Shooting Times & Country Magazine
With trout in my bag and peace in my heart
Seeking solace in lifelong sporting passions of shooting and fishing is an important step on the long road back to health and happiness
Iwent fishing the other day. You will be surprised to learn that at first I was nervous, but I soon relaxed and I went home in the evening with a brace of trout in my bag and with peace in my heart. I am going fishing tomorrow and, although to begin with I shall probably feel nervous again, I am expecting the same outcome.
It was eight weeks since I had cast a fly. This had been on the Wharfe and, during the course of the day, I gradually realised that all was not well. For no clear reason, I was feeling tense, anxious and unsettled, finding nothing of the comfort and nourishment that fishing days normally bring to me.
It was a feeling that came and went during the next few days. Then there came a morning when I had intended to go fishing, but knew immediately on waking that the force of my anxiety was so powerful that fishing was an impossibility. At the same time,
I acknowledged the grim truth that I was ill, struggling with the same mental sickness that had so tainted my life 10 years ago.
Back then, I had been slow to admit to myself or to others that I was ill. I suppose I felt ashamed. This time, it was different. I made no secret of my condition and I went straight to the doctor and sought help. I also told him that I was a gun owner, asking him if I needed to inform the police. He said this was unnecessary and that he trusted me to let him know if the guns in my cabinet became a danger to me.
Change of scene
I took the pills. I did not expect, or experience, immediate improvement and soon decided that I needed a change of scene. This involved a difficult decision because my poults were due in a few days and, if I went away, I should have to cancel them.
I did go away and it was the right decision. I spent 10 days with two wonderful friends and it was good for me. I did not come home feeling fully restored, but I felt able to face the future in the hope of finding my slow way back to peace.
I realised that, in my earlier illness, I had withdrawn into myself and retreated from the pursuits that had for so long brought me a large part
of my happiness. This time it was different. I decided that going fishing would have to wait, because it would be too painful to go fishing and find no meaning in it. But everything else I felt I should try to do and try to find pleasure in doing it.
The Glorious Twelfth was fast approaching and I determined that it would find me standing on the flank of a grouse drive with a spaniel and a flag. It was a struggle getting there, but it was worth the effort. Nine more flanking days have followed and each has been easier than its predecessor. I have found marvellous therapy in the heather among friends, listening to the sounds of grouse, delighting in the sight of them, working the dogs and feeling happy to be there.
Keeping busy
Apart from flanking days, I have been at High Park every morning and most afternoons. I may have no poults, but the dogs need running and I need exercise. I have walked my boundaries. I’ve been busy with the chainsaw, cutting logs. With thoughts of later rough shooting, I have put hoppers in likely places.
It has been good to keep busy. Better still, especially on difficult days, has been the thought of winter sport with my friends. Of course, bags will be small at High Park this season, but the pleasure of shooting a few birds, working our dogs and enjoying the company will be great indeed.
About a month ago, I decided that I should shoot some clays. On the chosen morning, I felt inclined to give it a miss, but I forced myself down to the Crabtree Shooting Ground, near Kendal. In the company of Jonty Wightman, I shot much better than
I had thought possible. Much more importantly, I relaxed, enjoyed both the sport and Jonty’s company, and forgot for a time that my life at present was often testing. I have been back several times and will be there again soon. It helps me to believe that I am finding my way towards better times.
It was the combined effect of these various activities, most of them connected in some way with shooting, that made me feel at last that it was time to dip my toe in a trout stream and see how it felt. It felt good. I came back from the Tees a relieved and happy man, and you already know that I shall back there tomorrow. And there is more to come.
My friend, Lindsay Waddell, has invited me to walk-up grouse with him and I am joining another friend for a partridge day. Even the thought of these days makes me feel better and I know that they will play their part in the process of healing, a process that further sport with the gun during the winter will surely help to complete.
These recent experiences have led me to ask myself — and now I ask my readers — whether, as a man suffering from anxiety, I am a fit and proper person to own and use shotguns. I have now seen two doctors, who both say they are happy in the knowledge that my house contains a cabinet with four such items inside it. Perhaps
I am lucky that both these doctors know me from years back and are not dealing with a stranger. I have also seen a (very helpful) mental health nurse, who agrees with my doctors.
For my own part, I believe that someone suffering from anxiety who is open about his possession of firearms and who seeks appropriate treatment in his search for restored health is unlikely to pose any threat to himself or to anyone else. Surely the man who conceals both his illness and his status as a gun owner is much more dangerous?
I am well aware that this article may be brought to the attention of the police and that they may disagree.
It is a risk worth taking. At present, mental illness does not automatically disqualify its victims from gun ownership. I may be wrong in sensing a wind of change and I hope no such wind is blowing.
A man who seeks the support and enjoys the confidence of his medical team should not be deprived of the tools and the activities that will help him along the road on his journey back to health and happiness.
“Fishing would have to wait. It would be too painful to go and find no meaning in it”