Growing Up by the Seasons
As a child, I often marked the passage of time through the seasons. Fall signified the return to school and shorter daylight hours. Winter brought stark fields, brisk Atlantic winds, and weekends spent with my father in Connemara, County Galway. The landscape of stone walls, peat bogs, and gentle hills formed the backdrop of my formative years.
We were there to hunt game birds, which my father referred to as wing shooting. I can still picture the moment when a pheasant burst from a hedge, its bronze feathers making a distinct sound. The woodcock would crash through the trees, completely lost, while snipe danced over the marshes, testing the patience of those aiming at them. Eventually, you start to grasp the nuances of the land, learning, often the hard way, that even a small-brained bird can make you feel pretty foolish.
An explosive sound disrupted the quiet—it’s a noise that resonates with me nearly 20 years later. We had two badgers below us.
There was no sense of urgency. We walked for miles, observed the wind, studied the terrain, and exchanged whispers—or, at times, said nothing at all.
My First Gun
My first gun arrived at a time I hadn’t quite expected. At 13, I took my first shot and still recall its weight, the kick that almost knocked me back. My father didn’t laugh at my struggle. Instead, he adjusted my stance, corrected my grip, and offered a small, encouraging smile, saying, “You’ll learn.”
And I did.
Initially, I was eager to pull the trigger like any other boy. However, my father wanted me to understand that shooting is an art. He advised me to keep my cheek on the stock, follow through, breathe deeply, and prioritize safety. Guns weren’t toys; they were tools that required skill.
No Waste
The sense of victory I felt the first time I hit a clay target was overwhelming. I remember the pride of successfully bringing down my first pheasant, but I also became acutely aware of the gravity of taking a life. We were required to collect all the birds and bring them home—waste was not tolerated. Every action was deliberate.
In the early days, our hunting expanded beyond birds. A fox lurked too closely during calving season, and we had to act. I was young and found it unappealing, yet I understood the necessity. This wasn’t just sport; it was about protection. The lambs were defenseless, and our farm relied on them. Badgers could be fierce and pose a serious threat to the sheep.
When I was about 15, we took our two little terriers to a den we monitored closely. Brave little dogs, my father’s pride, they were bred for going underground to flush out quarry. We waited, listening intently.
What happened next surprised us both.
Short and Brutal
That explosive roar—still vivid in my mind—came from below. Two badgers were there. The struggle was swift and brutal, resulting in the loss of both our terriers.
The silence that followed was eerie. My father spoke little, kneeling next to the dog with a steadiness I had never witnessed in him. The impact of that day stayed with us both.
Within a week, he was diligently tracking the badgers’ movements. Observing their trails, noting their habits, he returned at dusk. He put them down cleanly. At that moment, I began to see him not just as my father, but as a man of deep respect. Our dog was gone, but he found a way to make things right.
A Simple Nod
Eventually, my trips to Connemara altered. I became more of a partner than just a child tagging along. We walked side by side, interpreting the land together. He would ask for my observations and awaited my responses.
Recently, I returned to Ireland to hunt with him once again. As dawn broke over the Twelve Bends, it cast a silvery glow over the valley.
We moved as we always had. Though he was now in his early sixties and slower, his eyes remained sharp. A pheasant jumped from the shadows, and I swung, then fired—but missed. He didn’t say a word. A few moments later, another bird startled, and this time I didn’t miss. His single nod was the highest form of praise for him.
There are caricatures of gun culture that portray it as mere aggression, a love for noise or power. That’s not how I experienced it. Hunting with my father imparted a non-verbal language. His approval was evident through a glance; corrections came subtly. Trust blossomed with small responsibilities—like safely carrying the gun, crossing barriers, or gauging distance and wind.
As the day wound down, we found ourselves with muddy boots, cold hands, a bird cleaned and hung, and some drinks at the local pub. Stepping outside, I felt the evening wrap around me with warmth and a comforting quiet.
