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
