The geese are abroad. I hear the wild cry of greylags in the half light of dawn and in the pinky dusk, and on occasion see the distant skeins, which even at such range traverse the horizon with incredible speed. At night the rude honking of canadas wheeling into the lakes bellow the cottage rouse me from sleep and return me to it’s embrace dreaming of those powerful birds flogging into a heavy gale and towards my gun poised and ready. They are here to gorge on the spilt grain and beans scattered over the arid stubbles and in years past large skeins would set up regular flight lines between field and roosting lake, allowing for ambush buy the hardy shooter. Dirty evenings, thick with driving rain whipped on by a ferocious wind were best, forcing the birds low and into range. I have pursued these wily, exquisite creatures for over a decade now and as testament to there canny natures, have still only bagged a handful. In recent years the stubble is ploughed in so quickly that the geese never seem to establish any real patterns and I am left to wonder at there comings and goings, mocked morning and night buy their distant calls.