Through the season I had been seeing a surprising number of woodcock in the most unlikely of locations, but had thus far kept my powder dry. It had been unseasonably warm and I did not feel the true migratory fall had got to us. So, after the huge moon at the start of December and a prolonged patch of hard frosts and clear night skies, the time of the wondrous wader felt upon us.
The week had held at a chilling
-5ºC, but rather than hide away I craved to be out in the crisp silence of the freeze, gun in hand and dog at heel. Saturday could not come too soon and as the sun glowed over the blue horizon, I hit a road that glistened with black ice and dales villages were replaced with rustic farmsteads en route.
About 10 minutes from my destination, the heavy white sky began
