Midnight Sun Rifle Challenge Pt4

The die is now well and truly cast, we’ve paid, flown to the the top of Europe, they know we’re here and are waiting for us. We change into the clothes we’ll wear for the next 24 hours and make for the carpark. 

On the hotel doorstep a tall blonde woman, who has stepped out of central casting’s Viking Maiden department, is heaving her pack out of the foyer. 

Are you competing in Midnight Sun? I ask her. 

“Well yes I’m going, not really sure if you could call it competing, I’m just a beginner, I don't expect to do very well.” 

There’s understatement, there’s false modesty, and then there’s this, clearly a mash up of the two. 

She has a very nice Vorn back pack, from its rifle slot pokes a SAKO TRG. 

Thats a £5,000 rifle before you screw a scope onto it.

“Nice rig, what’s it chambered in?” 

‘It was a bit of a bargain I bought it from a military contact for two grand, the bipod would have cost 600, it was in 308 with an unknown shot count, we have a lathe at home so I re barrelled it in 6mm SLR.” 

“Just a beginner huh?” 

She gives me a caught-with-hand-in-the-cookie-jar smile. 

The driver picks us and a team of Swedish lads up.  We set off into the countryside. 

“People ask me why I drive so slowly, its Moose country, I ask them if I strapped an oil drum to your kitchen table at what speed would you be happy to drive into it?”

The completion is held in a military outpost, there’s not much more than a barbecue pit and a shower block at our starting point, with small wooden buildings scattered up and down the valleys. Most of them just a briefing room with an outhouse attached. 

First stop is the practice range where the array of kit on display makes the hobby look more serious and more expensive than usual . I walk up and down the line, where prize for most kit lugged along goes to a team in Helikon-Tex camo most of whom are muttering Kurwa! Kurwa!! between shots. 

National stereotypes being what they are, my question “Kurwa! Polska drużyna?” gets a big laugh. 

By the time I start to practice my hundred yard zero is mysteriously completely absent. The Swedish boys from earlier seem to be having scope troubles of their own and borrow my torque wrench, when they return it I’m still shooting below the target. I seem to be below where I started [but never catch the clue in that description].

My ownership of the Tiktac rifle had started so well, I bought it second hand and then saved up for the scope and mounts. The first scope mounted a treat, I put it on, tightened the scope to 2nm and the mounts to 3nm, it pointed at the centre of the aiming mark. On its first trip to the range two of us shot gold with it. Then came that scope failure, the second scope had shown great reluctance to align.  From Bisley to Bardufoss every man and his dog have now chipped in their advice, and worse still, shared their stories of rifles that wouldn’t zero. There were; scopes that had been killed by baggage handlers, moderators that had rolled off a table top and interfered thereafter, and mounts that twisted scope tubes. Everyone who’d ever shot an air gun at a funfair had an opinion. All of which could be summarised, “This ain’t gonna be cheap mate”. 

Looking online was even more distressing. On a credible forum, there’s a lengthy discussion detailing the thread cutting issues some Tiktac’s are known to have. The Tika Tac A1 is shipped with a muzzle brake which is held in place both by the barrel being threaded, and by the brake being clamped to the barrel. The absence of a perfectly square to the bore shoulder for the moderator to mate to, and Tika’s shameful response to requests for redress are an annoying blemish on the otherwise astounding record of these rifles. It was only later after the penny had dropped did I hear ‘Oh yeah that happened to me’ everywhere I went. Thanks guys. 

The 20 MOA rail was costing me most of the first turret rotation, which I’d later make worse by not seating the locking ring all the way to the zero point. More than once, like a moron, I turn the up and down turret on the top of the scope all the way to the bottom. I was resetting to a zero almost nine Milliradians lower than my Zero.

Finally I have the scope dialled in, I’m the last to leave the range. Its all about to begin and I’m fucking frazzled. I’m not about to neg OMR out, he ain’t looking too happy either. Last time i’d seen him he’d had his rifle out of its wobbly stock. Never a good sign. 

Having cured their own ills the Swedish boys ask ‘Ish there anything we might have that might help you?” All I can muster from under the cloud of despair is ‘Not unless you’ve got a bottle of gin and a service revolver” 

Time to fight off the foreboding and put a step on. 

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Your pal

SBW

Midnight Sun Rifle Challenge Pt3

Kit lists. I’ve made a few. Mistakes I’ve made, a few more. Days when the sun never sets, I’ve only seen one. 

In the shambling spirt of Newby and Carless’ English amateur adventurism on their Short walk in the Hindu Kush, having watched a few videos by Thomas Haugland, I send a text to One Man Rifle-Maker. 

‘Midnight Sun Rifle Challenge 2019… fancy it?’ and receive the reply “ texted Thomas to say we’re entering”

Of all the events in the Viking Rifle Series calendar the MSRC is quite possibly the least appropriate entry point. It’s billed as ’24 hours of misery and fun’. Which in legal terms means they did give us fair warning. 

This is my second whistle-stop holiday with OMR. 

The last one was a pistol shooting trip of less than 24 hours, he’s not a fan of; travel, Europe, or anything other than the plainest food. He does like Norway though and despite his obvious discomfort he was a font of good cheer, I’d defiantly have cracked without him. Never did get to see him eat pickled Herring, which was something of a disappointment.

I spend a while talking up the plan, clearly no one believes i’m actually going. I make a few half hearted attempts to start a fitness plan, I will admit they look deeply unconvincing. I get sciatica, I enrol in a pilates class, the pilates class finishes and somehow i leave the yoga milfs to their fate and don't re enrol.  

The moment where you get to represent your country on the world stage is an honour few of you will ever be afforded, but just occasionally its possible to promote yourself to those dizzy heights without a man in a blazer, with a clipboard, telling you legal action will ensue should you continue. 

Still flying high on a moment of optimism, bravado and irony we become The Precision Wombles aka Team GB [self appointed]. Secretly hopeful that no more deserving competitor will make themselves known.

All of a sudden we’ve committed to flying to the top bit of Europe to compete against real Vikings in a sport where, at best we’re the founder members of the veteran-novice division, just two ill-prepared chubsters who should be old enough to know better. 

It’s not like we’ve entered the Marathon des Sables. How bad can it be?

It turns out Vikings learned to shoot across valleys at concealed targets with their first plate of fermented herring. We’re squadded with lads two thirds of my age. One of ‘em  takes second overall. Most of them are probably only two thirds of my weight too.

As members of separate gun clubs we both tried to inveigle others into joining us. We set up a facebook group which we join a few friends to, responses are for the most part muted. The clubs both have a lot of 308 and 223 shooters who work it all out in Minutes Of Angle, so perhaps ‘Build a 6mm/6.5mm rig with a scope that reads in Milliradians ’ as a minimum bid was a big ask. 

All I got was flat out refusal(s) to even contemplate entering: 

The Tall Geek: No. I’d have no chance of winning. 

Club matriarch-in-waiting: That sounds like its an long way from the hotel. No.

South Side D: No. Walking! No. Are you mad? Did I say No?

OMR at least mustered a few broken promises. But in the end it was just two tubby Precision Wombles who make up Team GB [self appointed]

There is a saying [often attributed to the British Army] : Proper Preparation Prevents Piss-Poor Performance. 
I wouldn’t know, but I can attest to the opposite being completely true.

On one of my sporadic trips to practice I’d suffered catastrophic scope failure, On the whole I’d still recommend a Delta Stryker for the money [and the new model looks even better] but my first one died losing its lateral tracking after just over 200 rounds. Delta are making some serious inroads into the VRS so later  I took the opportunity to canvas every other user I met, and it seems I was in the unlucky 1%. The vendor had arranged for me to be sent a replacement. It arrived with about ten days to spare, time and tide being what they are that equated to one and a bit  panicked visits to the range. 

I say ‘one and a bit’ as on the first outing the staff found the perimeter fence had been cut, which necessitated a cease fire order while the whole facility was searched, needless to say this took up most of our booking. Our non-refundable booking.

When I got my rig it came with a couple of cases of home loads which proved to be accurate at 100 and 200 yards, so pressed for time, I duplicated them. 140 SST’s sitting long in the case and right at the bottom of the charge table, hindsight is a wonderful thing, a hotter load with a flatter trajectory may also prove to be a wonderful thing out at 1210m.   

Amateurish I know, ‘schoolboy error’ I hear you say, but OMR was not to be out done. On our return from Norway within a couple of weeks he’s sold most of his battery and bought himself a very handy Ruger Precision in 6.5CM which, being a fair bit lighter than the Tiktac, looks just the ticket for these competitions. I only mention this as it’s the dawn come to cast out the mordor-ish  shadow of the strategy he employed during the actual competition. Although he owned some highly accurate stalking rifles, just like the rest of us there are slots in the battery that are filled by rifles bought on a whim. In his case it was a Steyr Pro in .260 that would more honestly be marketed as the Steyr Flex-O-matic. Its nasty plastic stock distorts if you tighten the action screws, it wobbles if you don’t, several people claimed to be able to see the barrel whipping from side to side like a tuning fork. Perhaps remembering Thomas’ video where Thomas felt that a ten round magazine would give the shooter an advantage on several of the stages, OMR brought the Flex-O. A decision he was to regret. Frequently. 

I’ve never traveled internationally with a firearm before so its with some trepidation that i rock up at Gatwick Airport, at OMR’s instance, four hours early, I’ve got my pack and a Peli 1750 with my rifle in it. Which probably weighs as much as my ex wife. 

That morning in Gatwick airport it dawns on me that I’d not prepared an opening gambit, walking up to a woman you’ve never met before, in an airport, and saying “I have a gun” is frowned upon pretty much everywhere. I decide to go with the euphemism ‘sporting goods’ 

I’ve now got the massive rifle case and fairly substantial pack balanced on an airport trolly, buffeting other passengers aside, I make it over to the woman organising the queue, and enquire where I should be.

“Gun?”

‘Yes it is’

“Have you got a licence for it?” 

‘Yes and I brought it with me otherwise I’m in a fair amount of trouble’, 

“Just go and stand over there babe’ 

OMR arrives before the armed response team and we wait together. The next woman gesticulates calling us to her desk, “Sporting goods to Oslo? “ She seems genuinely delighted to have something out of the ordinary to do and having drawn a blank over the phone leaves us at the desk to make procedural enquires in person. She in turn hands us to a fella who also seems nonplussed by this freak event, he goes off, he comes back and he goes off.

You need a European Firearms Pass to travel in Europe with your guns, but not to return [we’ll come to that later], Of course Norway was in the EU, but left. Being the pragmatic sorts that they are, and having long, permeable land borders with both Sweden and Finland [both still in the EU] they kept the simplified traveling-with-guns process. If you have an EU firearms pass you just walk through Nothing To Declare channel. If you don’t you need to be issued a temporary pass at the airport. 

Its fashionable to moan about our firearms licensing system but credit where credit’s due the Metropolitan Police turned around my request for a EU pass in less than a week. 

OMR’s force seemed to mistake ‘issue’ with ‘grant’ and had to be reminded of their service obligation by the NRA’s legal team. Whatever Brexit ends up meaning, if you have even the vaguest intention of traveling in Europe you’d be wise to get one issued, they’re free, and existing passes will probably be grandfathered in. People without EU passes will need a day off at each end of the trip to complete all the forms. 

Flying with firearms is notoriously a hassle, Ryan Air, my carrier of last resort, won’t even let you take a bow and arrows. Perhaps because Norway is a long country and the roads are clogged with Moose the national carrier almost expects you to have your rife with you. To fly with your firearm on Norwegen Air its £30 each way in advance or £60 on the day. OMR had spent much of the previous day on the phone forlornly trying to pay. Norwegen Air’s london office wouldn’t accept payment as the tickets had been sold by a third party, the seller wouldn’t accept payment as the request had Guns in the the title. 

The morning is ticking by. I’m putting a brave face on the growing sense of urgency. OMR isn’t keen on travel at the best of times. We’ve been passed from pillar to post. Eventually we meet with a nice man from Border Farce in a side office who makes a cursory inspection of our toys. We’ve handed over our rifles and ammo and he’s recorded us, and our rifle’s serial numbers in a ledger the trip is firmly in the lap of the old norse gods. We could arrive as competitors, or as observers awaiting compensation with a lot of explaining to do. The UK licensing authority takes an extremely dim view of allowing others to lose your rifle and ammo. 

In the excitement no one has extended their enquires as to how to charge us. So far so cheap. 

There are two sorts of english people at airports. Glam people and bus people. The glam people who seem to imagine there’s still something glamorous about air travel; they have their hair done, they dress up in their designer duds, and many of them spend time in an orangeification booth, all in a futile attempt to pass themselves off as classy international travellers. Like a horrible parody of what a poor person imagines a rich person looks like. Europe’s low cost airlines are often somewhere between the bus and the train in price, once out of earshot the staff will refer you and your loved ones as ‘the mud people’. Its all about as glamorous as a picnic in a supermarket carpark.  On Team Bus we bring our own grub and only travel with hand luggage. 

Gatwick is a horrible place and the airport its low point. The GBP [great british public] has little great about them. As usual its full of wildly over dressed women accompanied by their moody aggressive spouses, teenage girls with those handbags that cost as much as a pelican rifle case, dribbling children being towed along on garish suitcases by overwrought parents. Probably a hub for air rage. Defiantly a hub for bad skin. 

My usually solution would be to put a few away, but its still a bit early for more than a cursory Gin & Tonic, so we have breakfast instead. There’s a ‘spoons’. We have burgers. I have vague memories of OMR only eating plain food. He has his burger with nothing, just a patty and a bun, so plain that the barman says ‘mine are the same, kids can be so fussy, I bet next week they’ll want it with chilli sauce’.

Feeling a rush of bonhomie I ask the barman ‘Can i  have his pickles on mine? “This is the spoons mate, it’s not like we have real chefs”.

A couple of three hours later Oslo airport is everything you might expect it to be; spotless, made of laminated birch, and populated mainly by calm attractive tall people. The food stands look to be about he same standard as the hipster bars of hackney, the seating looks like it won a design award, the litter bins look like they came second. Here, to our consternation, the system breaks down momentarily. Our rifles need to be checked out of customs, then in again and the stop over will be conducted against the clock. 

Some speedy wombling later.  At the far end of the concourse we find a baggage guy who restores order, and we head upstairs to the check in for the next leg of the journey. 

Pillar-to-post begins again.  At the second counter we’re sent to the woman in charge gives us the cold one and asks why we haven’t paid, resisting the urge to haggle I offer to pay and we’re indignantly told she won’t be accepting payment, in retrospect this may have been some kind of super-dry Norwegian joke, we’re sent back the way we’ve come to see yet another chica check in, where we re-tell the story of our needs, convey our growing sense of urgency, and general mystification. An unexpected, yet welcome, “But why should you pay?” later our bags are checked and once again we really do seem to be £120 up on the morning. 

Leaving the unexpected delights of Oslo Airport behind we’re off the ground and on route.

From the air Norway looks like a archipelago of little blue-grey islands set in a narrow green sea,

We touch down on a small airport surrounded by snow covered peaks. Being Norwegians there’s none of the tedious pushing and grumbling you get when a plane full of English people arrives in Spain. So disembarking takes half the time. 

We wait by a luggage carousel so small you’d wonder why they bothered. Bardufoss airport serves some far flung military outpost where very young soldiers are sent to feel home-sick, and there are soldiers of both sexes, still in uniform, leaving for their holidays. One of them, as evidenced by his name tags, is literally called THOR. 

How Viking is that?

To say the Viking Rifle Series appeared bemused by our entry would be an understatement. But as competitors from Poland and Belgium all seemed to manage it, perhaps it was just us? 

We  registered in plenty of time, we’re offered places a while later, tried to pay but the transfer service didn’t like paying to accounts held in two names. Thomas kindly made a call on our behalf and the match director helped us with registration and promised to send someone to pick us up.

A Tall fella in outdoor dungarees and a thousand yard stare meets us at the airport, outdoor dungarees are more a sign of the outdoorsman than camo ever is, and when they’re patched with different ages and colours of patches you know he’s spent a few days afield. I mention this as you’ll meet him again later. He’s our driver, and a bit of a wag. He has that great northern thing where its still played for laughs, but delivered totally deadpan. For example this was his opening gambit. Delivered from behind a thousand yard stare

So what are your first impressions?

SBW: Its very beautiful, you’re all very tall, and the wit is very served dry

So I’m a cliche? 

He drops us off in town and we spend a sunlit expensive night in a very tolerable hotel. Overcome with excitement I buy a beer, just a can of beer. 100 NK or a tenner! Its not even a nice beer. One of the kids working the hotel’s night shift has lived in london, he rubs it in by reminding me a tenner is dinner two in The ‘Spoons.

For readers overseas: ‘The Spoons’ is a pub chain called JD Wetherspoons, where large commercial spaces like car showrooms, are repurposed into giant soulless pubs selling very cheap food and drink. Open from 8am they are both a cheap place to have breakfast, and perform the role that drop-in centres used to, for care-in-the-community types before austerity cut the funding. You’re very likely to be accosted by half hearted beggars on the doorstep, bags of shop-lifted steaks may be offered for sale, and its not unknown to find the staff crying in the toilets. I despise the owner, his childish politics and the way he treats his staff. But principles are for rich people, its a fine breakfast that comes with endless refills of Lavazza. For a fiver. I cant stay out of the place. 

Next time I’m in Bardufoss I’ll probably have transport and get an Air BnB as there are some really nice looking places on offer just outside town, but the hotel was fine, spectacular water pressure and flow rate in the shower, a firm supportive bed, and blackout curtains worthy of the name. I slept like a log. OMR tells me his nights sleep was stolen from him by horrendous snoring like a banjo duel played on chainsaws, cant say I heard it, must have slept though it. 

At Hotel Bardufoss they lay on a truly spectacular breakfast buffet, determined to claw back the tenner for that beer I shovel down breakfast in every European tradition: fruit course, cold cuts, muesli, yogurts [plural], fried things, and eggs a plenty. 

OMR has toast. Just plain toast. I knock up a few rounds of sandwiches for later.  

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Your pal SBW

Midnight Sun Rifle Challenge Pt2

It starts with some advice from our friends at Spuhr mounts, and others. All received after the fact.

1. Find a load that shoots well with as low ES as you can!

2. Check tracking of your scope! 

3. Don’t trust chronographs! 

4. Zero your load several times so you know its on zero at 100 m. 

5. Don’t trust Ballistic calculators 

6. Test your zeroed load on as long a distances as you can. 

7. Test your load on other distances too. 

8. Now when you have hard tested data compare that to your Ballistic calculator and tweak the velocity you entered so your Ballistic calculator's outputs are true to your load's ballistics 

9. Practice shooting from weird positions and barricades, with and without a sling. 

10. You are now set for hours of misery and fun!

Muntjac - Mini Deer With FANGS!

The Northern Monkey calls me from his way home from a building site just to the north of london. “I’m at some traffic lights and there are two little deer just standing on the grass staring at me, look a bit moody, they’ve got fangs!”

Muntiacus muntiak reevesi aka Reeve’s Muntjac are our smallest and soon to be most prolific deer. Regular readers will know I’ve hunted these 30 lbs mini deer a few times, seen them, and heard them, all without ever firing a shot.

It’s still called Hunting, it’s still not called shopping.

They bark, not unlike a dog but not quite as loud, they’re skittish, they never really seem to stand still even when nibbling, they are aggressive and armed to the teeth. Or at least armed with long curved canine teeth. They may only be the size of a Labrador but only the most aggressive kinds of terrier would stand a chance against them.

Introduced into the substantial gardens of his ancestral home, Woburn Park, by serial wildlife scallywag [this isn’t the only invasive he released] the Duke of Bedford in 1894, Reeves Muntjac have spread a long way since then. Up and down the country and even ‘swimming’ the Irish sea to appear in Northern Ireland. Of the six species of deer we have they are the most successful. Increasing not only in distribution but at 8.2 percent a year, population has soared from a guesstimate of only 2,000 in 1963, to more than two million today, a Muntjac doe will mate within days of giving birth and will give birth again every seven months. Their diet, the tender shoots of woodland flora like; bluebells, oxlips, native orchids, and the wood anemone, means that they are seriously unloved by the conservation organisations. Rose gardeners particularly hate them, apparently they can, and will, eat a grand’s worth in an evening. They are yet to develop any road sense, of the 42,000 road accidents a year involving deer, resulting in 20 human deaths and £10 million damages, they are about 9,000.  A cull plan of 25-30% would stabilise the population, it would take 50+% to reduce their numbers and that would mean taking a shot at every one you ever saw, which just cant happen.

Where the culinary solution falls down is they might be the best eating deer but they are poor value in the amount of meat you get for the amount butchery it takes to get it. The front legs are scrawny and often bullet damaged, the delicious loins are one per person rarer than a row of steaks, leaving only the haunches which ain’t that big. For not a lot more knife time on even a Roe you’re getting a far greater return for your butchery efforts.

As part of the Adult Onset Hunting program I’ve promised to take a few club members and foodies hunting, this time its The Sailor [yeah I know I've kind of run out of steam with the TLA's]

It's traditional on these pages to start with a description of how hard it is to actually leave town and the snide remarks made by my fellow traveller regarding my time keeping. But you’ve heard it all before. I travel to the far side of london thought he rush hour, then we drive back around london through the second hour of rush before heading not very far north, next time I’m going by train, it literally takes 45 minutes.

There are two schools of thought on which rifle to take: They’re legal to shoot with a .22 centre fire as long as it makes 1,000ft/lb of energy at the muzzle, and delivers a expanding bullet of 50 grains and up. Or in the other school its anything up to a .308, moving at a sedate pace, to reduce meat damage.

The thought of lugging my 15+ lbs Precision rifle across london, let alone across muddy fields doesn’t appeal so I’ve chosen the CZ527, that perfect expression of the mini Mauser. Even with its suppressor up front its only xxxx long and it doesn’t weight a lot. For now mine is chambered in .223 and has a perfect balance just in front of the magazine. I don't know about you, but I was taught to clamber in and out of the highseat with an unloaded rifle, so I’ll always favour a magazine-fed stalking rifle to all that fussing about dropping rounds into my hat and re-stuffing the rifle at each end of the ladder. While I have other favourites the CZ527 is nearly the perfect ‘woodland’ rifle.

We spend a pleasant evening in the ‘spoons gossiping about the other members of the club, slagging off the owner of the chain, and drinking cheap pints.

The Sailor has done us proud finding a hotel even cheaper than the one I stayed in last time and we saunter back for a brief nights kip before hitting the road before dawn. For October its positively balmy even at night its comfortably double figures [centigrade]. All of my stalking trips of late have been by electric vehicle and we whirr though the night past the gallops and stable yards of horse country.

Although I’ve not seen him in an age, it was good to have Mr 7mm as our host and guide; he’s safe, kind to newbies, and has thousands of acres of excellent stalking.
Handshakes dispensed with we clamber into Mr 7mm’s truck and head off into the farmlands. To give the newbie the widest possible introduction to stalking I’m dropped off at a highseat where a spinney abuts a track leading into a block of forestry. Even in the dark it looks proper promising. Mr 7mm produces one of those night vision monoculars that would have been black-ops ten years ago and there are three small deer and a couple of Hares glowing bright green out in the fields.

We walk over to the highseat. “if you shoot a deer, stay in the seat, where you shoot one there will most likely be another a few minutes later”.
A note for new stalkers: please stay in the highseat, I know you want to go and see that deer you shot, but it adds all sorts of unnecessary complications to the enterprise and as Mr 7mm says you might be blowing your chance of deer number two.
As Mr 7mm walks away into the gloom I drop the mag; sling the rifle on my front, clamber up, last quick check that the moderator is screwed on nice and tight, mag back in, chamber a round and settle down to wait. There must be a pen near by as within a few moments pheasants start to appear. Some of the hens are so white I’m compelled to check if they’re albino. At the 87m feeder they mill about and warm in my coat I start to feel a little drowsy. A Hare bounds out of the cover crop and I watch it though my binoculars until it goes back the way he came, my eyes are getting seriously heavy by this time. I’m in that half trance place where it could go either way, the swaying of the boughs behind me, the indistinct first light, a pheasant I made eye contact with earlier stands at the bottom of the highseat and creates me until i’m fully awake again. Out at the 87m feeder the pheasants are having her breakfast interrupted by a Muntjac doe. She circles the feeder and as she drops her head to snaffle a few grains I send her 55 grains of my own. She takes off like a scalded cat, I know I hit her fair and square so I try to suppress the nagging doubts about; myself, the bullet, the scope, the rifle, the shot placement, and how Artemis has abandoned me.

The Brugger and Thommett  moderator is obviously really good, the pheasants flap about a bit and then go back to eating. My brain is replaying “if you shoot a deer, stay in the seat, where you shoot one there will most likely be another a few minutes later” when not 90 seconds later a Buck turns up. he too circles the feeder and as soon as he settles in the crosshairs I give him a round, or so I thought. With a crouching gait he makes for the cover crop never to be seen again. No pins [pieces of shot-off deer hair], no blood, he literally disappeared.
I go back to waiting for a while I sit and think, for a while I just sit. There’s a gun shot in the distance and my hopes rise that The Sailor has closed the deal on his first outing.

It fully light when a third Muntjac appears at 57m a juvenile pre-antlered male, stoops to look around, and catches a round, dropping like a bag of wet sand right on the spot. If I recover them all I’m now out of freezer space so I pop the magazine and await the chaps arrival.

The feeder at the edge of the crop field is a measured 87m the furthest pale dot on the track is Muntjac No.3 at 57m


I took all the measurements with the nicest affordable range finder I've seen so far. Its by Pro Wild and is now under a 100 on both sides of the pond.

20 minutes later the boys appear. Yes they saw deer, no they didn’t shoot any of them, they too heard the shot, but they didn’t hear my shots. Mr 7mm pulls his ghillie face when I tell him the first one has vamoosed, so I get to pull my told-ya-so face when I recover her from the first gap in the hedge she could have chosen. With no ‘pins and paint’ on the ground its all looking a bit inconclusive for shot number two. There’s nothing. We spend most of an hour having a good tromp around, the cover is very thick and my doubts are growing by the minute. We gralloch and set off for the traditional stalkers breakfast

There is little to report from the afternoon session, my arrival startled a herd of Fallow does in a field Mr 7mm doesn’t have permission to shoot over, and with a .223 I didn’t have the necessary firepower for them. Hare weren’t on the list so i watched a medium sized one bound around through my binos and trudged back across the plowings glad once again to have bought the wand-like mini Mauser.

From the car I message our Alaskan corespondent, the blogger known as Hodgeman, telling him I’d finally been able to close the deal, Alaska is well outside the top of the Muntjac’s northern range [its probably Northern Ireland] so he’s interested to hear about our 365 day a year season and their petite size.

‘Moose birth calves bigger than that!’

On the way home:
I’ve struggled the sports bag full of deer on to a station trolly and with my rifle across my back I’m pushing it like a fat boy with sciatica though the station when I’m hailed by one of a posse of teenage boys.
“Is that your gun? Have you been shooting?”
There’s no ignoring him and his out of town accent means he’s unlikely to be too much of a problem.
I laugh “No its my boss’s Bass, I cant even play”
“You ain’t dressed for playing the Bass”
I catch sight of myself in a reflection, I’m wearing muddy wellies, and blood splattered stalking clothes.
He has a point. I put my finger to my lips, wink and waddle away a bit faster.

Your pal
SBW

How To Start Shooting In The UK

Tika Tac A1 in 6.5mm creedmoor at Bisley

So you fancy shooting? As I guess is obvious from this blog I started shooting to have a more personal relationship with my dinner, but these days I shoot paper targets much more than I shoot Rabbits, Squirrel and Deer.

I've read lots of 'how to get started' articles, most of them written by people who have got newbies of the ground and to be fair they were clear as mud, so I thought I'd have a go.

Here in old Blighty we have fairly strict firearms laws which utterly defy common sense, but for the most part the system works well and people who hold firearms are rarely involved in crime of any kind. I say defy common sense because they are a vast expense to administer and pointlessly inconvenient to comply with. Using the driving licence as a model the whole thing could be massively simplified. From banger to bugatti one licence to drive them all, with rifles its an application for every rifle.

You must have Good Reason:
There are two kinds of good reason to have a firearm, you have Land [or access to land], or you are a member of a Gun Club.  "I wish to bring justice to the unworthy" isn't considered acceptable. There are some exceptions but unless you're a veterinarian, farmer, or live in Northern Ireland they're not really important.

A Ruger 1022 in 22LR accurate AF at 25 yards. 

Club membership:
You cant just book a session and turn up to shoot to see if you like it. You must apply, be vetted by the cops, then you can shoot under supervision, then you can become a full member. It takes about three to six months.

Some specialist target rifles in .308, used in the competition known as Fullbore in the UK.

The NRA and Bisley:
Not all clubs are affiliated to the NRA, in fact its less than would be helpful, but there are some advantages. The NRA controls the national shooting ground which is in Surrey just outside london and has ranges from 25 to 1200 yards you can rent fairly cheaply. On the upside its super safe, on the downside its not very good if you want to practice shooting at various ranges within the same string of ten shots. The NRA is staffed by well meaning people, bogged down by tradition and endless complex rule structures, which are usually described in a verbal shorthand largely incomprehensible to the outsider or new comer.
You need to be a member and have a range competency card. There are two ways to get one.
The NRA run courses - not cheap.
Your club [if affiliated] will run days at Bisley and once they're comfortable that you are safe they'll issue you with one. The competency card has individual sections for each kind of shooting, so it can take a while to evidence all the kinds you need.

Apart from the hundreds of pounds you'll save on training there are other reasons to be a member of a club. The pool of knowledge that will help you get better, and buy better. There are people who have learned to shoot and clean their guns almost solely off the internet, I find it easier to be shown one-on-one. I walked away from an auction at £500 for a rifle that later sold for £1600, a friend of mine bought one almost the same, but with a nicer scope, for £450 from a guy who was retiring from the club.

A very Sticky club Savage in 22LR

Getting your own guns:
Club rifles have hundreds, if not thousands, of rounds put through them a week, and it shows. They are also 'one size fits no one' Every club has an example of someone who shot a perfect score with a club gun that hadn't been cleaned in weeks. You never know, it could be you, even if it is the chances of repeating the feat are even slimmer.

Back to 'good reason':
Every firearm you own has conditions attached to your ownership. They fall into two main categories Target Shooting and Pest Control. All rifles can be shot at targets, but only some rifles can be shot at animals.  Each rifle you own will have conditions attached to your owning it.

Storage Restrictions.
To have a Fire Arms Certificate you need to have storage at home, you could have club storage, but that would only let you shoot at that premises, so you wouldn't be able to take your rifle anywhere else for stalking or competition. I know a couple of people who have membership of two clubs so they can store rifles at each. I've heard of people who have an additional stalking rifle kept at a gun shop in Scotland. Its all far from convenient. You're going to need a gun safe.
Listen carefully. There are loads of secondhand safes on offer, for a reason. If its listed as a ten gun safe, it will hold four. Never mind the width, be mindful of the depth.  Only buy a safe that can take scoped rifles. Do as I say not as I have done. I'm looking for my third safe, this time I will get it right.

You need to have the safe on the wall, and ideally obscured from casual view, before you have your Fire Arms Enquiry Officer visit.
The internet is full of new shooters getting their knickers in a twist about the visit, pointlessly.
The person who comes to interview you is a civilian who works for the cops, they are trained to ask you questions, they're not an expert on guns and ammo, they might never have fired a gun in their life.
Once again the internet is full of anecdotes about their misunderstandings of calibre and legislation.
I spent a pleasant two hours chatting with he chap who came to see me, a pensive two weeks waiting for him to hand deliver my certificate, then another week waiting for corrections to it, before it finally arrived in the post and I could make that first over enthusiastic purchase.

Probably the silliest thing about our licensing system is the way its 'licence the gun', not 'licence the person'. So you're in the ridiculous position of having to choose something that may or may not suit your needs before you can buy it. As you want to practice a lot, you'll need that 22LR for club shooting, but as there are dozens of different types of target shooting there's no one rifle that does them all. Then you're going to want to shoot at ranges beyond 25 yards and your shooting career could go in literally any direction, all of which require slightly different equipment.
There are myriad choices and combinations on offer, every one of them wonderful in some way.
Here's a sample battery working on the assumption that you're going to be shooting both with your club, then at Bisley [or wherever] with your new friends from your club.

A super rare full custom all steel clone of a Ruger 1022, made by AMT & Theoben

22LR your rimfire rifle
The indoor rifle, £5 buys you 50 shots, will slay Rabbits out to 50 yards, loads of competitions, and a brilliant way to practice. They cost anything from £20 to £2,000 - and more for the super specialist examples for world class competition. Barrel life is almost endless.


.223 your small deer / short range centre fire rifle
Cheap to keep and can be shot at nearly every rifle range. There are plenty of 22 CF's but some of them are too wonderful [fast] to be shot at some ranges, and the faster the bullet goes the shorter the life of the barrel. With 223 there's plenty of cheap ammo, long barrel life and a hooj choice second hand making the .223 the ideal club/plinking calibre. They all shoot out to 300 yards and some, with a faster twist rate barrel, will shoot a lot further.
Legal for Muntjac and Chinese Water Deer in the south and for Roe in Scotland.

A very nice CZ in .308, bit heavy for staking but proven to be very accurate. 

.308 or better yet 6.5 Creedmoor your all deer / longer range centre fire rifle
Since the 1950's the 308 has been the default target round, and its the do everything hunting round. From Alaska to Zimbabwe there's nowhere you cant buy ammunition for them. Barrel life is long, 800 yards + in a short barrelled gun - longer in a specialist target rifle, and there are more of them on sale at any time than any other calibre. Ammunition runs from cheapo NATO surplus to super performance, from lightweight to personal artillery.  .308 The default setting.

BUT, hold on just a minute.

In the last 10-11 years the 6.5mm has come into its own. Scandiwegens have been shooting the 6.5mm bullets at targets and massive moose for a hundred years with great affect. Recently the 6.5mm has appeared in a new cartridge that grows in popularity every year. Fads come and fads go, but the Creedmoor is now established. A 1200m cartridge that's gentle on your shoulder and cheaper to feed than most, its also available in bullet weights and designs suitable for everything from  Foxes to Moose, and low drag target rounds that have hit steel out at 3000m.
If you do shoot at Bisley the NRA are supporting CM by selling them at £17 for 20 which represents something of a bargain these days.

A Lee Enfield Mk4 with Vernier Sights calibrated to 1200 yards 

303 Lee Enfield.
Everyone should have a .303. The historic rifle. It's a bit galling having to listen to the old boys at the club tell you about the Enfield they bought for a tenner back in the day, but inflation is what it is.

And on to your stalking rifle(s)
You could have a 223 and a 6.5mm that would slay every kind of deer in the UK no problem, but in order to be a really efficient target shooting rifles they need to be too heavy to be really handy stalking rifles.
For years the default setting for an english stalking rifle has been .243 (6mm) but unless you have one made or re-barrelled  they often don't have the twist rate for the heavier bullets needed for the bigger deer.
Then there's pigs, the UK has a growing number of excellent Wild Boar shooting opportunities and the guidance is 7mm and up, that 308 (7.69mm) would have been perfect. Your second Creedmoor would do it fine if you made some heavier rounds for it, but not all guides will let you use less than 7mm.

Did I mention Gallery Rifle? A sport your club probably shoots...... TBC

more soon
your pal
SBW

Midnight Sun Rifle Challenge 2019 : Kit List Pt1

'Hours of misery and fun'

There is a rifle competition I'd wanted to enter since I first saw Thomas Haugland's videos of it.
It's not the genteel 'picnic and shooting' on Bisley's green and pleasant lawns.  This time it's in Bardufoss in two valleys, both dappled in snow, washed by the midnight sun, with stages from 100-1210m, and Vikings. Real Vikings.

A sudden rush of optimism that sounded like this:
Once or twice I've actually hit targets at both extremes, missed a few in the middle, and have a lot of camping equipment. I could, 'almost', enter tomorrow. I say almost. My stalking rifle isn't going to stretch quite that far, svelte german lines and a super simple reticle, might be a thing of joy but nah. I need a dedicated PRS rifle.

There were a few moments of sober reflection, that sounded like this:
There's a fairly long walk involved, and I'm still carrying a little extra ballast, sadly not all of it in the form of my brother's smelly 25+ year old tent.

I entered and before I tell you the tale, it wouldn't be the SBW blog without a kit list.

Let the kit-tart-ism commence.

In this competition laser range-finders are banned, so are weather stations, and all ballistic electronics. With the money I've just saved by not buying the bino's and gadgets, something in a chassis with a folding stock, is now the very intersection of practicality and necessity. Anyone who says otherwise is off my Christmas list.

Received wisdom from the precision rifle crowd seemed to be 'If I was starting again I'd go 6.5mm rather than .308'  Following this advice rules out most of the secondhand fettled Remington 700's on offer in the UK. Surprisingly few of the offered examples have been screwed together by 'smiths with a reputation to up hold. Though some are in those nice Accuracy International stocks, 308 outnumbers the other calibers 10-1. If I could bear the cost of buying and then re-barreling they'd be an option. I'm not that excited by the extra cost(s), interminable wait, and frankly I've already got enough money-pits things 'in development' in my life. But all is not yet lost, there are rifles that have, out of the box, been embarrassing some very nice custom builds on both sides of the Atlantic, but we'll come back to that later.

Human Performance, then Scope, then Rifle.
The plan is weighted quite heavily towards the human performance end of things. never having been further north than the middle of Scotland I imagine the trip being like a longer version of Hill Stalking, Cold Wet Hands is the assumption, and every part of the plan needs to be about negating their affect. As the competition is over 24 hours, and judging by the pictures from previous years, the competitors are for the most part in the first flush of middle youth, so no longer that enthralled by staying up all night, there will, mercifully be a sleep. On a snow dappled hillside.

Camping in Norway! What will it be like? 

It'll be in tents. 

The unavoidable weight of; the rifle, big scope, substantial bipod, and 250 rounds of ammo combine to rule out the use of a ultralight pack. There are some really neat rifle-scabbard packs, but I've already got a tough-as-old-boots pack frame, which fits me really well, so having saved yet more money, I bought a Kifaru Mountain Rambler to replace its LongHunter bag.
A lot of companies claim to make extreme hunting packs. Kifaru actually do. The Mountain Rambler is a rifle scabbard, and day pack, with built in wrap to carry dead things or a bow. Could be a bit lighter, but Kifaru's frame puts all the weight on your hips, and it ain't going to break. Ever.
Best of all it had just been superseded, and Gucci-kit tarts being what they we are, I managed to find another collector enthusiast who just had-to-have the new model and sold his to me, unused, at a no-brainer discount. The face-saving way to do this is to advertise the item as 'bought for a trip that now isn't happening'. I shall not lie. We've all done it. Er, yes hmm. Ice fishing.

"Boots and Bed; if you're not in one, you're in the other"

"Lundhags, they're the boots aren't they. In the Falklands I demanded them for the boys, the MOD flew them out, the boys were very glad of them" - The Colonel

From the snow-blown slopes of Mount Stanley to beating on the Colonel's estate outside Eastbourne in the pissing rain, he was right. All the forces created by the terrain and the weight of your pack meet at, and will be transmitted though, your ankles. I've often been tempted by pairs of Superleggera Italian hiking boots that owe something to sports shoes, but as I side off the thousandth tussock of the morning, and my ankle doesn't twist.  I've been glad I'd saved the cash for other uses and stuck to Swedens finest. I'm still wearing the first pair I bought, still with the same laces. One day I'll buy a pair of the shoes too.

Thermarest & Pump
The sleeping mat, the difference between roughing it and relaxing. Every one I've owned has been lighter and more susceptible to puncturing than the one before it. More expensive too. Suck it up.

Jerven bag
For 30 years the Norwegian military, where frostbite is a court marshal-able offence, has issued these super blankets. They come in a waterproof bag that also contains a pair of waterproof sleeves. So its part survival blanket and part field-dressing station for gralloching beasts on.  It even comes with a signal flag, reducing the amount of time your relatives wait before putting in the insurance claim.
Whatever happens I hope having made the effort to bring the proper kit in the first place will go someway to saving face with the mountain rescue people.
I can totally imagine the look on the 23 year old Viking goddess' face as she arrives to rescue [or collect] me "well you're quite old now, [and stupid], but at least you didn't come walking in beachwear"  


Kifaru stuff sacks
Of all the clever things Patrick Smith designed for the outdoorsman, these might well be the smartest.
You'll be amazed at how much more room you've got for Tapas in your suitcase, when you squeeze the air out of your luggage. I keep telling myself they're a ridicules price and that I'll make my own. I keep buying more of them. It's either that or fight my teenage daughter to get them back.

Areopress coffee maker
Lavazza isn't a luxury, it's the minimum bid for my involvement. After Alan Adler smashed it by inventing the furthest human-thrown object, 1330 yards since you ask, he turned his attentions to making coffee and in doing so transformed my life. It's not only that I can make drama-free espresso wherever I go from jobsite to campsite, but by not buying coffees from stands in the street I save about a grand a year, to spend on gear and ammo.


Leki pole.
It's the knees again. Moving weight onto your wrists and lots of it too. Some people are saying 20%. Hiking poles only look stupid, they're actually excellent. I can't really tell the difference myself but the longterm users seem to prefer Leki and this model doubles up as a mono-pod for your camera or rifle.

Truemiler
In the spirit of utter self reliance that the Vikings seem to be born with, they don't fool around with gizmos that take batteries, they have these neat slide rules that calculate distances. Horrific price but they're listed in the rules, have a stage named after them, and don't weigh much.

Positive mental attitude:
One of my friends, who has done very well in the last few seasons, refused to even think about entering on the grounds that he had no chance of winning. What he didn't realise is the generous prizes are won, not from your score which gets you a plaque, but on a lottery basis. All you need to do is finish.

Just keep telling yerself:  "It's only twenty four hours"

More in Part 2 soon
Your pal
SBW

Midnight Sun Rifle Challenge 2019

VRS Midnight Sun Rifle Challenge 2019

Troms Langhold & Benkeskytter Forening invites you to MSRC

Location: Blåtind, Troms

Match date: July 5th to July 7th 2019.

Max range: TBA
We are happy to announce that you have a slot in the VRS Midnight Sun Rifle Challenge 2019 match! 

Me and my big mouth
your pal
SBW

Wildfowling: Canada Geese

"Last night, did you chase a large bird through the house with an axe? I ask only as there are feathers all the way up the stairs, and a bloodied axe in the kitchen?"

Two nights before.
It was a cold and windy rain-battered night. On the weather forecast at least, so when I dragged my hide out of bed at Three AM I was pleasantly surprised to find the skies clear and the temperature nudging double figures. Being the city boy that I am it did cross my mind that I'd not need a coat. Yeah right. Putting such foolishness to one side I hopped in an Uber and headed to Shooter's place.

The blogger known as Shooter doesn't live that far from me as the crow files, through the traffic or on the train it takes forever to get to him. But the city is asleep so when the Uber driver woke me to say we'd arrived I must only have been asleep for ten minutes. The other person in the car park is a distinguished looking gent taking a pair of muddy wellies out of his motor. He bears the mark of the new boy or tourist. That's his warmest coat, but its not a shooting coat. We make our introductions and summon Shooter, who arrives at levels of excitement that would shame an eight year old. I'm an enthusiast but I'm nothing on Shooter, he never plays it cool. His enthusiasm is as boundless as it is infectious. Like an armed Tigger, wearing a shirt and tie under wildfowling camo. I'd forgotten how much I like going hunting with him.

We spend the hour and a half it takes to drive north playing trivia swaps, and the Distinguished Looking Gent is kind enough to ask an innocuous question or two about calibres, giving Shooter and myself the chance to re-live the joys of the calibre conversation. Again.

Rugby; home of the ball game, school, and due to the abundance of Blue Lias limestone, cement works. At the time of the doomsday book it was spelled Rocheberie, and is possibly the town furthest from the sea in England.
Canada Geese; surly, begging, aggressive, territorial, constantly shitting, and they make a helluva racket.
6.5 Creedmoor dude! Sharing the wonders of the other rounds of its diameter but, due to the miracle of marketing, available off the shelf. Damn if we don't live in a golden age of ammo!

It was another one of those 'you take the A one-one-whatever towards Effing-Sodbury, until you pass Futtocks End, turn right at the Broken Head, and when you come to a field with a downed Oak blocking the entrance, go two more fields, until you come to the field with the downed Ash, when you see a Post Office you've gone too far, call me I'll be along in a few minutes'

We are significantly early. It is indeed a cold and windy night. One of the other local guides swings by on his way to an unrelated gig, to hang out and let us know our man is on his way. The other guns rock up; an electrical contractor, a man who calls himself a farmer but turns out to be a bio-fuels entrepreneur, and a dude who has fishing lakes. They're in their early 60's, and sport that uniform of the British sporting gent; a mix of expensive new, and dirt-cheap old kit, worn over a shirt and tie, and Green Wellies.
Just as there's enough light to see into the field the guide arrives with two Cockers.
The line of flight is between a massive reservoir and a fairly massive fishing lake. A stern lecture about not shooting Cormorants is issued. It starts to rain. After BoB (brother of bushwacker) Shooter is the most waterproof person I've ever met, he may have been a duck in another life, once the wind turns, blowing the now driving rain into our faces, his spirts soar.  

We trudge across the field shovelling shells into our guns as we go, right on cue the honking begins and a posse of Canada Geese take to the sky. Down at the other end of the line someone drops one of them and the day has begun. The next flight takes me by surprise and, my attention re-focused by an easy shot not taken, I drop the lead bird of flight three. To be truthful, given my past record with a scatter gun, I'm so shocked that I forget I've got two more in the tube and let the other Geese within my range fly off unharmed, and forget to reload.

On average Canada Geese weigh in anywhere between 2.5 and 6.5 Kg; moody bastards with an extremely muscular neck and a substantial bill of 4.1 to 6.8 cm (1.6 to 2.7 in) they're a known menace on London's waterways. Hissing a warning, and jabbing with that bill. Shirty as you like.

Dawn has now fully broken and the rain lessens. To my consternation a goose wanders over, on foot. I'm nearest so I walk over and shoot him. A few feathers become airborne, he looks at me quizzically, I shoot him again, seemingly without affect. Click, as I'm reloading he expires.
Shooter "What are you doing? Why didn't you wring his neck?"
SBW " Have you seen the size of the fecker? You fight him."

This is Britain, there's no real wilderness, so we end up sharing all but the Highlands with others. Given our location its only a matter of time before that most pompous of hobbyist's the Twitcher appears. Glaring his disapproval though his binoculars. Annoyingly there's now another pedestrian goose, wandering off, ever closer to disappearing into a tangle of brambles at the far end of the field. Eventually the Twitcher tires of watching a bunch of grey-beards standing in the rain thinking about breakfast and toddles off. Shooter and I set about depriving Mr Fox of his dinner. I'm no keener on tangling with this one, and shoot him. The first load inflicting what looks like a moral wound, the goose indignantly waddles away, the second load looks to separate his head from his neck and he slumps to the ground. As I pick him up, his wings give a couple of spasms and I take a nice shin-strike, renewing my conviction that they are an extremely dangerous animal, not to be tangled with.

While Deer Stalking is a solitary activity, the interactive element taking place online after the event, Flighting and Walked Up have a social side to them. Certain conventions are to be observed. I'm feeling a bit under dressed as DLG and I are the only ones not wearing a shirt and tie. There's a whole raft of ritual and expectation that I'm only dimly aware of, taking place in a hierarchy of situations, this is the informal end of things where 'safe' and 'wasn't an arsehole' will do it, at the next level there are fines for not having enough cartridges and other infractions. You must have the right gun, 'right' isn't defined by price, my agricultural semi is fine for Pigeon, Geese and Ducks, but unthinkable for Pheasant and ground game. They all seem to aspire to shoot Side by Sides, but actually shot Under and Overs. Their Understatement game is strong.

Over an impromptu breakfast of porky and chocolaty snacks the fellas review the sport of the season.
The chaps are extremely cautious about who they'll shoot with, safety comes first, then there's the correct way to make any displeasure known.
Shooter and the Guide have been on this very ground a week or so before, with a group of clients both of them wish to swerve. Alerted by the bragging 'that time you shot me' conversation and then Muzzle-Swept, Shooter had quietly beaten a retreat to the car to watch, gun in slip, from a safe distance. The guide complements him on this wordless communication. This is a tribe anyone can join, or at least think they've joined. Somehow imagining they could sweep this massive breach of etiquette under the carpet the group have nominated a new voice to make a subsequent telephone booking. A very small and self-policing world.

Re-waterproofed by caffeine, chocolate and pork. With the dogs released from the truck bed we walk the cover crop fields to see if we can put a few birds in the air. A couple of championship Rabbits break from a spiny, once out of shotgun range they turn and pause to chalk up the experience, funny how they never do that when I've got a rifle.

After a pub lunch we work another crop. This ain't no dusty prairie, the crop grows almost waist high and every leaf seems to hold a cup of iced water. The gang are divided, we've got a couple of waterproof over-trouser wearers, I'm in the Breeks subset, and then there's the guide and Distinguished Looking Gent toughing it out.  Pheasants clatter to the sky, I drop a Hen but the Partridge elude me. Shooter drops a brace and as we meander towards the cars a skein of Greylag Geese climb in an expanding Vee, the straggler crumples in a cloud of Steel shot.

We're losing the light, but elect to stand in a pointless line waiting for a never to arrive flight of ducks. Its time for home.

When the conversation is good the drive back is all too short, DLG tells us about he and his wife's trekking adventures, and an abortive hunt for buffalo in Tanzania. Shooter and I do a quick round of 'one rifle to rule them all' and all too soon were wishing DLG an early happy crimbo and waving him off.


I've now got: Four Canadians, A Greylag, three Pheasant and Shooter has given me three ducks from earlier in the week. It's a big ask for an Uber driver, but The Northern Monkey is afloat not too far from Shooter's yard so I lure him off his sofa with offers of Goose dinners and he collects me, only to find himself embroiled in a substantial plucking session back at mine. Where we were to learn a new truth from the wild food lifestyle.

If you shake a lot of goose down and feathers until they become airborne, you'll easily be able to tell which of your kitchen surfaces need de-greasing.

More soon
Your pal
SBW
PS my go to guy for wild food recipes has several belters on his blog