by David Brown » 15 Mar 2016, 9:21 pm
From a literary talent, retired B737 Check and Training Captain, and general all round nice old bastard…..
There was a time before dinosaurs ruled the earth when we enthusiasts would retire to our private happy places. Surrounded by the gentle and warm aroma of a rich gun oil and amid the wood panelled display cases and racks where our most loved and most beautiful works of engineering art would be awaiting an admiring glance and warm smile, washed by the memories of recent hunting days.
we would prise open our tin of rifle powder, pouring gently into the hopper. Click, pop, squeeze as we would test a primer seating. Clatter clatter, as the spent cases are lined up in their wooden case holder ready to be caressed and admired before being inspected for blemish or fault. The lustre and seemingly perfection of beautiful, nay exquisite Hornady or Sierra .270” 130 grain spire point boat tail projectiles are rolled across an admiring hand.
Then we would reach for our faithful worn and dog eared reloading manual. Powder dust staining the most studied pages. The smell of old paper infused over the years by the pure joy that they invoked in their loyal owners.
The sun streams in the old window, the trees change their colour, the seasons roll back over and over. Season defining the years of a lifetime. Then I open my lovely old reloading manual once again and the memories come flooding back. But the powder numbers are all different, the projectiles have plastic tips, the beautiful guns are imprisoned in a bomb proof safe, and the f***ing up to date reloading manual is on the f***ing computer!
grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,
G.