"Finally the first!”Is the short but vibrant caption accompanying the photo that Alberto sent me on Saturday morning. Indeed, it was time, after a hot summer and a sunny autumn, that the rains finally arrived to revive nature and bring with them the charm of this magical season. The forecasts for Sunday are quite catastrophic, sustained rain and thunderstorms are given at 100%, but Alberto, a little for the enthusiasm that pervades him, a little for the wise intuition of those who know how to look at the sky, offers me an exit fast for the next day, should a stable window of time give us a few hours of hunting.
In the morning put the nose out we quickly feel right to confirm the appointment, if the storm comes it will find us in the woods, or maybe returning. After getting out of the car, we take a short path before plunging into a hornbeam forest. The scents emanating from the wet spot of rain are entrancing and immediately convey the essence of autumn and hunting.
On the field today there will be Asso, Alberto's 4-year-old black-and-white pointer, an excellent and tested subject, flanked by the young Moro, only 12 months old, on his first real outing in woodcock. If I am well acquainted with the skills of Asso, I cannot fail to observe, admired, the young Moro: enterprising, independent compared to his more experienced companion, very connected and at ease in the dense and insidious Mediterranean scrub, this pointer as black as the night excites me a lot.
After a few rounds of the dogs, which we follow with difficulty due to the thick undergrowth of brambles and harness shredders, the palmtop vibrates in Alberto's pocket, indicating that Asso is stationary. We reach the dogs as quickly as possible and find Ace in firm and Moro in consent. We arrange ourselves on the sides of the dogs that break the stop confirming our feeling that the woodcock is no longer there. We continue to search the woods. "Here I found woodcocks practically in every point, I can't tell you what the remittances are, it's a very favorable area"Alberto tells me.
When we come out on a path we can glimpse the blanket of black clouds that is swallowing the sky on the horizon. "We don't have much time before the storm, but we can't help but look in the piece up here"Alberto urges me. When we climbed a slight slope, drenched in sweat more from the humidity and the abnormal heat than from the effort, the handheld vibrates again. Asso and Moro, who had headed into the ditch on our right, are stationary. We let ourselves slide running on the mud towards them. This time Alberto is ready to serve the dogs and I on the opposite side to cover any escape route for the woodcock. The whisk of the woodcock is immediately covered by Alberto's thrust.
The result of the shot is not immediately clear to us, the dense environment of the undergrowth did not allow us to follow the trajectory of the woodcock but we are quite convinced that it has gone away. While we make these considerations the dogs are stopped again: first Moro and then Ace in consensus in firm among the brambles. As we approach the two pointers break the stop and shortly afterwards the royal plumage of the woodcock blazes between the black bite of the young and novice Moro, filling Alberto's eyes with pride and satisfaction.
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