Druids’ Summer Solstice Shoot

Druids’ Summer Solstice Shoot

by Queen Bee

KLFA Roving Reporter & Crossbow Queen

I was planning to set out for Druids’ Summer Solstice shoot in Wiltshire by about 7.30am. The day before, my right eye (with which I needed to see the target) had become sore and inflamed. It hadn’t improved by morning so Graham advised me to see the doctor before I left. The first empty appointment was 9.20. My eye was sprayed with yellow dye and for about half an hour everything coming out of my nostril was bright yellow. Of course the surgery wasn’t running on time and I started my trip Southwest just after 10. These three lost hours eventually added three hours to a slow and tedious journey.

The road edges were beautiful with tall, spilled, yellow oilseed rape, white dog daisies still holding their own – and their aroma, and now bright splashes of red poppies. All went well until just past Oundle. I had 2.2 miles to go before the next roundabout when I came to a grinding halt behind a line of stationary vehicles. It took me the best part of 35 minutes to travel 0.4 of a mile. We stopped and started, very rarely covering more than 50 or 60 yards in one go. When I’d reached 1 mile to go and had been ‘parked’ for more than 20 minutes I lost my patience and, doing a 6 point turn I just managed to move off in the opposite direction in front of a tractor. The traffic jam on the other side was a good five miles long and when I reached the A1 I worked out that in 1.35 hours I’d only actually travelled 19 useful miles.

The A1 was good and the Black Cat roundabout was empty, but as I drove onto the M1 we crawled, 3 or 4 lanes deep, all the way to the M25 where we again crawled at about 40mph and came to a standstill near Heathrow. By this time I was mightily fed up. I wished I’d just let my eye moulder and I would have been almost at my destination through beautiful Oxfordshire and Berkshire countryside. I began to wonder if the shoot was worth all this hassle and would I bother shooting there again. The M4 wasn’t too bad but very slow in parts because of everyone in the outside lane. Due to all the stopping and starting I was beginning to worry about my fuel situation and my turn-off was still 56 miles ahead. I’d not seen any services or any useful-looking junctions so when I saw a signpost to Reading I took it. My intention was to go along the A33 and find a garage. As I swung round to turn right through some lights I was shoved over by an enormous lorry and before I knew it I was herded onto the slip road and back onto the M4!

Cursing and worrying, at last a services sign so I shimmied off to find I was going to have to pay £1.35 for a litre of diesel. £10 quids-worth if they were lucky.   I’d been sitting in the same position for nearly four hours so it took a bit of effort   to extricate myself into the back of the van  and   put the kettle on. With the gas roaring away the van began to get a bit warm so, having experienced string problems the last time my bow had been in the hot van, I decided to have a through-draft with the back door open. Stepping onto my rolled up bed I stretched forward to reach the door handle. My foot slipped off the bed, I fell forward onto my bow, which was on the seat, and into the back window. Meanwhile my shin had come into contact with the sharp edge of the plastic box on the floor containing the honey. In such an awkward position my right leg decided to have cramp in the back of my thigh. It was fortunate that some of the blinds were drawn because had anyone with an IPhone been passing I would no doubt have ended up as an amusing episode on YouTube.

As I was eating out with friends that evening I didn’t want to fill myself up – even though I’d had breakfast over 7 hours before. Rummaging in the sparsely-filled cupboard I found a box of Cuppa Soup. Glancing idly at the box as I stirred the aromatic liquid I noticed the soup was four years out of date. Was I bovvered? Nah. It was delicious.

I was getting tired and driving very slowly along beautiful country lanes and arrived at Druids’ field a few minutes before 4pm not at all in the mood for a social evening.

At 7pm the seven of us met up at the Dumb Post, a short walk from the campsite. Our meal had been ordered  for 7.30pm  by the birthday boy a week before. We sat patiently at our table and waited, and waited, and waited. The starters eventually arrived just before 8. We sat and waited, and waited, and waited. During this time three of our group went and mentioned we’d specifically ordered the meal for 7.30pm. We sat and waited, and waited, and waited, receiving many excuses. At ten to nine, the main course arrived – with excuses. By this time our hosts were understandably upset. The ineffectual manager apologised and offered complimentary drinks. As some of the group were driving and we all had to be sober for the shoot, we declined.

The food was actually very good but it was quite a while before the detritus was cleared, then we were told that the Eton Mess that had been on the menu our hosts had received hadn’t been available for more than a year! We settled for alternatives. During the course of various conversations, the birthday boy had complained that it was his 65th birthday and he’s been treated very shabbily. A few minutes later a small square of chocolate fudge cake with a single candle was delivered by two waitresses. Their rendition of Happy Birthday was pretty awful and I had to throw in the birthday boy’s name when there was an embarrassed pause. A round of applause from the customers then we discovered that the offering had obviously been nuked!

At the end of the meal, after the landlord had been given a severe talking to by one of our more outspoken friends, the bill was reduced by 50%. This generous ‘atonement’ would not prevent a stinging write-up, or should I say write-down!

Now to the real reason for this report – the shoot. (I apologise for the lengthy run-up to the shoot report but my journeys have never been straightforward!)

Saturday dawned steamingly hot from the start. There were about 190 archers who set off into the cool woods, and the shoot started on the dot of 10.30. I’d bumped into Tucker in the refs tent earlier and it was good to see another KLFA member flying the flag.

To say the day was hot would be an understatement, it was boiling. Fortunately there were only 5 targets in the open, the rest being in the cool woodland. Although there was a gentle breeze blowing through the beautiful, tall beech trees, most archers’ faces were bathed in sweat. The course was fiendishly set and, I thought, much harder than the 3Ds. Most of the targets were 25-35 yards with a smattering of 40+, and all were difficult to make out in the strong contrasting sun and shade. It took a bit of detective work to actually spot the black or brown blobs in the gloom and on a couple of occasions we were looking in the wrong direction. The ground was reasonably flat and great advantage had been made in the use of small dry dikes and uneven slopes. Each target needed a great deal of thought – at least for me – and by the time we’d shot 15 I was ready to chuck off my boots, and even my clothes(!) and jump into a stream. Not being really confident in my distance judging ability I second guessed myself too many times to the detriment of the shot. I don’t know why I keep doing it but keep doing it I do. But I didn’t dry-fire once which was probably because I had stickers on various bits of my bow with the word ‘ARROW’ written on them in red.

It was a long, hot, tiring day and I was practically brain dead by the time we finished at 5.15pm but I’d thoroughly enjoyed the challenge and although I wasn’t happy at the time, when I discovered that a lot of archers had found the course very difficult I was quite pleased with the score I ended up with – I think 10 in front of Sheron. She said she’d shot rubbish but I’ve learnt not to believe her!

Sadly, one archer (who I believe was ‘in his cups’) complained so bitterly about the course to the Shoot co-ordinator that the poor man said he’d resign. It makes me really angry that it only takes one archer’s nastiness to affect so many people’s enjoyment. There are ways and ways to complain but why complain when clubs have done their best, and given up their time to put on a shoot. I, personally, found both days excellent. The hardest shoot I’ve done and probably the best I’ve been to.

I was so hot that by the time I’d walked across the field and through the woods and reached my oven of a van that it was difficult to get my clothes off. I almost resorted to scissors, but eventually I stood and had a fantastic cold shower. One chap I sold some honey to told me of the mill stream at the bottom of the hill and how lovely it was to swim in, and I decided that if I was as hot tomorrow I’d definitely do a spot of wild swimming afterwards.

Sunday dawned slightly overcast and a degree or two cooler, but not for long. All the groups had changed and we again started at 10.30. The course wasn’t quite as difficult as the day before and there were no wasp pegs. I shot the first 20 not far off 400 but then the heat started to get at me and I began to flag. Because of my past medical history I wasn’t supposed to be in the sun for any length of time, and even with a thick layer of Baby 50+ sun cream I could still feel my skin frazzling.  Apparently some archers didn’t shoot the second day because of the punishing heat, but never one to give up and being ‘well ard’ I battled on.

It was incredibly hot in the field and perspiration was pouring down my face and into my poorly eye making it sting, and I was becoming brain-dead with the non-stop concentration. Knowing Sheron was only three targets behind me I began to become paranoid about her picking up my lost arrows – stupid I know – and when I bumped into her and she told me she was shooting a dream I actually believed her, she looked so fresh and unfazed by the heat.

Three whistles sounded at one point when an archer had collapsed through heat exhaustion. I felt so damp and wretched I began to wish I could bow out with heat exhaustion! But I plodded on, getting redder and redder and shooting rubbisher and rubbisher. I knew I was tired because even with my three reminder stickers I dry-fired towards the end of the day. However, because I’d shot so well the first half I actually managed to finish over 700. But Sheron had indeed shot a dream and trounced me well and truly and went off with a lovely trophy.

But the disappointment dissipated very quickly when I opened the van and discovered it had been so hot inside that the fridge had chosen to pack up and I had to eat 6 choc-ices in one go.

Shame!