Bisley memories

As a young boy, the hotter months were dominated by weekend trips to Bisley. For the uninitiated, Bisley is the 'home' of target rifle shooting in Britain. It is referred to somewhat misleadingly as a 'camp', but in essence it is a self-contained world. The ranges dominate the camp, but are interrupted by aging maples and sun-dappled clubhouses, rows of caravans of all shapes and sizes house the enthusiasts that turn out in their droves year on year to drink ale and talk about the wind. There is an unassuming magic about the place, buzzing with strange people escaping, however briefly, their varied and hectic lives. An one-legged Etonian drives a tractor about the camp; a plank of wood nailed crudely to the back seats his three young children. Three well-off Lebanese tourists in grotesque Prada training shoes amble about, prodding aimlessly at 25 year old window displays in the small camp shops, marveling, one hopes, at the charming amateurism of it all. One man drives past on a golf-buggy with a portable toilet attached to the back, his rifles propped up neatly in the seat beside him. To the outsider, it is a place of utter madness and eccentricity, but it stands to me as one of the few remaining bastions of real England. The sport itself, my father's dearest pastime, is socially inclusive, clubs contain individuals from startling walks of life. It is not unusual to see three or four Kenyans, dressed in scruffy, ill-fitting clothes, carrying state-of-the-art target rifles over their shoulders, chattering excitedly in Swahili about anything and everything. How odd that a place with so little acquiescence to political correctness avails itself of true diversity with such ease. Yet it is the true spirit of the amateur sportsman that prevails here, companionship and friendship built of common passion for a minority activity precludes social distinction.

It is no doubt difficult to envisage such a place. But the depth of feeling the thought of Bisley provokes in me is tangible, for it represents everything to which I wish I could return. A gently aging paradise in which one can wander as if in a dream, thoughts punctuated softly by the distant crack of rifle rounds scorching across the ranges, the sun warming the backs of pale legs, timeless, innocent and magical.