The journey begins

Introducing youngsters to shooting is a privilege but one that carries great responsibility, particularly when it comes to choosing the right gun

- Miles Malone

THE MISTY spring morning remains sharp in my memory 30 years later. I crept ahead as we stalked the lee of a thick, untidy hedge, peeping through gaps to spot emerging rabbits seeking the early-morning sun. I was carrying my grandfather's William Evans: a light-barrelled 12-bore with a stock made for its original six-foot owner. To an eight-year-old, it felt like heavy artillery but what I lacked in physical stature I made up for in determination. After repeated petitions, my father had finally agreed to this trip with the 'big gun'; a significant promotion from my break-barrel airgun.

At that time, the rolling Suffolk landscape was teeming with rabbits, and it was not long until a sizable specimen emerged into the dawn sunlight, lolloped forward confidently and bent to nibble. I had never fired a shotgun, so it was with a fastgrowing knot of fear in my stomach that I raised the long barrels. The stock was never going to fit, so I tucked the excess under my arm. Shakily aligning the bead, I squeezed the back trigger (it being the only one I could reach) with trepidation. Immediately followed an almighty blast, a kick like a square connection from a pony's hind foot and, simultaneously, a solid punch to the right side of my face. All hell broke loose.

Though my unwisely uncovered ears were ringing, I could hear pigeon breaking from the length of the hedge as hitherto unseen rabbits bolted for safety and a single crow circled, calling in startled indignation. I ejected the empty paper-case cartridge with shaking hands, imbibed for the first time that glorious smell of spent cordite and hurried out into the rough grass in pursuit. The buck rabbit lay where it had stood, and the bruises and tinnitus were instantly forgotten as I grasped my prize, held high in triumph, at once stunned and elated. I was hooked.