Fowling in the Marshes of Ancient Egypt

Ducks, in the Egyptian imagination, fluttered not only through the marshes of the Nile but also through the very fabric of their art, architecture, and personal possessions.

In Tutankhamun’s tomb, exquisite wooden duck toys, beautifully painted to mimic the vibrant plumage of real ducks, were discovered nestled among his treasures. These toys, perhaps crafted for his childhood play or to symbolically accompany him into eternity, evoke a sense of innocence interwoven with deeper meanings of renewal and sustenance.

Beyond the tomb, the palaces of royalty, particularly the dazzling Amarna royal residence, featured elegant tiles adorned with scenes of ducks in graceful flight amid papyrus reeds and lotus blooms. These tiles, rendered in lustrous blue and green faience, transformed walls and floors into vibrant marshland vistas, capturing the beauty of the natural world within royal chambers.

In such scenes, ducks symbolised both the real bounty of the Nile and an idealised vision of abundance and harmony, their images a testament to the royalty’s desire to surround themselves with scenes of natural beauty and spiritual vitality. Whether on a child’s toy or on the walls of a palace, the duck in Egyptian art embodied the essence of life itself, a creature that fed the people, delighted the eye, and echoed the eternal rhythms of creation.

Ducks, so vibrantly depicted in Egyptian art, were also a cherished delicacy in the ancient diet. Their rich, flavourful meat graced the tables of both commoners and nobility, often roasted or stewed and seasoned with honey, herbs, and aromatic spices. The marshes of the Nile provided an abundant supply of waterfowl, which not only nourished the living but were also prepared as food offerings for the dead. Tombs, especially those of high-ranking officials and royalty, frequently contained painted scenes or even actual duck carcasses, carefully preserved or modelled in clay or wood, intended to sustain the deceased in the afterlife. These ducks, placed in baskets or depicted in elaborate feasting scenes, symbolised the continuation of life’s pleasures beyond the grave. Whether rendered in pigment on a tomb wall or placed in a funerary basket, the humble duck carried with it the promise of sustenance and renewal for eternity.

Netting Capture

In the embrace of Egypt’s marshes, the Ancient Egyptians perfected a delicate art: the netting of fowl.

The pursuit of waterfowl was as much about craft as it was about provision. Egyptian hunters, often depicted barefoot, would navigate the shifting silt and muddy banks with care, preserving their balance as they crept ever closer to the unsuspecting birds. Many took to slender papyrus skiffs (narrow light vessels deftly woven from reeds, that glided across the marshes with barely a ripple). From these floating platforms, or from the thick reed beds, they wielded their chief weapon: the clap net.

This net, a marvel of design, was woven from linen or finely plaited fibres. Held between two poles, it could be spread wide with a practised flick, its mesh unfurling like a linen blossom before settling upon its quarry. It was not the net’s weight or force that brought down the ducks, but the hunter’s understanding of timing and precision. At the right moment, when the flock clustered close, sometimes lured by decoys or by the gentle herding of the hunters, the net was cast. A swift pull would close its mouth, entangling the birds in its delicate embrace. The ducks, agile and wary, were nonetheless no match for such dexterous hands and an understanding of their habits.

Some scenes, particularly those preserved in Nakht’s tomb, show the vivid aftermath of this marshland ballet. A large net, bulging with flapping waterfowl, is pulled triumphantly from the stylised blue pool. The surrounding papyrus and lotus blooms frame the scene, offering not just an aesthetic flourish but a symbolic nod to fertility and abundance, the gifts of the marsh. It is a moment suspended between art and reality, where the bounty of nature is captured for human needs.

But the tale does not end with the catch. Adjacent to these lively images are depictions of the preparation of the fowl. Here, men are engaged in the plucking and dressing of the ducks, seated or standing amidst jars and baskets. Some remove feathers with swift, practised movements, while others prepare the birds for feasting or temple offerings. The tools of this work were simple yet effective: knives for cutting, woven baskets for carrying, and drying racks for preserving meat. The artistry of the scenes suggests a harmony between practicality and ritual, where even the mundane acts of plucking and skinning were imbued with a quiet reverence.

The marshes themselves played a dual role. They were sources of sustenance but also spaces imbued with spiritual significance. Ducks, symbols of fertility and renewal, were not just game; they were offerings to the gods, woven into the fabric of temple rituals and seasonal festivals. The act of netting whole flocks, with its graceful choreography, echoed the Egyptian ideal of Ma’at, balance and order prevailing over chaos.

The colours of these painted scenes remain surprisingly vivid to this day. The cool blues and greens of water and papyrus, the warm ochres and siennas of human figures, and the intricate detailing of feathers and reeds combine to create a visual symphony. Tomb painters used mineral pigments to capture not just form but vitality, ensuring that these images, though thousands of years old, still whisper of the marshlands’ rustling reeds and the gentle splash of oars.

In these frescoes, whether in Nakht’s tomb or others such as that of Nebamun, we are transported to a world where human ingenuity, natural bounty, and artistic expression were intertwined. The netting of ducks was no mere hunt; it was a dance with nature, a ritual of life’s ebb and flow, and a celebration of the symbiosis between man and the Nile’s fertile gifts.

Indeed, long after the last net was cast, and the final duck prepared for the pharaoh’s table or the temple altar, the marshes continue to sing in colours and lines. Their stories, captured on plaster walls, remind us of an ancient people who, through nets and skiffs, knives and baskets, wove their lives into the eternal cycles of nature.

The Throw Stick

In the painted splendour of Nebamun’s tomb, dating to around 1350 B.C., we encounter a scene both lively and sophisticated: the hunting of ducks in Egypt’s marshes with throw sticks. Here, Nebamun, a scribe and grain counter, is depicted upon a slender papyrus skiff, poised with a curved wooden throw stick in hand. With a deft flick of the wrist, he sends it spinning toward a startled flock of ducks, its arc a symbol of both skill and tradition.

The throw stick, fashioned from resilient woods like acacia or tamarisk, was an elegant tool designed to rotate through the air, striking down birds in mid-flight. Unlike the clap nets of other fowling scenes, the throw stick relied on precision, timing, and the hunter’s intimate knowledge of the marshland’s rhythms. The dense reeds and tranquil waters provided cover, while the natural instincts of the ducks dictated the perfect moment for release.

Such scenes were not confined to Nebamun’s tomb alone. Beginning in the Old Kingdom and continuing through the Eighteenth Dynasty, depictions of kings and commoners hunting birds in the marshes graced the walls of tombs and temples. The act of fowling was layered with meaning: for some, it represented a leisure pursuit the deceased wished to continue in the afterlife; for others, it was charged with religious significance. Egyptian swamps carried erotic connotations, and intriguingly, the word for throw stick (gmʒ) closely resembles the word for “beget” or “create.” Thus, these fowling scenes may have been intended to ensure fertility and regeneration in the world beyond.

This cultural significance extended into royal practice. The tombs of 18th Dynasty rulers such as Tutankhamun and Ay depict their subjects hurling throw sticks at birds with verve, while wooden examples, some used in actual hunts, were interred with Amenhotep II and Tutankhamun. Yet, the throw stick’s role was not solely practical. Ceremonial versions crafted from blue glazed composition, inscribed for monarchs and adorned with protective symbols, were undoubtedly ritualistic, unsuited for the rigours of marshland sport but potent as symbols of royal authority and divine favour.

Nebamun is not alone in his painted tableau. His wife and daughter, depicted with delicate lines and adorned in lotus blossoms, join him upon the skiff. Their presence transforms the hunt into a ritual of familial harmony, a celebration of nature’s abundance. All around them, the marsh teems with life: fish dart through stylised pools, butterflies flit amid papyrus stalks, and vibrant birds take wing, their feathers rendered with mineral pigments that have defied the passing centuries.

The artisans who adorned Nebamun’s tomb applied their craft with masterful precision. Outlines were drawn in bold black ink, while colours derived from ground minerals such as malachite, ochre, and lapis lazuli, were layered upon fine plaster, creating scenes that pulse with vitality. Each painted curve of the throw stick, each flurry of feathers, captures a world where artistry and life were in perfect harmony.

Thus, the throw stick becomes more than a hunter’s tool, it is an emblem of Egypt’s profound balance between human endeavour and the gifts of the Nile. As Nebamun’s stick arcs gracefully through the air, it carries not only the promise of fowl, but the enduring echo of a civilisation attuned to both beauty and necessity.