Memories of Woodcock

Although Richard Brigham is not as keen to shoot them as he once was, a brief glimpse of the unpredictable, elusive woodcock always adds pleasure to the day

- Richard Brigham

My earliest memories of shooting are of times spent accompanying the grownups for an informal rough shoot on the family farm. Often on a Saturday afternoon, my father and a couple of other Guns would venture out with me as a diminutive beater/game carrier.

On one notable occasion, after working out some rough hedgerows and strips of sugar beet, we reached a crop of what was, for me, shoulder-high, almost impenetrable soaking wet kale on the farm boundary, beside a boggy wood. The old farm Labrador flushed the odd pheasant or two, and disturbed several woodcock as we walked away from the wood.

Oblivious to danger

Cut off from cover, surprisingly, a few attempted to circle back low between the Guns, causing pandemonium. One of the Guns – who shall remain nameless – got rather over-excited, letting fly at the jinking birds with little regard for safety. I wondered what all the shouting was about, but remember diving low amongst the kale stalks as pellets flew in all directions, the smell of burnt gunpowder filled my nostrils and

I struggled to understand a few choice words I’d never heard before. Luckily, everyone escaped unscathed. The only serious casualties being two woodcock, a hare and a somewhat shell-shocked cock pheasant. Oblivious to the danger, it all seemed wildly exciting at the time!

This distant memory is still guaranteed to send a tingle down my spine whenever the cry of “woodcock!” rings out on a shooting day. Nowadays I’m not as keen to shoot them as I once was, but even a brief glimpse of the unpredictable, elusive “cock of the woods” adds pleasure to the day.

Autumn colour