Day two began long before the sun rose, headlights cutting through the dark as we made our way down toward the Montrose–Rossie flats. It’s where thousands of pink-footed and greylag geese gather each morning – species we’d only read about, now filling the dawn sky like a living storm. We set up in the barley stubble, layout blinds tucked low, the North Sea stretched out just beyond the fields. The air was cold, wet, and electric – the kind of morning that wakes every sense at once.
Before first light, you could already hear it… a wall of sound, high and haunting, rolling – long before you could see the shapes overhead. And then they came. Waves of geese pouring off the tidal flats, one flock after another, their calls echoing against the horizon. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced – I mean, I’ve seen numbers like this – and I’ve been a part of greater harvests… But something about this – the surroundings, the sound, the ancient rhythm of it… can hardly be described.
We did “well” that morning, as most might measure – but the memories weren’t in the numbers.
They were in the moments between shots – watching the dog work, laughing between volleys, seeing my son make amazing shots, and simply feeling the sea wind awaken the world around us.
Before first light, you could already hear it… a wall of sound, high and haunting, rolling – long before you could see the shapes overhead. And then they came. Waves of geese pouring off the tidal flats, one flock after another, their calls echoing against the horizon. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced – I mean, I’ve seen numbers like this – and I’ve been a part of greater harvests… But something about this – the surroundings, the sound, the ancient rhythm of it… can hardly be described.
We did “well” that morning, as most might measure – but the memories weren’t in the numbers.
They were in the moments between shots – watching the dog work, laughing between volleys, seeing my son make amazing shots, and simply feeling the sea wind awaken the world around us.
