Shane Hegarty works out all his clay-pigeon rage with a day's shooting at Courtlough Shooting Grounds in north Co Dublin.
The target is in the crosshairs of the rifle's scope. I try to keep a steady aim on its plump body. It's 100 metres away, but magnified enough that the slightest twitch could mean missing. When you see snipers and trained assassins in movies, this is the view the camera always gives us. The unwitting target, the steely accuracy. Of course, trained assassins are not usually aiming at a row of metal ducks.
This is how I placate the slight embarrassment about how cool I feel holding this rifle. As long as I'm not pointing at anything that's breathing, then that's got to be okay. And that it wasn't breathing a few seconds before I aimed the gun. I ready myself, relax my muscle fibres, gently squeeze the trigger. Did I hit any targets? All you need to know is that there is a row of metal ducks that won't be bothering anyone again.
Which is a salve to my ego, because minutes before that, I was on a clay-pigeon shooting range with a 12-gauge, double-barrelled shotgun, where I was helping to bring a temporary halt to the senseless slaughter of clay pigeons. This is Courtlough Shooting Grounds, a seriously impressive 24-acre facility down a narrow country road in north Co Dublin, and my tutors are being very patient. Fergus Connon is an Irish team member who has a way of making the gun look like it's part of his arm. Bill Flynn is a former Irish champion and owner of this family-run business. He will later show off his skills by knocking clay pigeons from the sky while holding the gun over his head. If this were the Wild West, these would be the people you'd hide behind in a fight.
Courtlough is not just a place where Irish internationals train, but has also made quite a name for itself as a day out for people who have never terrorised a clay pigeon before. Corporate groups and stag parties come out for a day of shooting, gentle slagging and a steak dinner in the clubhouse. There are plans for a host of additional outdoor sports that would make it some kind of lads' mini-paradise. Women are increasingly coming into the sport (Bill's 20-year-old daughter Áine is a three-times national champion) but there is something about shooting guns that is ineffably, inextricably male. "Put a gun and a doll into a playpen and the boys will always go for the gun," suggests Bill. Often to shoot the doll.
In the large shop, the gunroom is wall-to-wall weapons. Are there security concerns? "It's like Fort Knox," he says sternly. A gun can cost anything from €400 to €40,000. People pay extra for the engineering, or intricate hand-carved detail. They should then pay the €280 for the long safes that Bill also sells.
Outside, a network of mesh tunnels leads to each range and is designed to keeps shooters contained and safe. When newcomers arrive, Courtlough will allow only one gun per group of five and their instructor. All around the site are signs featuring puns as bad as my aim, but with far more purpose. "Good Shooting is No Accident". "Take Sound Advice: Wear Ear Protection". It is a sport of life-saving aphorisms. When we are setting up a photograph, Fergus triple-checks that the rifle is unloaded. "It is always the unloaded gun that kills you," he quips.
When we first go out to a clay-pigeon range, Fergus hands me a gun. It's a Browning. So are my trousers. "Take the look of terror off your face," Fergus laughs. I really shouldn't be so nervous. It's not as if someone is pointing the gun at me. I have it in my hand and the barrels are pointing away from me, somewhere in the general direction of where the clay pigeon will not be. He lines me up. Gets my stance right. Cheek against the barrel. Nose over toe. Pull!
Guns, let's be honest, are not glamorous. They are not cool. They should not be glorified. But, boy, is shooting a gun fun. Really, really fun. The recoil is not too hard on the shoulders, but the shock is more than enough to awaken my adrenaline, tickle my testosterone and get to whatever hormone that triggers competitiveness.
We go through a couple more clay-pigeon disciplines. Whether coming towards me, going away, or flitting across, they prove elusive birds. It is a sport requiring utmost focus. In the last Olympics, Irishman Derek Burnett broke 119 of 125 targets and that was good enough only for joint-ninth place. The gold medallist missed a single clay pigeon in 150. If I could hit one in 150, I'd go home thinking I was Billy the Kid.
In Olympic trap shooting, the pigeons can head out in any of three directions and the competitors rotate positions to keep them from spotting a pattern. The Flynn family lines up to demonstrate. Grandfather Richard, an Olympian in 1976, is the picture of a country squire, but his grandchildren Áine, Liam and Shaun are in jeans and T-shirts. There are swallows flitting around in the field. They really should get out of the way. One by one the Flynns shatter the clay pigeons with a well-practised insouciance.
My turn. I have 10 shots and hit nothing. The clay pigeons are almost out of range before I've had time to aim. As I shoot, the swallows gather in flocks. They bring their young. They build nests. There is no safer place to be. u
Courtlough Shooting Grounds, Balbriggan, Co Dublin; 01-8413096; www.courtlough.com