Percussion fowling.

[moongeese]

On 17/11/2019 at 18:44, bishop said:

Bill is that you?

Sorry Allen missed this post, but as feltwad said it was not me.

Bill

[bishop]

i did wonder.i had been reading up on this "sky chief" fella  based in the USA ,preaching the pattern improvements to be gained (allegedly)from using an olive oil  soaked felt wad in front of the shot column and i think  "FELTWAD" person had commented stating he used percussion guns a lot here in the UK

[Manish]

You just cant beat the smell of burnt black powder

[islandgun]

Great stuff. would like to get a big bore BP one day.  proper fowling

[marsh man]

On 17/11/2019 at 17:44, bishop said:

In the half light of the dawn when the noise of the day seems to be reaching out to even the more secluded spots along the shoreline I tend to sit and check,then recheck the nipples have their percussion caps still in place as they can slip off or be nudged off by vegetation when navigating your way through the reed beds ,quite easily i might add .Its difficult to see your loading gear ,but not impossible,This is where planning and practice comes in for sure.Plenty pockets in your coat is a good thing and nothing carried that's not essential.No clutter.I have wads in the left lower pocket with phials of small shot in the left upper side pocket.My right side lower pocket has the BB shot,also  in phials ,ready to be used as individual loads when required .The upper right side pocket has phials of black powder.each one done before leaving home.In my gamebag there is a smaller  waterproof velcro sealed water proof carrybag(used to have yacht flares in it).This has the shot flask with small shot inside.A powder flask with black powder inside ready to decant into phials as and when i have need to replenish my pockets.Various items from plastic funnel to powder measures lie underneath the fold up base inside the bag so i have everything i could possibly need. Sat with both hammers at half cock you sit with your thumb on the right hammer waiting till you have need to bring it to full cock.Its so tempting to lift the gun on the skeins that whiffle over to the fields in search of their goose breakfasts but you ignore them ,instead concentrating on the ones elsewhere over the horizon ,the low skein,the one that will surely come over if you have patience to sit like a stone.Thats what you wait for.As time passes and you finally see a skein lower than the rest you know its time to get those hammer right back,both of them not just one ,in case you forget the hammers not cocked and pull on a dead trigger.As the geese pass over you note they are a good height  but not too high.30 yards or maybe 35 is a good range.You Line up a goose to the side with both hammers now fully cocked  from their half cocked position, you  give the bird some lead and of course swing through and let go your first shot.The subsequent whoomph and massive discharge of smoke leaves you blinded for a second ,its mesmerising ,and of course you are left debating the need for that second barrel but after a few shots with black powder you know the time frame and follow the bird subconsciously through the smoke so that when its visible (or not if and its dropped ) again you can offer up a second barrel.Ive found fowling with the muzzle loader to be a severe test of my fieldcraft and i enjoy it immensely.The reload that takes place after both barrels are fired can be one of two things.either fast and focused  ready for another go,everything in its correct location and practiced like in an army drill over and over till its as seamless and efficient as possible ignoring absolutely everything around you till the reload is done safely --Or,alternatively, if the birds down,and like myself its quality not quantity you seek ,you retrieve the prize lay the bird by your gamebag  ,open up the coffee flask and drink.The reload can be done in a minute --or two or maybe 5 --who cares i have my dinner sorted

Brilliant post bishop , and not forgetting the photos that could easily write a book , one day when people like your good self can no longer carry on wild fowling using Black Powder guns will be a sad , sad day .

THANKS for sharing and posting . 

[lancer425]

On 19/11/2019 at 19:34, greenshank1 said:

 

If you read Robert Burns poem Twa Dugs , he mentions the first labs coming off the boats. 

I did not know that thanks for sharing.

For those interested its below.

 

The Twa Dogs

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, That bears the name o' auld King Coil, Upon a bonie day in June, When wearin' thro' the afternoon, Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, Forgather'd ance upon a time. The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, Was keepit for His Honor's pleasure: His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; But whalpit some place far abroad, Whare sailors gang to fish for cod. His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar Shew'd him the gentleman an' scholar; But though he was o' high degree, The fient a pride, nae pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin, Ev'n wi' al tinkler-gipsy's messin: At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, An' stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. The tither was a ploughman's collie A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, And in freak had Luath ca'd him, After some dog in Highland Sang, Was made lang syne, - Lord knows how lang. He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face Aye gat him friends in ilka place; His breast was white, his touzie back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black; His gawsie tail, wi' upward curl, Hung owre his hurdie's wi' a swirl. Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, And unco pack an' thick thegither; Wi' social nose whiles snuff'd an' snowkit; Whiles mice an' moudieworts they howkit; Whiles scour'd awa' in lang excursion, An' worry'd ither in diversion; Until wi' daffin' weary grown Upon a knowe they set them down. An' there began a lang digression. About the "lords o' the creation." Caesar I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; An' when the gentry's life I saw, What way poor bodies liv'd ava. Our laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kane, an' a' his stents: He rises when he likes himsel'; His flunkies answer at the bell; He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse; He draws a bonie silken purse, As lang's my tail, where, thro' the steeks, The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e'en, it's nought but toiling At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' tho' the gentry first are stechin, Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, an' sic like trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner, Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant-man His Honour has in a' the lan': An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it's past my comprehension. Luath Trowth, Caesar, whiles they're fash't eneugh: A cottar howkin in a sheugh, Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, Baring a quarry, an' sic like; Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, An' nought but his han'-daurk, to keep Them right an' tight in thack an' rape. An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, Like loss o' health or want o' masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger: But how it comes, I never kent yet, They're maistly wonderfu' contented; An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is. Caesar But then to see how ye're negleckit, How huff'd, an' cuff'd, an' disrespeckit! Lord man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk, As I wad by a stinkin brock. I've notic'd, on our laird's court-day, An' mony a time my heart's been wae, Poor tenant bodies, scant o'cash, How they maun thole a factor's snash; He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble! I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor-folk maun be wretches! Luath They're no sae wretched's ane wad think. Tho' constantly on poortith's brink, They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, The view o't gives them little fright. Then chance and fortune are sae guided, They're aye in less or mair provided: An' tho' fatigued wi' close employment, A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a' their fire-side. An' whiles twalpennie worth o' nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy: They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs; They'll talk o' patronage an' priests, Wi' kindling fury i' their breasts, Or tell what new taxation's comin, An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, They get the jovial, rantin kirns, When rural life, of ev'ry station, Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty win's; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill, Are handed round wi' right guid will; The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, The young anes rantin thro' the house - My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. Still it's owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play'd; There's mony a creditable stock O' decent, honest, fawsont folk, Are riven out baith root an' branch, Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster In favour wi' some gentle master, Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin, For Britain's guid his saul indentin - Caesar Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: For Britain's guid! guid faith! I doubt it. Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him: An' saying ay or no's they bid him: At operas an' plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading: Or maybe, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To mak a tour an' tak a whirl, To learn bon ton, an' see the worl'. There, at Vienna, or Versailles, He rives his father's auld entails; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars an' fecht wi' nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles: Then bowses drumlie German-water, To mak himsel look fair an' fatter, An' clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. For Britain's guid! for her destruction! Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. Luath Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate! Are we sae foughten an' harass'd For gear to gang that gate at last? O would they stay aback frae courts, An' please themsels wi' country sports, It wad for ev'ry ane be better, The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter! For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, Feint haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; Except for breakin o' their timmer, Or speakin lightly o' their limmer, Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock, The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk, But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, The very thought o't need na fear them. Caesar Lord, man, were ye but whiles whare I am, The gentles, ye wad ne'er envy them! It's true, they need na starve or sweat, Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat: They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes: But human bodies are sic fools, For a' their colleges an' schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They mak enow themsel's to vex them; An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion, less will hurt them. A country fellow at the pleugh, His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh; A country girl at her wheel, Her dizzen's dune, she's unco weel; But gentlemen, an' ladies warst, Wi' ev'n-down want o' wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank an' lazy; Tho' deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless. An'ev'n their sports, their balls an' races, Their galloping through public places, There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party-matches, Then sowther a' in deep debauches. Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' whoring, Niest day their life is past enduring. The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great an' gracious a' as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, They're a' run-deils an' jads thegither. Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie, They sip the scandal-potion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, An' cheat like ony unhanged blackguard. There's some exceptions, man an' woman; But this is gentry's life in common. By this, the sun was out of sight, An' darker gloamin brought the night; The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; The kye stood rowtin i' the loan; When up they gat an' shook their lugs, Rejoic'd they werena men but dogs; An' each took aff his several way, Resolv'd to meet some ither day.

[d17 len]

On 17/11/2019 at 16:12, bishop said:

Ill pick up another percussion gun at some point absolutely.Big bore perhaps.On the subject of upsetting other fowlers.I walked that shore nightshooting from dusk till dawn as a boy with my old man.that was 45 years ago now.Without being flippant.If some young lad feels his semi auto is not getting enough work or his trigger fingers rusting up and wanted to blame me well,i think my sensitivity would stretch to  pointing  the way back to his 4x4 black monster truck that seems to be the "cool" car of choice these days.My father used a black powder Tolley 10 hammergun for decades, fowling with no effect on the wildfowl other than to those that ended up with BB in their chest.Interesting though,what in your mind is the factor that would cause such a reaction?Popularity? dave if they dun like it then they can go on home.We read posts constantly of big bags and cowboys skybusting all over the place yet these fellas seem to be almost hero worshipped in some strange sort of way.If a bloke cant take out a traditional fowling gun for  a bit of true sport  then its a sad day indeed.Someone fancies a shot,come over to me and ill gladly pass my gun over to them for a go.But a bloke  complaining?Ive saved up some colourful metaphors over the years.id share one or two with him 

Absolutely correct Bishop, the pogo stick skybusting numbers gang will finish wildfowling , and the bulk sat back and did nothing to stop it. 

[captainhastings]

I think it is magical because not only have you got the shooting side of things you have the gunman ship as well

[bishop]

I do use a semi auto and have used a browning humpback on geese many times but its the usual story.Its who is behind the gun that decides the ethics of the day.I have found the percussion 12 has a 25-30 yard range on most game geese included   and hopefully cash flow permitting ill pick up a 10 or an 8 so i can throw up 11/2 oz or perhaps 2 oz next season thus keeping a respectable pattern out to 35-40 yards.I found BB with black powder to be incredibly potent ballistic wise but fails on the pattern density.#2 shot would be my shot size of choice on geese with lead or #1 bismuth on the mud

Edited February 23, 2020 by bishop