“Always treat the gun as though it’s loaded. Rest your index finger horizontally along the barrel. Never point at anything you’re not willing to shoot.”
I nod as my instructor runs through the rules of firearm safety and look over at my friend Kate. She gives me a thumbs up, breaking into a nervous smile. We are both thinking the same thing: are we seriously going through with this?
Kate and I are the last people you would expect to encounter at a shooting range. Both in our early forties and living in southwest France (I moved here seven years ago with my young family), we don’t fit your typical gun-toting demographic. Kate is a vegetarian artist. I am a flexitarian (vegetarian with benefits) writer. But recently, while chatting at a dinner party, we concluded that, bountiful as the creative life is, we are unlikely to be anybody’s first port of call when the shit hits the fan.
Let’s face it, humanity has seen better days. If recent geopolitics or a rapidly heating planet fail to trigger Armageddon, the toxicity coming out of the manosphere should do it. My attempts at prepping for it are extremely limited — I once stashed a bottle of single-origin olive oil under the stairs, but I needed it the next day for an Ottolenghi recipe. Stockpiling cans of condensed milk isn’t going to cut it anyway, Kate and I concluded after several glasses of wine. What we would need in the new world order was guns.
Our neighbours are well ahead of us. France has Europe’s biggest hunting community, and about 1.3 million people hold active hunting licences. This allows them to own firearms such as bolt-action rifles, lever-action rifles and double-barrel shotguns — and to buy and store up to a 1,000 rounds of ammunition for each of their weapons.
No wonder that our postprandial Sunday strolls in the autumn are so regularly accompanied by the pop of a chasseur’s rifle. Meanwhile, the ads for getting ripped via t’ai chi walking that have stalked us across the internet have been replaced by young Parisian urbanites in wax jackets declaring, “Qui va à la chasse trouve sa place” — he who goes hunting finds his place.
Another spot the Frenchman finds his place, is at a firing range. About 300,000 French people hold sports shooting licences, which entitles them to own another category of gun: these include handguns, semi-automatic rifles with standard-capacity magazines (such as AK47 variants) and pump-action shotguns. But no more than 15 of them.
Then there are so-called attic weapons — inherited shotguns and relics from both world wars, which may account for as many as eight million unregistered firearms. (As an idea of the scale, a week-long amnesty held in 2022 resulted in 65,000 guns being handed in and 1.6 million rounds of ammunition.)
All in all, some estimates suggest that there are more than 12 million firearms in circulation in France, although the country’s supreme audit institution, Cour des Comptes, opts for a more modest 6-8 million — enough to arm one in ten people in the country.
In the cold light of sobriety, Kate and I agreed that imminent societal collapse was probably unlikely. Still, there is no harm in learning a new skill, right?
Granted, this particular one isn’t for everyone. I asked our American friend Liz, a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat, if she’d be up for joining. She assumed we were going “posh shooting” — hitting a few clay pigeons, in wax jackets. I told her the vibe was more Al Pacino in Heat. She said she’d think about it and has stopped returning my calls.
The shooting range we later visited is in the hills outside the medieval town where we live, accessed through an electric gate with a security camera, its red light blinking at you as you wait.
The club’s reception is not what we were expecting. Five pensioners in gilets are hanging around a coffee bar, necking espressos and bemoaning the recent spate of bad weather. Behind the front desk a woman with a grey perm asks for our passports.
We are each assigned a supervisor. Kate’s is wearing full make-up and has one of those Texan-style blow-dries. She’s giving The Hunting Wives energy and I’m here for it.
She leads us through a door to an area marked “No unauthorised access”. A giant American flag hangs on the wall. Is the club twinned with a gun range across the Pond? Perhaps the flag is a show of solidarity with the US. Weirdly, America-maxxing is big in rural France. Where I live there are diners all over the place. Last year I took my boys to a monster truck rally (the first and last time). I guess it’s a liberté thing.
From behind a counter a man hands us trays with noise-cancelling headphones, ammunition and a definitively gun-shaped case.
We are escorted along a vast corridor and into a windowless room, illuminated by fluorescent strip lights. At each end four booths are separated by plywood walls. We warm up with electronic air rifles, practising on digital targets, which is fun, but I am here for the real deal. My supervisor unzips the case and places a Browning .22LR calibre pistol in my palm, a gun that looks just like the ones I have seen countless times in films, usually in the hands of a mobster about to put a hole in someone’s head. My heart pounds against my ribcage with the pressure of the cold steel. It is heavier than I expected, about the weight of a nice bottle of pinot noir.
He starts talking, gives me a rundown of the various components: front sight, hammer, slide catch. I’m struggling to follow because, funnily enough, I haven’t had much need for firearms vocabulary in my day-to-day French.
The ammunition is not what I’d imagined it to be either. The cartridges are tinier, more delicate in the flesh. It’s only when I’m shown how to load the magazine, it hits me: this thing could be used to kill people. In France, the number of deaths involving firearms — homicides, accidents, suicide — is about 1,500 a year. According to Office for National Statistics data, a similar number died from firearm injuries in England and Wales but over a nine-year period (between 1998 and 2007). In both countries self-inflicted wounds make up the majority of fatalities.
Understandably it is with trembling fingers that I attempt to copy my supervisor, only to drop the round on the floor. “Don’t be afraid,” he says encouragingly. “If you follow the protocol it’s completely safe.”
I appreciate the pep talk but this was never going to be easy for me. See, I have a complicated relationship with guns. I grew up in a staunchly nationalist area in west Belfast during the Troubles. I was seven the first time I saw a gun. A British soldier was crouched at the bottom of our garden, a rifle cradled against his chest. He nodded at me as I picked up the ball my sister and I had been playing with and continued his surveillance. I remember being scared at the time, but when you grow up surrounded by conflict, after a while you become habituated to it. I didn’t want that for my sons. They’re not allowed to watch movies with any kind of gun violence and I wasn’t comfortable when their aunt bought them Nerf pistols for Christmas.
Before today, the only other time I have held a gun was early in my career, when I worked as a sub-editor for a field sports magazine (it was part of the same media company that owned Marie Claire, which was the end goal). My day-to-day was circling typos, but I was once sent on an assignment to review a Kill It, Cook It, Eat It course. The minute the rifle was handed to me I bottled it. My husband shot our dinner that evening.
After a few botched attempts I manage to load the magazine without help. My supervisor pushes a button and the paper target zooms back 10m. I’m given a few pointers: keep my grip high and tight, look at the front sight on the gun instead of at the target, try not to anticipate the recoil. Quietly terrified, I instantly forget all his advice. I point the muzzle skywards, look directly at the circular target as I would a dartboard, and wince as I pull the trigger. The recoil isn’t too bad. The ear defenders help, muffling the sound to a dull crack. I give it another shot. After five attempts — the maximum number of rounds loaded — we call back the target. I haven’t made a dent.
He gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder and another reminder that if I remember the rules I’m golden. This time around I make a hole in the page. Granted, not on the actual target, but my supervisor seems pleased. I take the win. And then something happens. About 15 minutes into our session I start to relax. I become more familiar with loading and unloading the magazine. My stance improves. I take a steadying breath before firing and I hit the target. Before long I’m getting close to the bullseye. We move the target back to 25m — a trickier proposition — but I’m feeling more confident.
We switch to a laser gun. I hit the bullseye. My supervisor nods in approval. “Pas mal.” I am tempted to do a victory dance but remember my safety training.
At the end of the hour I’m handed the target, a souvenir to take home. I take in the holes scattered around the page, mark the progress from the far reaches to the centre. It feels strangely thrilling.
We are instructed to wash our hands to remove lead residue and head back to reception, Kate and I comparing our paper targets, me feeling shamefully competitive when I clock how many times she penetrated the sacred inner circle.
The natural light and fresh air have a sobering effect and my high begins to wear off. Sure, it’s good to challenge myself, but could I do it? If the world does fall apart and it’s every woman for herself, would I be prepared to aim a gun at another human to defend myself? The jury’s still out on that. At least I have Kate to defend the homestead.
The woman with the grey perm tells us we can return twice more this year, but if we apply for a licence we can come back as often as we like. Are we interested?
Kate and I look at each other. I can tell she’s where I’m at. Feeling strangely badass, knowing there’s something problematic about feeling badass for shooting a gun. Like everything these days, it’s complicated. We thank the woman for the experience and leave to pick up our kids from school.