Plover on the shore
by Alan Jarrett

There is something quaintly evocative about the calls of the shore birds which conjure up memories of the shore, even if you happen to be far away. Calls which bring back memories of days and nights pitting your wits against the elements.
The call of the golden plover is universally known among shooting men, for it is a bird of the upland moor and inland fields even more than it is of the shore. A soft double-flute of a call it is instantly recognisable, although the flock on the wing call not quite often enough to warn of their approach on all but the minority of occasions.
In my part of the country the goldie (as it is widely known) crosses the shore in certain places with some regularity year in and year out. Never very many mind, with five or six swiftly flying flocks to be considered a good flight.
They are, for the most part, the devil to get on terms with, particularly on a dark afternoon when they come in the pre-evening flight gloaming period. Rushing, tightly grouped packs of birds hurrying through on their way to a secret roost.

THE EBB TIDE
For some reason best known to the goldies they often flight down onto the mud, where they camp out in what can best be called a secondary roost until the tide returns to flood them off. This can sometimes give a better opportunity for the occasional shot as they flash about the outer edge of the saltings.

One such occasion came at the back end of last season, when I had been going into the edge of the salting hoping for a shot or two at wigeon. The tide was on the ebb as the day ended, and conditions were ideal for my purposes.

As I paddled through the shallows nearing my destination I saw a large flock of goldies – perhaps 150 in all - wheeling down to land on some recently exposed mud. They stood in massed ranks as if on tip-toe to watch my passage into a side creek, and they made a most amusing sight.
Although I reflected ruefully that a slightly earlier arrival might have intercepted them, I none the less hurriedly found some cover just in case any late arrivals put in an appearance.

It was a prophetic act, for barely had I settled in a small clump of spartina than a flock of a dozen or so birds came rushing past at little more than head height. I had time for no more than a single shot, and was delighted to see two birds fall onto the mud!

Hitting more than one bird with a shot is not uncommon, for they fly in close packed ranks. It your shot is true it is quite possible to hit more than a single bird, and it is a feat I have repeated several times over the years.

RETURN TRIP
On the following day, with a later tide, I was determined to get into position before the goldies came down to roost. It was an enjoyable paddle against the ebb tide as I anticipated the ambush ahead, but as so often in such cases I was to be disappointed – the goldies were out already!

Incredibly they were packed onto some tiny exposed mud ridges, although I had only myself to blame for cutting my arrival so fine. Thirty minutes earlier and I would have been in plenty of time.
Under the circumstances all I could do was approach as close as possible in the hope that once again late arrivals might give me an opportunity.

It was surprising how close the goldies let me get. Indeed it was not until I was out of the punt in knee-deep water that they took alarm and hurried off to land a couple of hundred yards away to the west.
I immediately loaded the gun and laid it across the punt before pushing in to find a hiding place. Then, with a loud trill, a low-flying pack of birds hurtled past from further down the shore giving me no more than a brief instant to snatch up the gun and fire.
The shot found its mark, and amazingly for the second day in a row two birds fell out of the flock. The shot put the other goldies on the wing, and they beat down on my exposed position amid blurring wings and sharp cries of alarm.

They swept behind me over the shallows of the ebbing tide and I had to twist awkwardly to get off just one shot. This was becoming unbelievable – for two birds splashed into the tide to complete my rout of the roosting golden plover.

Six plover with only three shots over the two days was some record. It was also typical of hunting goldies in north Kent – the rest of the season passing without a single shot.