For years there was no traffic on the forest path next to our house. Occasionally work was carried out in the vineyard. But otherwise it was quiet.

Until a few years ago. Cars drove back and forth, material was dragged in and carpentry noises disturbed the peace. Curious, we went to take a look in the forest after a few weeks. A tower had been built. Jokingly, we already spoke of terrorist tower.
After a chat it turned out that the tower had been erected for the hunting of wood pigeons.
We haven’t heard many shots in recent years.

We sometimes have a chat with the hunters. Our question whether it is a successful hunting season is answered in the negative. None of this seems to matter to the hunters. They regularly come by with drinks and food in their cars.
I suspect that it is a great excuse to flee mother from the woman and have a drink with comrades. This way, both parties are satisfied.
The hunters and the pigeons who hardly have any danger to fear.

In this piece by Danielle van Duijn she talks about her experience with hunting wood pigeons.

I have arranged to meet at one of the wood pigeon hunters’ homes. A little later we drive through villages and then forests. Then we leave civilization and follow a muddy path through the forest for minutes. I have already lost my sense of direction at the beginning of the forest path, but that doesn’t really mean anything. With a sleepy head, I tie the laces of my hiking boots. This morning I am expected at half past six á la palombe, the wood pigeon hunt. I have mixed feelings about it, but I am curious enough about this, for me unknown, branch of sport.
Today I climb into a palombière, a so-called dovecote, with the palombiers of Mauzens.

The man says that he used to hunt wood pigeons with his father in this piece of forest. His gaze softens and I can almost see the man and the little boy walking between the trees. ‘But then there were no pigeon towers, we shot from the ground,’ he adds.

Only the tire tracks show that the glorified game track leads somewhere. The car slides and slips dangerously along. I mention in passing that when we have to push when we get stuck, my place will be behind the wheel! The driver smiles calmly and soon two huts made of jute, foliage and conifer branches loom up. We enter the domain of the hunters. I learn that the cars are hidden from the wild pigeons; it can scare them off. It turns out that I will also have to hide my light beige sweater under my green raincoat.

The men meet in the hunting lodge, la cabane de chasse. The hut is made of wood and painted sloppy green for camouflage. Next to it, a fire burns within a circle of natural stones. On the outside wall hang two panties, one red and one black. As I look at the men one by one, I silently wonder whose conquests they have been. Inside, ten very pink women smile at me defiantly from the wall. ‘Welcome to the man’s world’ I say to myself in my mind. After the car is hidden behind a number of branches, we continue our way on foot. We pass a green sign with white letters. Palombière SIFFLEZ is there – pigeon tower FLUITEN -. I laughingly ask what is meant. It turns out to be a serious matter: the sign states a rule of conduct for hikers: one is expected to whistle loudly at the sight of such a sign to let the hunters know that a stranger is approaching.

There are ten hunters present today, five of them have already climbed into the dovecote. I shake hands with the others. Some of them give me two kisses. Two hunters stay downstairs and take care of lunch. One is even afraid of heights. Next to the cabane on the forest floor is a pigeon hunting hut for him; a dome of conifer branches containing a white plastic garden chair. Two of them later climb into a watchtower from where they can scan the entire area for wild pigeons in the sky. The men keep in touch with each other via mobile phones. Shouting loudly is also possible.

The hunting of wood pigeons is allowed by the government from the beginning of October to November fifteen, a sloppy week or five. The hunting season for wild boar and deer starts as early as August and ends in February. To be allowed to practice any hunt, a permis de chasse is required.

When I sit down at the table on the veranda, jokes are exchanged back and forth. I sip my coffee a bit awkwardly and study the flowers on the plastic tablecloth; I feel slightly embarrassed because today I “break into” the big boyhood world of these men. Even if it is with everyone’s consent.

It has rained for days on end, so there is a good chance that the migratory birds will come over in large flights this day. The wood pigeons come from the north of Europe and fly across the Pyrenees to Morocco where they have been wintering for years.

The hunting day starts with the “raising” of thirteen decoys. They are hoisted up into the treetops via an ingenious system of strings and small pulleys. A tangle of strings runs from the trees to the dovecote that is also located in the treetops. The wild pigeons are lured with conspecifics that are attached to an iron rack high in the treetops with a loop around the legs. They wear a mask so that they stay calm. Daylight does come through along the edges, but they don’t see enough to want to fly away. Outside the hunting season, they have a good and calm life in an aviary.

The thing gently bobs up and down with every step I take, the higher the more. When I stand halfway up the ladder with trembling knees, between hut and safe forest floor, an excited ‘palombe!, palombe!’ sounds from above. Around me, strings suddenly move back and forth on small pulleys. High above me, the decoy pigeons flutter on their rack. Gunshots and agitated male voices echo through the forest, die away again and minutes later there is silence. The tower is made of old scaffolding pipes. A narrow rusted ladder ends at a hatch that provides access to a small hut made of planks. This is camouflaged with branches and foliage. I have to put my head in my neck to see the hut. ‘Twelve meters high’, I am told. A nervous tickle shoots through my stomach with speed. ‘Do I have to go up there!’ squeaks a panicked voice in my head. I take a deep breath, think of fun things and put my foot on the first smooth rung of the ladder.

I am allowed to move again and can then continue on my way, suppressing the urge to think of the newspaper articles that have been in the newspaper in recent weeks: two dead men and a wounded man, all three fallen from another pigeon tower in our region.

After forty-eight steps, a hatch opens above me. I squeeze through, wipe my hands on my jeans and introduce myself to five men with guns.

The surface of the room is approximately seven square meters, inside there is a kind of elevation where two men are on the lookout. They stick their heads above the roof and can look 360 degrees over the treetops. I only see their legs and the bundles of rope at their knees that correspond to the decoy pigeons at the top of the trees.

Below them is a large cage in which pigeon food is on the bottom. There are three viewing slots of braided rebar, again camouflaged with branches of conifers -a lot of hedges have been pruned lately-. Three hunters are standing next to each other, chatting and looking outside, six eyes focused on the horizon. The uncertainty about whether the pigeons will come and when is part of the charm of this sport I am told. All around in the treetops, the decoy pigeons are patiently waiting for their racks. Eyes have been painted on the caps they wear to make it look as normal as possible to their wild counterparts. I think it’s weird eyes to see.

The treetops are pruned once a year, otherwise the hut would slowly disappear into the foliage. That seems like a life-threatening job to me.

A pigeon picks at the strings around her legs with her beak. It is necessary to tie them up because otherwise the wood pigeons would fly away without coming back.

On the roof of the tower cooing ordinary pigeons, the colors green and purple of their neck feathers glisten in the gently breaking sun. These are pigeons of the kind that pigeon fanciers keep. However, they are stuck at home because they are in a cage in the tower at night during the hunting season and are fed there. They flutter back and forth a bit, but stay close by. They are hunted with a stick as soon as a flock of wild wood pigeons approaches, also with the aim of luring the wild pigeons and having them settle in the trees around the pigeon tower. Nowadays it is forbidden to shoot flying wild pigeons, you have to wait until they sit down.

In the distance, a flock of wood pigeons approaches. ‘Palombe! Palombe! palombe!’ it suddenly sounds from five throats at the same time. The shutters are frantically closed. Strings are pulled at the top, which causes the decoy pigeons to flutter. The pigeons on the roof are chased away, the men sneak around breathlessly and rifle butts are aimed. Through the cracks that the conifer branches leave open, I see a number of wild wood pigeons approaching. The adrenaline rises, the hunters wait in utmost concentration for the palombes to sit down. I have a chuckle, because I see in my mind the League advertisement of those men in the hunting lodge for waterfowl. Gunshots sound and empty shells fly around my ears. The shutters are thrown open, enthusiastic exclamations from the five men. There is a lot of talk about who shot how many copies.

This ritual will be repeated a number of times today. Someone sighs: ‘finally! After all those days of waiting in the rain!’ Another descends the ladder and receives indications from above about where exactly to look. ‘Four!’ it sounds enthusiastically from the depths.

The forest soil is neatly cleared by the hunters before the pigeon season; stripped of fallen branches and too many leaves. Piles of branches are collected under a number of trees, so that the forest floor remains “clean” and shot pigeons can be found more easily.

A little later, the picker squeezes through the hatch and carelessly throws four dead wood pigeons on the wooden floor. No winter holiday in Morocco for them…

Except for some blood on the beak, they look flawless. It seems as if they are just sleeping in this unnatural place. My driver picks up one of the dead pigeons and shows me the recognition features of a palombe compared to a normal pigeon. A palombe has a white ring around the neck and white wing partitions. The older the pigeon, the more pronounced. An ordinary pigeon lacks these signs.

I am told that the animals are easy to remove their feathers and taste delicious as pies, rôti – the young and therefore tender ones – and the older animals candied in their own fat.

After about twenty minutes we leave the ground under us again. It smells damp in the dovecote and the conifers that cover the shutters add a fresh spicy scent. Sweaters and body warmers hang from the walls along the walls. The bags are heavy with ammunition. The emptier those pockets become, the happier the mood becomes. And the more often ‘palombe! palombe!’ the more sweaters and body warmers are added; The adrenaline warms up the men. At half past nine we descend for the casse croûte, literally: breaking the crust. In other words, eating a piece of baguette with savory toppings on top. Accompanied by a glass of wine. Going down the ladder is even worse than climbing up I experience.

The plank house in the treetops shakes gently when someone moves a step or goes up or down the ladder. There is a cozy atmosphere in the tower, not only because of the practice of their beloved sport, but also because of l’apéro, the aperitif that is served. There is a choice of Pastis, Pineau and Whisky. White plastic cups are filled and refilled. I take it easy in terms of consumption because I now have to pee very badly and so I can go down and up that damned ladder in one piece.

In the afternoon we eat downstairs in two shifts. I sincerely thank the men for allowing me to spend this day in their midst. We sit outside on the veranda, in front of the cabin. It is the end of October and I think with a touch of schadenfreude of my former compatriots in the Netherlands.

The men think of the dúiven in the Netherlands. Who, as I tell them, just walk around freely in big cities and are secretly blasted off their flat by many a student. In France, a wood pigeon easily costs fifteen euros. I am asked if I can bring a few Dutch pigeons for them next time. As if you can pick them up from the street… In my mind I see myself running across the market square of Gouda and putting pigeon after pigeon in a large bag. “Then who pays my bail and comforts the shocked children?” I hear myself answer laughing.

Someone has thrown a cartridge in the fire as a joke, this causes big bangs and loud laughter. Softly I ask “my” hunter if his mates are themselves despite me being there, or if they behave differently. “They are completely at ease!” he confides to me with a chuckle.

The starter is a coarse but tasty vegetable soup. Gray pieces of pig skin float around in it. Before anyone else has the chance I spontaneously offer to brag for everyone. For myself, I deftly scoop around the pore squares. Nobody has a sign that is equal to the other. The main course consists of grilled sirloin steak that hangs on two sides over my plate on the flowers of the tablecloth. A steaming bowl of fried potatoes with garlic and sweet chestnuts is also placed. Three bottles of wine are emptied. Whoever would take care of the dessert was apparently not well short-circuited beforehand because there will be three boxes of cake and pastries on the table. Judging by the bellies of some men, people eat like this very regularly.

Once back up – it gets easier and easier – I am told that it is ‘a good day’; The sun no longer hesitates, gains strength and makes the clouds evaporate more and more. The fact that there is no wind also seems to have prompted the palombes to fly south. The point is that they have been able to rest for days because of the rain and have little desire to settle down in the trees around the tower.

One thinks it is time for a digestif; Surely the digestion of the meal should be helped by a sip up here! In the words of a French comedian: ‘to hunt wood pigeons you have to have la foi (loyalty), but especially le foie (liver)!’ I turn down.

‘Palombe! Palombe! Palombe!’ it sounds again. Half-full cups fly around my ears; A chat of Whisky makes a dark blue circle on my jeans. Faces move tensely in front of the mesh shutters, guns are pierced between the conifer branches and unlocked. A whispering countdown and bang! afraid! Once again, a number of wood pigeons are a thing of the past. Suddenly there is cursing; Someone accidentally hit a decoy pigeon by flying gunshot. Agitated, the culprit is sought. They are genuinely upset and continue to grumble about it among themselves for a long time.

I get to sit on top of the lookout and get an explanation about the breathtaking view over hills, river and castles. I have noticed that the hunters also get ecstatic when large flocks of wood pigeons fly by outside shooting range. Small gray dots against the blue sky in sloppy formation. Enthusiastic exclamations and guesses about the number of animals, ranging from 500 to 1000. I am dealing here with nature lovers pur sang who also come together for fun and sports… Men only. Normally, that is.

I don’t see myself sitting with a gun between the leaves yet, but after this day I feel a little milder towards this branch of sport; Do I shoot my own cow or chicken for dinner? No, I buy this very boring in the supermarket with air conditioning, without a trace of cosiness around it. I also don’t know what my future dinner ate while I was alive. Moreover, I let someone else do the dirty work in order to be able to put a bite-sized meat in cellophane in my shopping cart…

– Danielle van Duijn is the author of the book “VerhalenderWijs”. In it, she describes how living in la douce France has made her a little wiser. About themselves, the country life, the people, the country, the differences with the Netherlands and life in general. Sometimes through damage and sadness, but above all with amazement and pleasure. She has entrusted the experiences from her new world to paper truthfully and in chronological order. This book is the result! The book consists of 88 short stories, has 292 pages and is illustrated with cartoons.

More info on the site of Danielle – My Life in France

More info on Palombières and pigeon hunting on a very specialized site Palombe