Do you remember your first shooting trip.

[Fisherman Mike]

I do..this an excerpt from a book I'm writing about my upbringing in the Cotswolds...its a bit like "Cider with Rosie" but without the Sex!

 

There's a bit of artistic licence but in the main its a true account.

 

 

It was a cold beginning, the sun was hiding and the wind not bitter but evil. The gravel didn’t crunch under our feet as we trekked to the old drover, the water had frozen solid and bound it all together.

 

Gramp turned the old beast over, she was a remnant from many years Army service. The bonnet was rusty where it was stripped and polished to fry eggs in the Palestinian sun. The diesel waxy but after much protesting she growled into life.

 

Instructed to clear the front screen I duly obliged, like an idiot though my un-gloved hand left a large patch of skin on the screen. “You stupid boy” barked Gramp as he simultaneously sucked on a Capstan full strength and then coughed his distain at the cold weather.

 

Our destination was a field of sprouts about 3 miles away, we weaved our way down the country lanes through deepest Gloucestershire, nothing stirred, there was little life. Only a few heifers greeted us when we parked up, snorting their disapproval as we had brought no feed, their flaring nostrils breathing dragons smoke, grey breath that froze instantly in the chilling winters air.

 

There was Snow on the top of the sprouts, and the florets broke like glass it was so cold! We cut some hazel staves from the hedge and built a hide, it was covered with old mans beard and ivy we pulled from a sycamore tree, (no doubt grateful to be relieved of the asphyxiation,) and set out 2 dozen decoys and waited .

 

The decoys were wooden, Gramp carved them himself from some mature Douglas Fir he had stripped from an old Tabernacle in Cirencester. They were painted with some old lead paint he had in the shed, not sure were it came from but he said it was ex Army too.. and I had no reason to disbelieve him.

 

I had both chambers of the old Webley loaded and leant back against the cold dry stone wall and waited with excited anticipation. The first birds to arrive not wood pigeon but four partridges flushed from the hedge by the Farmers Super Dexter as it rumbled down the farm track, two bales of hay on the back to quieten the baying heifers we encountered earlier.

 

Gramp dispatched the leading two, and I missed the two behind “what sort of Billy Mugginses’ shooting was that boy” he grumbled, drawing on another capstan. Everyone who showed an idiotic trait in the wolds was known locally as a Billy Mugginses. If you have ever read John Moore’s “The Cotswolds” you would know why.

 

The first pigeons arrived soon after, alighting on the tops of the sprouts we had brushed of snow. First one then another, then three and four then soon the whole field was awash with pigeons, desperate to feed in the short hours they could before the next inevitable snow storm.

 

I pricked a bird that scuttled off into the hedge, I released both barrels at it and Gramp clipped me around the ear of my balaclava “don’t waste cartridges, go and pick it up.!”

 

I did and tried to ring its neck but only succeeded in prolonging its suffering for a minute or two more than necessary. I swear in the final throes of life its steely eye met mine and I felt such remorse I almost wept.

 

 

“You’re nowt but a soft ******” said Gramp. “Get it on a stick or stick it in a bag.” How could he show such lack of compassion I thought? But after an hour or two I realised that he had seen more of compassion than I would ever know.

 

Bird after bird after bird, desperate to feed, came to the gun, oblivious to us, oblivious to Gramps old Clumber; Lisa who by this time was wandering around in and between the sprout rows and decoys at will.

 

I can’t remember how many I shot, we had a bag of 100 or so in only two or three hours, it was easy shooting. The poor birds immune to us and galvanised by the cold just kept coming and coming.

 

At about 11 Gramp suddenly said…”c’mon that’s it, the birds have had enough and so have I.” He likened the pigeons throwing themselves on the guns to the scenes he witnessed in Gallipoli in the First war…I didn’t understand what he meant at the time but I do now.

 

We dropped the birds off at Kemble Station and called in at the Tunnel House on the way home … I was only in early teens but he bought me a Grouse and my love affair with whiskey and shooting began that day in 1973.

 

Gramp didn’t live many years longer and we never went shooting together again. He succumbed to Lung Cancer, a result of Phosgene gassing as a 19 year old in the trenches in 1917 …I suspect though a lifetime of sucking on a Capstan full strength had a little to do with it. !

 

 

[Danger-Mouse]

I do..this an excerpt from a book I'm writing about my upbringing in the Cotswolds...its a bit like "Cider with Rosie" but without the Sex!

 

 

 

 

Don`t put yourself down...

 

it`s far better than that overly flowery, so called classic, piece of *****.

[felly100]

Don`t put yourself down...

 

Blimey,he would never do that!

[Danger-Mouse]

Blimey,he would never do that!

[shoot and be safe]

I enjoyed reading that

 

Not the same first shooting memory of mine, but I felt I was there in the hide with you on that cold winters morning.

[welsh1]

I cannot remember my very first shooting trip,but i remember the first time my Dad let me fire his winchester,it was a lovely crisp autumn day and we had been sitting on a bank and dad with a roll up in his mouth had dispatched 6 rabbits,the smell of his damp donkey jacket is still strong in my memory.My Dad was a fantastic shot,he shot a bisley when in the Army,and made it look so effortless.
He turned to me and said "do you think you are ready" and i realised he was talking about shooting his .22,i just nodded. he moved a foot closer and handed me the .22,and told me to look at the fence post at the end of the fence,i eventually found it through the scope and he then flicked off the safety,telling me to relax and just think about the point on the post i was going to hit,and then he said to breath in and out i did it twice and he said on your next out just squeeze the trigger,well that is what i did and blow me i hit the post 30 ft away.

We walked down to see and i was amazed that the bullet had hit the knot i had aimed at close to the top of the post,and had hit a u nail knocked into the top of the post and come out the side of the post,my Dad laughed and ruffled my hair and said "well done lad" and we walked back up the hill,i hit that post another 5 times that day for 5 shots,all the while sitting next to Dad smelling of wet donkey jacket and roll ups.

We went on to shoot a lot together and he showed me many tricks and some great field craft which i have passed on to my boys,but that first shot will stay with me.
The winchester was sold to a lady who owns a trout farm, i spoke to her a couple of years ago, the winchester is still going strong and as accurate as ever,and she has promised me first refusal should she sell it,it is probably only worth a couple of quid today,but to have it in my hands again would amazing.

[V8 90]

I can, I was 14 - I had just started working for a local Farmer it would be 1977, he asked me if I would like to spend an afternoon keeping pigeon off a rape field. Obvioulsly I didn't need asking twice, he dropped me off in his Landrover down a track with a Baikal single barrel 12g & a cartridge bag full of Eley 6's + 1 decoy, no hide, no stool nowt else. I broke some branches off an Elderberry bush & made what I thought was an ok hide. I had several shots for 1 pigeon but loved it. I shot many pigeons with that gun over the next year or so. By the time I was 16 I had my own BSA SKB O/U & an old Essex SBS - it went on from there really ..........

 

Happy Days

[Bleeh]

 

..its a bit like "Cider with Rosie" but without the Sex!

You better add some. I'd call it Fifty shade of clay (pigeons)

[loriusgarrulus]

Really enjoyed that.

[team tractor]

I was 14 (1996 ) when I shot my first bunny at 5 yards with the airrifle and I remember panicking as it was kicking to get down the hole.

My grandad turned it into a stew and we shared it he's been gone 10 years now but still a happy memory

[corkycorksta]

It was 1976 and I was four, nearly five years old. We lived on the Isle of Rhum where dad was the warden.

 

I distinctly remember getting into the old series Land Rover with him one morning and heading out on the track toward Hallival mountain. As we approached the sides of the hill dad stopped the Land Rover and was intently examining the valley to our left through his binoculars. Can you see that big Red stag he asked ? I sure could, it was like a small horse no more than 200 meters away and a little below us - happily munching away and seemingly not worried by the vehicle.

 

"Keep still, stay there and stay quiet, I've been waiting for this fella" .

 

Dad slowly climbed out of the Land Rover and up across the bonnet, using the spare wheel as a rest he lined up on the stag. "Fingers in your ears " he hissed. I waited for what seemed like forever, I literally had no idea what was going on, I had never seen Dad use his gun and prior to this day I had no idea what it was for. I was watching Dad, then watching the stag wondering what was happening and then boom ! The whole vehicle seemed to rock from the shockwave and for just a split second the stag tried to run before his front legs buckled and down he went.

 

I was beside myself with excitement as we trudged down the slope to have a look at him and when we arrived I couldn't believe how big he was. I remember his smell, the warmth of his body, thickness of his hair and that big beautiful staring brown eye.

 

We headed back home to collect two of the bigger ponies to go and drag him up the slope, it was dark by the time we retrieved him. The whole experience left a huge impression on me. Unfortunately we left Rhum not long after so I could start a mainland school. My one and only experience of hunting red deer, the first time I met death and a memory of an experience with my father I will always treasure.

[islandgun]

It was 1976 and I was four, nearly five years old. We lived on the Isle of Rhum where dad was the warden.

 

I distinctly remember getting into the old series Land Rover with him one morning and heading out on the track toward Hallival mountain. As we approached the sides of the hill dad stopped the Land Rover and was intently examining the valley to our left through his binoculars. Can you see that big Red stag he asked ? I sure could, it was like a small horse no more than 200 meters away and a little below us - happily munching away and seemingly not worried by the vehicle.

 

"Keep still, stay there and stay quiet, I've been waiting for this fella" .

 

Dad slowly climbed out of the Land Rover and up across the bonnet, using the spare wheel as a rest he lined up on the stag. "Fingers in your ears " he hissed. I waited for what seemed like forever, I literally had no idea what was going on, I had never seen Dad use his gun and prior to this day I had no idea what it was for. I was watching Dad, then watching the stag wondering what was happening and then boom ! The whole vehicle seemed to rock from the shockwave and for just a split second the stag tried to run before his front legs buckled and down he went.

 

I was beside myself with excitement as we trudged down the slope to have a look at him and when we arrived I couldn't believe how big he was. I remember his smell, the warmth of his body, thickness of his hair and that big beautiful staring brown eye.

 

We headed back home to collect two of the bigger ponies to go and drag him up the slope, it was dark by the time we retrieved him. The whole experience left a huge impression on me. Unfortunately we left Rhum not long after so I could start a mainland school. My one and only experience of hunting red deer, the first time I met death and a memory of an experience with my father I will always treasure.

well written and interesting tale fella, mine involves a single coey 12 and a sitting pigeon

Edited April 5, 2015 by islandgun

[scolopax]

Great account!

 

Aged ten my Dad took my brother and myself to watch a farmer friend of his on the farm game shoot. I was stood watching in the morning then joined the few older lads who were beating for the afternoon. The bag was only twenty or so but as a city boy I was completely hooked. Nearly thirty years later later the shoot tenancy became available and now I have my own little playground............

 

First thing I shot was a starling with a .22 meteor a year or two afterwards. Got to admit it wa a bit distressing at the time as the poor thing was only winged and did a lot of squawking as it fell from the tree. A much more satisfactory experience was being handed a .410 for the first time and being told to watch a couple of un netted rabbit holes as our friends ferrets did their stuff. One bolted and I rolled it over stone dead at about ten yards range witha very nifty snap shot. Bit ironic really as one very weak aspect of my future shooting 'career' was my (continuing) inability to hit ground game!!!

[figgy]

Honestly can't remember my first with a catapult or air pistol or even my first with a air rifle. Probably shot that many over my younger years they all merge together.

Was never bothered by the screaming some rabbits and hares make when shot,due to growing up and my granda dispatching all manor of things with me present.

Living on the edge of town next to the countryside I and my friends played with catapults from such a young age that hunting was a daily activity for me.

 

I remember my sons first day,it was on a game syndicate I asked if my son could take my peg for a couple of drives as a treat for beating through the season. His face was such a picture,I'll never forget.nor will he.

Edited April 5, 2015 by figgy

[steve_b_wales]

Not so much my first shooting trip, but my first ever go at a 12 bore shotgun. I was 14 years old at the time, and a pit on the 'puny' side. In fact, there was more meat on a chicken's lip. Anyway, I was up on the farm, and one of the guys helping out, asked if I wanted a go of his shotgun. It was a single barrel Baikal, with #4 Record cartridges. There was a pond with an old tin bath in it, and I was told to 'just aim at it and fire'. I did so, but missed the bath by a mile. My shoulder felt like someone had hit me with a sledge hammer. For a second, it put me off wanting a shotgun, but, after the farm hand stopped laughing, he gave me another go, which was slightly better (I hit the pond)

[ack-ack]

I remember my first trip down the marshes with the auld fella. Stand here, keep quiet, dont touch that, stand here now , shhhh. etc etc . it was whack. I just wanted to go fishing but the old man said it was boring. The irony wasn't lost on me even at that tender age. Its the other wsy round now, i keep trying to get him out shooting but he'd rather have a dangle.

[novice cushie shooter]

I remember it like it was yesterday. My uncle was in charge of a garden nursery at livingston and had a fair bit of land so my old man gave me the .410 single shot. I had two shots at pheasants and missed both. Good times!