BY NO stretch of the imagination could my maternal grandfather have been called a hunter or fisherman, but he knew with unerring accuracy the things that made a boy’s heart beat faster with excitement. Things like bicycles, fishing rods and pellet guns. He gave me all those things and more, and of the same good quality that most things were in those pre-plastic-and-pop-rivet days. He also guided me on my first hunt. This was supposed to be for doves, but it didn’t turn out that way.
He took me out to a farmer friend of his and, leaving my granny and sister to entertain the farmer and his wife after lunch, Grandpa excused himself to go for a walk with me and my almost brand-new Webley No 1 air rifle. Under Grandpa’s watchful eye – and he could be pretty strict when the need arose – I had practised shooting with it until I could hit a tin can more times than I missed.
After some time with not a dove in sight, we sat down in the shade of a thorn tree. Grandpa lit his pipe, saying we would wait a while to see if a dove didn’t turn up. What
