58 WILD LIFE ON A NORFOLK ESTUARY 



glories. It is the old man's delight to live in the past and 

 to grumble ! 



To-day, only one man may be termed a semi-professional 

 punt-gunner, one Fred Clarke, a sturdy, brown-visaged Brey- 

 doner, whose face is wrinkled and scored by hard knocks and 

 exposure. But he has to supplement the few short months 

 of wildfowling by various jobs ashore millwrighting, gate- 

 building, and rough, marsh-farm carpentry. A veritable 

 recluse he lives, summer and winter, in his snug little house- 

 boat on Banham's rond, within hail of my own, and seldom 

 goes up to town save to dispose of his game, or to lay in 

 fresh stores for himself and gun. He is brimming over with 

 bird-lore and, but for his inaccessibility, would be a perfect 

 boon to the amateur naturalist and penny-a-liner who might 

 be fortunate enough to interview him. 



There are some half-dozen amateur punt-gunners to be 

 found, at intervals, gliding along the runs and drains of 

 Breydon, ready to "lay" at any small bunch of knots or 

 curlews, or even a single fowl, although occasionally they fall 

 in with unexpected numbers, and surprise themselves and 

 others by their skill and strange good luck ! Also, there are 

 always punts containing amateur shoulder-gunners, who are 

 popping incessantly on every hand directly a few flocks of 

 small waders have been seen on the flats, and these would be 

 more numerous had not the addition of March and August 

 to the close-season months made sport scantier than ever for 

 them. 



Before closing this chapter it may be interesting to mention 

 the fact that, notwithstanding that every old Breydoner was 

 called by some pet nickname, and in many instances known 

 by no other, they were always extremely sensitive to any- 

 thing they considered approaching to ridicule. An amusing 

 instance occurred some years since when my friend Mr. 

 G. F. D. Preston, who was then interested in local sport, came 

 off Breydon and landed on the Bowling Green overlooking the 

 estuary. He had observed a stork on the mudflats, and, 

 turning to one of the Thackers, known as the "Breydon 

 Stork," remarked : 



" There's a stork on Breydon ! " 



Thacker made no remark, but stared at Mr. Preston, who, 

 thinking he did not quite understand him, repeated the 



