Woodcock hunting: New and old generations of hunters in comparison, what experience can teach enthusiasm in Giovanni's story.
I have had a burning desire since I was a kid to go hunting woodcocks with a shotgun in hand. Not for the sake of violence, which does not belong to me, nor because I consider hunting a sport!
For me, going hunting is a serious matter, a confrontation with nature, a way to experience it and protect it: my father, on the other hand, was a hunter of the real ones, endowed with ethics and values that he passed on to me.
Hunt only what you need, love the environment, have respect for your prey are some of the rules that I try to pass to the new hunters of today: unfortunately it is not that simple!
I am originally from the Lower Po Valley and in the month of October, when the step of the queen intensified in our area, there was turmoil among the hunters. My father, always accompanied by his wonderful ones hunting dogs, always remained faithful to the setters and I fear that the passion is genetic. In fact, my first hunting memories are linked to Vigo, a fabulous specimen that we personally trained; I still remember everything perfectly: dawn, the smell of coffee in the house, Vigo very excited and hurrying off to the woods with dad and some friends.
The best days were the clear ones, cloudy only at times: then the grass shone because of the dew and the atmosphere was almost dreamlike. Of course this didn't happen often, but I remember many of these days. During one of these, I must have had a scarce 17 years, spent a truly unforgettable hunting morning. As usual, the day started under "our" tree, the meeting place of many friends: who knows how many evenings we spent discussing the hunt just ended under the old oak tree ...
The group soon moved into the woods heading towards the pasture points they knew well and after a wait that probably seemed eternal to the dog, I finally freed Vigo. Looking at him was a pleasure: he scoured the area as usual and soon he had an idea clear of all the surrounding inhabited by poplars, brambles, junipers, locust trees and fountains. In short, the place was an ideal pasture area for the queen of the woods. Vigo repeatedly slowed down and refined the search, especially in the vicinity of some areas where the scrub became thicker, head held high, to capture any odor.
A good part of the morning passed in vain: no trace of the woodcock and many of our comrades decided to go home to try again in the afternoon. At that point my father winked at me: he always said that hunting is not mathematics. He advised me to take a different route to get back to the tree and the car: longer, less frequented by both hunters and woodcocks. I confess, I thought that there was not so much with the head but I decided to follow him, exactly as the dog did, a little saddened by the expectations betrayed.
The flicker of Vigo was surprising when we perceived, not far from us, the fabulous smoothie of the queen. The first few pitches were a real shame! Good for the woodcock: all the fault of the precipitation and above all of my distraction. And who thought he would find a woodcock in the middle of nowhere?
Time passed, maybe half an hour and my hopes were about to wither again when I noticed Vigo slowing down, becoming cautious and damn silent: found! The dog, almost respectful of the Queen, took a splendid stop: my father gave me the passage with a look and invited me to calm down: blessed youth.
The new whir of the bird attracted my attention: it flew low, slalom between an infinity of obstacles that hid it. My shotgun conquered a tuft of brambles and grazed a juniper branch, but my father who had followed the whole scene, with a beautiful shot managed to stop the fabulous one woodcock. As Vigo brought back the prey he winked: the next one will be yours.
That day I learned that hunting is not hard and fast rules but rather instinct, that every hunter must learn to listen and that with impatience you can't go anywhere ...