Single barrel, single-shot shotguns are not popular these days. They are looked down upon as somehow ‘less than’. When I began my shooting life under my father’s instruction I was as excited as any 14 year old could be. I had completed my three-year apprenticeship of various, gun, dog and bird-related tasks, and my chance had come on the last drive of one of his small syndicate days. I admit to being confused and crest-fallen when I was given only one 16-bore cartridge for Grandpa’s Belgian non-ejector. Without wishing to seem ungrateful, I still felt I had to ask the question: “why can’t I load both barrels?”. My Father’s response has stuck with me always: “get it right with the first barrel and you won’t need the second.” I still go back to this now when the wheels fall off in a pigeon hide or on a peg. This can be through fatigue in the case of the former or a lack of concentration in the later. I take out one cartridge to focus my mind on the task in hand, not relying on the second barrel. You may have come across the more common single-barrelled guns as they can be picked up for very little money. An AYA Cosmos or a Harrington & Richardson, these working guns were built to last for farmsteads and pioneers. They have no finesse – finesse was not required on a frontier. Durability was the only thing that mattered. There were also some genuinely eccentric guns – special orders that have no reason to exist other than they were the whim of a wealthy patron. It is this category that the gun I used on a friendly conservation-minded shoot near Hingham in Norfolk, falls into. A 12 bore made by Stephen Grant on an Alex Henry falling block rifle action. It was made in 1873 for the Duke of Marlborough. I like to think it was made for the Duke to walk around potting the odd pheasant with a beautifully made and highly unusual gun. It is so unusual that it has a special place in the collection of Nicholas Holt or HOLTS Auctioneers and I am grateful to my boss for allowing me to borrow it. My fellow guns on a blustery day in Norfolk are all like me, enthusiasts for more walking than shooting. There is a knowing smile when I recount one of my favourite shooting invitations of all time which simply read “Come to Lunch. Bring a gun.” There are syndicates like this all over the country but one thing that stands out on this day is that five of the assembled company work for Natural England. They are all of the opinion that shooting and conservation are indivisible. Hearing NE staff publicly state that may surprise some, but I am convinced there is a silent majority in the country who understand the benefits that shooting can bring. I was flattered that more than half the guns, knowing I was bringing a single barrel gun, had brought single barrels guns themselves for the morning. Various types were on display including a pinfire and a classic Greener GP; a stalwart design of the British Empire. As we walk to the first drive, Old Hall, with a strengthening wind at our backs our sense of anticipation grew. A piece of wild bird cover was pushed into a small wood that is essentially an overgrown pit. The hen pheasant that resided there caught the wind and outwitted us all. But we were treated to the spectacle of five pristine roe deer. Two jays also used their guile and found the gap to safety. There was no instruction not to shoot woodcock, but the four we see are all un-saluted. It seems we were all of the same mind. The marsh we walk through next is lifting with snipe all of which we leave. As it was a SSSI I dropped the block on the Grant and it flicked back my lead cartridge to be replaced with bismuth. It was so flooded from recent rainfall that only half of it could be walked as footbridges were submerged and it would have been foolish to try and find the safe crossing points. It was clearly too wet for pheasants but it leads us to the next small wood. From the sound of the odd shot at a pigeon, teal and mallard lifted off the ancient mere that is adjacent to the marsh and the pigeons also started to move. I got distracted by the slow procession of a group of cormorants steered by their paddle-shaped tails but soon re-focus on pigeons. Flighting pigeons is one of my favourite pastimes and I found myself going into ‘target acquisition mode’ scanning the trees for early movement. The fact I only had one shot meant my focus was greater than usual. The first bird looking to land in the ivy-clad tree falls. Having a successful shot under my belt maybe why my concentration level dropped and I missed the next three. On the way to the next wood, I was asked to be a walking gun down the side of the young plantation that leads towards the old marl pit that comprises its bottom half. We passed piled up cuttings of the conservation headlands that will be used to seed other areas with wildflowers – the deep conservation theme of this shoot is becoming clear. A Jack Russell, of no fixed patronage, proved himself an able guerrilla volunteer - it appeared he broadly knew the plan but had his own ideas as to how it might be achieved. It is him I had to thank though as we got to the end of the young trees and the first of the cock pheasants made a break through my side and falling to my single shot. It was something of a relief that I had done everyone’s efforts justice although other pheasants flew forward well. After a pit stop, we headed towards two fields of wild bird cover. Rory, the part-time ‘keeper told me the decision of the landowner to move away from conventional farming was not one of necessity but a logical conclusion of a family conversation. The farm could have been three or four big, conventional, arable fields but in that there would have been little to nourish the soul. Instead, they moved to a conservation model in conjunction with advice from NE. We lined the back of a whole field of wild bird cover and begin to push it through. Here the conservation value of this farm reveals itself in all its glory. Described to me as ‘a piece that hasn’t grown very well’, clouds of linnets and yellowhammers lifted out of it. There were plenty of pheasants too but most escape. When we moved through deliberately wetted fields with clumps of brambles in the next drive the truly wild birds briefly revealed themselves: all three hens nipping over the boundary 200 yards ahead on my side. A young plantation to walk through to finish yielded several pheasants and I was fortunate that both hens breaking out my side fell. As I drove away to pick up No. 1 Son through a part of my home county into which I don’t often stray, I realised that I was passing the farm on which I shot my very first pigeon with a childhood friend. It was a treasured memory and one that is now at the forefront of my mind once again. Using a single-barrelled shotgun does focus the mind, but perhaps on the fact that the success or failure of the shot is not the most valuable part of what we do.