10 • Pillars of Country Sport


I make a conscious effort to loosen up a bit, and hit a clay with my second shot. Not dead centre, but nonetheless there’s a satisfying mid-air explosion that showers us with tiny fragments


Te Countryside Experience • Sunday 12 August 2018


a weirdly disorientating effect, muffling and distorting sounds so it feels like I’m underwater. “Bloody keyboard warriors!” I think I hear Mark joke, as he reaches over and releases the safety for me. I’m sure he also mutters something about, “Fleet Street”. Clearly there’s a bit of city- country tension in the air. I’m now on a mission to prove to Mark that nine-to-five commuters like me can be just as sharp a shot as the average country dweller. Unfortunately, my first attempt is a


miss. Te gun makes a hell of a bang, and the recoil is shocking. Mark tells me this is because I’m still gripping too tightly. I make a conscious effort to loosen up a bit, and hit a clay with my second shot. Not dead centre, but nonetheless there’s a satisfying mid-air explosion that showers us with tiny fragments. A few clays later, I think I’m starting to get the hang of it — I’ve also mastered the safety catch — although holding the gun up and concentrating on the clay is surprisingly tiring. After missing the next few clays,


Mark explains that psychology is key to shooting — “70% technique and 30% in the head”. It’s also important, he says, that I look beyond the gun, focus solely on the clay and keep the barrel moving even after I’ve fired. “When you catch a tennis ball, you don’t watch it all the way into your hand, you just stick your hand out and catch it. Trust your ability and don’t overthink it,” he explains. With Mark shouting, “Keep the


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power on, power on, power on!” (he means: keep the barrel moving), I obliterate the next two clays. We then move on to a “going away target” with the clays now travelling away from me from over my shoulder. Mark


loads both barrels and sends out a series of clays moving in alternating directions. I’m suddenly in the zone, hitting the target more than I’m missing, but when we move on to ‘rabbits’ I struggle. Here, the clays are released from the trap at ground level, bouncing along the grass just like a real bunny. I’m getting a bit tired, not holding the gun as steadily as before and my posture isn’t square enough. “Give the gun some shoulder to get into,” Mark scolds. “We don’t operate a blame culture here, but if you miss any more, it’s your fault!” At the final stand, the clays


simulate the flight of a startled grouse, zooming out the trap at 40mph, low and flat. Perhaps because they’re so much faster I’m having to rely purely on instinct. Tankfully, it doesn’t let me down, and most of the last batch of clays end up in pieces. “You’re your own worst enemy,” Mark concludes. “Too much time to think and the barrel starts waving around like your painting a Picasso in the sky! But just then you followed the clay with your eye, moved the barrel with it and pulled the trigger. It’s not rocket science, is it?” We shake hands, trudge back to


the clubhouse and, like a cop on his last day with the force, I hand over my gun. And so ends my first foray into the world of firearms. Having messed around with pretend guns most my life — cap guns, spud guns, the odd air rifle and a terrifying arsenal of PlayStation weaponry — I feel a satisfying sense of closure at having finally handled, and fired, the real thing. I’d set off from my urban bolthole that morning still a boy — in ballistic terms — but here, down a leafy lane off the A40 in Northolt, I’d become a man. A gunman.


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