The first shoot of the year takes place about the date just named, November 15, and is repeated every eighth day thereafter up to the middle of January, when the rice-grounds are run dry.
Upon the completion of the auction sales there is announced a definite day and hour at which (and at which only) the lessor is permitted to enter the rice-grounds, in order to prepare his shelter. Should he omit or neglect this opportunity, he is not afterwards allowed to touch it until the actual morning of the shooting.
Since there grows on rice-grounds no natural cover whatever, it is essential to prepare some form of screen or shelter, and the reeds or sedges required for the purpose must be brought from elsewhere.
Across each replaza, or conceded space, is erected a double line of screens, two yards apart and carefully masked by a fringe of reeds or rice-stalks. In the intervening “lane” are fixed two or more sunken tubs wherein the shooters can sit concealed.
Hardly has midnight struck on that eventful morn than the world is amove. Highways and byways, on land and water, are crowded by mobilising forces; across the dark waters move forth whole squadrons of boats, punts and launches, each one steering a course towards some far-away replaza. Absolute silence reigns. No lights are allowed and no sound shocks the mystery of night save the creaking of punt-pole or lapping of wave—no human sound, that is, for “the night is filled with music”; the pall overhead, the unseen wastes on every side are vocal with wildfowl cries. Continuously the still air is rent and cleft by the rush of myriad pinions. From right and left, before and behind, pass hurrying hosts, their violent flight resonant as the wash of an angry sea. But never a shot is fired. That is against the rules.
Shortly before sunrise the note of a bugle announces to hundreds of impatient ears the signal “Open fire,” and in that instant the fusillade from far and near rages like a battle. For a solid hour, nay, for two and sometimes three, fire continues incessant. First to become silent are the distant guns along the shores; the minor replazas slacken down next, and by noon all save two or three of the best posts are reduced to a desultory and dropping fire.
Then a second signal indicates that the “pick-up” may begin—up to that moment not a gunner is permitted to leave his place. This gathering of the game, stopping cripples, etc., induces a short renewal of the fusillade; but soon all is silent once more, and at three o’clock a third signal rings out, and at once every sportsman must quit the shooting-ground.
Besides the lessees of the auction-sold puestos (many of whom come from Madrid and distant parts of Spain), there foregather on these occasions all the local gunners; and far away beyond those sacred areas secured by purchase there form up league-long lines of fowlers by the distant shore; so that, between the private and privileged puestos and the free public lines outside, there may assemble in all some 3000 gunners. Hence these tiradas partake of the character of a popular festival. Yet in spite of such numbers there is not the slightest confusion or danger, so perfect are the rules and so scrupulously are they observed.
With so many guns scattered over wide areas no precise record of the exact numbers secured are possible; but, according to the estimates of those best calculated to judge, as many as 22,000 to 23,000 head (ducks and coots) are obtained in a single morning.
The records of individual guns in the best replazas run from 100 to 200 ducks gathered, and occasionally exceed those figures.