, I returned to my quest of catching the tench I was sure would be skulking somewhere in the depths.

As August rolled through into September and the nights started to draw in, I thought back to that hot summer’s day and the duck I had seen from my little boat. It was interesting to me that the duck had been largely unconcerned by my presence on the water and seemed more than happy to fly so close by. It often seems to be the case — though I’m not sure how they know — that when you have a gun in hand the duck keep a particularly wide berth and become far more skittish than when you do not.

I phoned Shooting Times Editor Patrick Galbraith. “Have you ever shot a duck from a boat?” I asked. “No,” came the short reply. “Would you like to give it a go?” “Yes!”