A Beginners Guide to…Clay Pigeon Shooting
I was once embarrassingly jilted for not being able to shoot at events with elegant Harris-Tweed wearers, being deemed improper, or incomplete. Feeling rather foolish I would watch the shoot with the children and the women, serving piping-hot ox-tail soup whenever the men required it. When the shotguns would sound, my heart would race, and adrenalin would pump.
This was a completely different world to me, and one in which I didn’t belong, or so I was led to believe. So when I was asked if I would write this article I jumped at the chance for an hour lesson, if only to see how hard it would be, and to assuage some inferiority demons.
Before I could get my hands on the beautifully crafted shotgun, placed tantalisingly on the table before me, I was made to understand the safety etiquette. This seemed straight forward, although important. Aside from the safety-catch, the trigger-finger, and the direction of the gun when not in mounted shooting position (upwards, so the ammunition simply dissipates like rain after 300yds, were one to accidentally fire), the key was to never feel rushed.
Having been provided with ear-protectors, a shooting jacket, and a cap (to protect me from flying ‘debris’) the instructor and I made our way to a drive. While he was going through the safety issues again, and telling me where the clay-pigeons (which are saucer-shaped targets made of clay, weighing about 100g) would fly from, to, and when best to take a shot, I was immensely enjoying holding the shotgun in two hands.
It’s hard to describe, but the little boy who wants to play cowboys and Indians came out in me. I felt empowered, and strong, pulling up against the weight of the heavy gun. Finally it was time to shoot.
Standing sideways-on with my legs straight, shoulder-width apart, and slightly leaning on my front foot, I brought the gun up to rest on my shoulder, its butt wedged into my cheek. ‘Pull’, I called. The clay whizzed out of a trap about 60ft away, and, as predicted, it flew in an arc. Just before it reached its apex, hanging in the blue sky, I squeezed in the trigger – BANG – my eyes had easily followed the clay, and they winced as the clay was shattered into innumerable pieces. Wow. The rush, and satisfaction was fantastic. Immodestly, I couldn’t hold back my beaming smile.
During the hour I attempted two other drives. The clays were coming at all angles, and despite missing a few – as is natural for a beginner – I hit most of them, including some competition clays. Aside from the obvious hand-to-eye co-ordination, it soon became apparent that posture, smoothness and general majesty is the real order of the day.
‘I need more lessons at that’, I joked to my instructor – and perhaps I’ll have some. Shooting is amazingly addictive and exhilarating. I can totally understand why so many people enjoy it, as it can indeed open another world. Anyone, so long as they look the part and can shoot, can get involved, and it's not ridiculously expensive. Perhaps I’ll look up that ex-girlfriend, now I can tick the shooting box.
I was once embarrassingly jilted for not being able to shoot at events with elegant Harris-Tweed wearers, being deemed improper, or incomplete. Feeling rather foolish I would watch the shoot with the children and the women, serving piping-hot ox-tail soup whenever the men required it. When the shotguns would sound, my heart would race, and adrenalin would pump.
This was a completely different world to me, and one in which I didn’t belong, or so I was led to believe. So when I was asked if I would write this article I jumped at the chance for an hour lesson, if only to see how hard it would be, and to assuage some inferiority demons.
Before I could get my hands on the beautifully crafted shotgun, placed tantalisingly on the table before me, I was made to understand the safety etiquette. This seemed straight forward, although important. Aside from the safety-catch, the trigger-finger, and the direction of the gun when not in mounted shooting position (upwards, so the ammunition simply dissipates like rain after 300yds, were one to accidentally fire), the key was to never feel rushed.
Having been provided with ear-protectors, a shooting jacket, and a cap (to protect me from flying ‘debris’) the instructor and I made our way to a drive. While he was going through the safety issues again, and telling me where the clay-pigeons (which are saucer-shaped targets made of clay, weighing about 100g) would fly from, to, and when best to take a shot, I was immensely enjoying holding the shotgun in two hands.
It’s hard to describe, but the little boy who wants to play cowboys and Indians came out in me. I felt empowered, and strong, pulling up against the weight of the heavy gun. Finally it was time to shoot.
Standing sideways-on with my legs straight, shoulder-width apart, and slightly leaning on my front foot, I brought the gun up to rest on my shoulder, its butt wedged into my cheek. ‘Pull’, I called. The clay whizzed out of a trap about 60ft away, and, as predicted, it flew in an arc. Just before it reached its apex, hanging in the blue sky, I squeezed in the trigger – BANG – my eyes had easily followed the clay, and they winced as the clay was shattered into innumerable pieces. Wow. The rush, and satisfaction was fantastic. Immodestly, I couldn’t hold back my beaming smile.
During the hour I attempted two other drives. The clays were coming at all angles, and despite missing a few – as is natural for a beginner – I hit most of them, including some competition clays. Aside from the obvious hand-to-eye co-ordination, it soon became apparent that posture, smoothness and general majesty is the real order of the day.
‘I need more lessons at that’, I joked to my instructor – and perhaps I’ll have some. Shooting is amazingly addictive and exhilarating. I can totally understand why so many people enjoy it, as it can indeed open another world. Anyone, so long as they look the part and can shoot, can get involved, and it's not ridiculously expensive. Perhaps I’ll look up that ex-girlfriend, now I can tick the shooting box.
Labels: Clay pigeon, London
