Rabbit Stew

You know,...

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Sat, 13 Nov 2010 09:36:00 +0000

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...I think I might have eaten enough rabbit.
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'Nother day.

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 08:27:00 +0000

Cycled to the tiny but rather lovely Newlands Wood 'twixt Penkridge and Huntingdon yesterday.

I was out looking for a few late boletes to fry up. No luck, but I did find this inedible but attractive bit of coral fungi - 'Golden Spindles', I think, 'Clavulinopsis fusiformis'.

I cycled towards home down the canal path...

...and then stumbled upon my next-door neighbour & the canal boat he's doing up.

I then rode on and had a look round Acton Trussell Churchyard...

(spent a while thinking the stuff you inevitably think in churchyards) & then pedaled home to scoff the last of the day before yesterday's rabbit stew.

Autumn comes to Hubert's herbal windowbox

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 12:15:00 +0000

...

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 07:16:00 +0000

Look away, foodies.

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Sat, 30 Oct 2010 23:10:00 +0000

Spy Birch Boletes under tree (Birch tree, in fact) whilst cycling into town. Pick them, take 'em home, chop up, fry with butter and add a couple of beaten eggs (try not to think about cholesterol levels), cook till done.

Then what? Serve with exquisite salad of rocket, fine herbs & ciabatta croutons?

Or slap it onto a steaming lake of microwaved beans?

The latter. Yum bum.
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Trump to bankrupt pensioner who argued with him

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Sat, 30 Oct 2010 20:28:00 +0000

Molly Forbes challenged billionaire Donald Trump in the courts over the compulsory purchase of her home to make way for his giant Scottish golf course. She couldn't get legal aid and now nice Mr. Trump is trying to force her to pay court fees totaling nearly £50,000 (plus a hefty amount on top of this for 'inconveniencing' him). More here.

Shotguns, trousers, Rugeley and weight gain.

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Tue, 26 Oct 2010 10:13:00 +0000

Doing the charity shops in the nearby town of Rugeley yesterday - still after interview-wear - I stuck my head into the tiny, packed-to-the-roof-beams gun shop there and found that there were about a dozen big sheets of cardboard propped up on the floor, each with hundreds of little holes in them. 'I've put on weight', said Ray the owner - and I nodded as if I knew what he was talking about.

'Look - all these are up and left,' he went on, pointing at a sheet of cardboard and tapping in turn each of the quarters around the centre, '122, 76, 20, 53 - see? They're grouping up and to the left.'

'Ah,' I said - I still had no idea why he was talking about weight gain but the numbers on the cardboard at least were beginning to make some sort of sense to me, 'You're zeroing a shotgun?'

'Well...', clearly this idea didn't quite hit the mark, 'sort of...'.

Eventually, he managed to explain it to me. He'd noticed that his shooting had become less accurate in recent years and he'd struggled to understand why. Recently he'd thought that this might be because he'd put on some weight - the stock of the shotgun having to sit differently against his now somewhat chubbier cheek. He'd decided that this had shifted the angle of the gun in his grip and had an effect on the spread of pellets in and around the central target zone.

So he now had to alter his gun so that he was hitting the bulls-eye again. You don't do this with shotguns, I learned, the way you would do with an air rifle, by fiddling with little dials, you do it by altering the way that the gun sits against your shoulder and face. The cardboard sheets were the evidence of the shots he'd taken after making changes to the cheek-piece of his gun; tuning it, in effect, to try and bring the area of maximum pellet density back to the centre of the aimed-for area. He'd finally settled on one set of changes after he'd begun to consistently produce sheets with more balanced patterns.

It was very pleasant to go into a shop and be involved in a conversation like this; he was happy to tell me all about it and clearly chuffed that he'd hit on a way to make his shooting more accurate. I've been doing more shooting practice myself recently - trying to work on accuracy - and so it was great to come across another person involved with the same field of questions and challenges; helpful, in other words, to see that other people have some of the same preoccupations as you do yourself.

Clothes make the man

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Sat, 23 Oct 2010 23:48:00 +0000

In the shops today, trying to buy clothes. Can't do it. Can't spend £35 on a bloody jumper. Seems stupid. Jumpers come from charity shops and cost £3.50. Everything else is just wrong.

I have an interview this week and I need - or I think I need - to look like someone who does not spend a good deal of nearly every day sat underneath a hedge; need to show up wearing trousers that haven't had the arse ripped out on barbed wire.

Thing is, charity shop clothing assembles itself in its own good time - it doesn't show up according to a timetable. And a timetable is what I have: 'Look less like a tramp by Friday', is what it says.

The Joy of Ceps

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 19:11:00 +0000

Another day spend 'shrooming. I found some scary-looking, sulphur-yellow Boletes first in a wet & ferny little conifer wood and then, after having pedaled by accident into an enclave of the super-wealthy (lots of signs all more or less saying Achtung Minen!), I paused by the gate on the way out and boggled at a whopping great Fly Agaric.

Before leaving I turned round to cast an eye over the ground beneath a few nearby Birches - and what did I see?

Could that be the holy grail of the 'shroom hunter, the Penny Bun itself? It certainly looked like it - but the size of the thing! I had no idea that they were such giants!

I raced home and (after double-checking it against the 'shroom books) scoffed it tout de suite.

Now, the probably-Birch Bolete I ate the other day was perfectly nice, ditto the Horse Mushrooms and the Parasols, they were surprisingly good - but this! Well, I can see what all the fuss is about, I really can. Fried in butter it was seriously, seriously delicious.

First time on new permission.

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 21:34:00 +0000

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A leisurely stroll across the peaceful acres of my unexpected new permission? Spotting fruitful sites for rabbiting reference whilst taking in the cool, still Autumn evening air?

No. Evil cows from hell chase me, corner me & then force me to flee for my life through a hawthorn hedge - whereupon I drop five foot down the side of a steep bank and am dumped, wild-eyed, leaf-strewn and disheveled, straight into the path of a whippet-thin rural jogger.

'Ah!' I exclaim, 'Hello!'

He swerves a little but doesn't break his stride, 'Evening'...
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New Permission!

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 14:31:00 +0000

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New Permission! Let joy be unconfined!

A bloke in a tractor passed me today while I was off looking for the bike pannier I lost in my cycle-rambles yesterday (the pannier had a sheep's skull & jaw-bone in it, so who ever finds it is in for a mild shock). I'd just cycled past some farm outbuildings I'd often wondered about and when the tractor turned in there I pedaled back and said hello. Turns out that this isn't his farm but the land over the lane is and - yes! - he's more than happy for me to take rabbits off it!

Whah-hey! Lose a sheep's skull in a bike pannier one day, gain a new permission the next!

Here's a peek through a hedge at the land I'm going to have a walk over later today - the silver expanse that looks like a placid reservoir in the middle of the photo is actually the roof of a gigantic & throbbingly busy 'Argos' distribution hub. Still, the fields look wonderfull.

A Day 'Shrooming on the Chase

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Sun, 17 Oct 2010 19:55:00 +0000

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I quit smoking yesterday for the hundredth (and I hope last) time. Months of nicotine-lethargy lifted off me at once and, full of energy, I pedaled this morning up onto Cannock Chase. There - shunning the local pastime of watching car-borne couples engage in coitus - I began instead to search for the king of the wild mushroom world, the Cep, Penny Bun or - if Latin's your bag - Boletus edulis.

And I didn't find any. I did however find quite a lot of other Boletes and, since I'd never so much as knowingly set eyes on one before, this made me happy.

Here we are: a schmorgesborg of gnarled Boletes & lurid poisonous Fly Agarics.

Well, I peered at the Boletes and looked at my Roger Phillips and - after much head-scratching - decided that, while these aren't in fact Ceps they're also not any of the few, grim red/orange-tubed poisonous boletes. I think they're probably Birch Boletes - so I picked 'em and put them in the basket.

I left the Agarics, of course. Six hours of hallucinations, delirium, vomiting and then possibly death? Not my cup of tea today, thanks (though they are pretty).

Finally, I found an absolute whopper of a Parasol to close the day with.

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Targets not rabbits shock

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 18:44:00 +0000

Making sure my zero was still in, I sat down and popped six shots thirty-five yards across a field onto a home-made target. All six shots fell within a one-inch group.

So then I walked the fields for a couple of hours and - pleasant as it was - came home with nothing. Well, that's not true; nothing but a couple of giant, Shaggy Parasol mushrooms - which were, actually, very tasty.

I wasn't the only one scouring the fields. A couple of teens were out diligently looking for mushrooms of an entirely different order. Nothing on earth could make me scoff those damn things (again).

Two Puffball Frying Pan Exit Strategies

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 12:14:00 +0000

1: Peel puffball.
2: Chop it up.

3: Fry it - with olive oil or butter - better yet, with olive oil and butter.
4: Season with salt n' pepper.

5(a): Add beaten eggs to make omelette (Obviously, garnish with chives only if it's your intention to photograph it for a blog) or:

5(b): Slap onto ketchup-loaded wholemeal doorstep.

6: Stuff into face.

Last things & puffballs

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 09:38:00 +0000

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I was wandering about yesterday - dazzling autumn sunshine & slanting shadows across the verdant green fields around me - mooching for fungus and pondering. I'd spend the earlier part of the day thinking about the meal of wild mushrooms I'd eaten the night before and asking myself, 'How do I feel?'

Seriously asking one's self the question 'Do you feel alright?' always leads to the answer, 'Well, now that you mention it, in some ways, no' - so I'd of course gone straight to the 'Poisonous' section of my mushroom book and stocked my head anew with the colouful and excruciating ends that may befall the forager who stumbles, uninformed, across the Death Cap, Panther Cap, Sickener or - God forbid! - Destroying Angel. I worked myself into a fair old state.

So I was taking a walk in the afternoon sun (possibly my last, I mused) thinking about all this and peering down at the grass - when it occurred to me that eating wild mushrooms and shooting rabbits for the pot had something in common besides both being sourced from the fields.

Which is to say: death.

If you shoot a rabbit and things go well (for you, of course, that is) it dies. You kill it, cook it and then you eat it. The demise of the rabbit is an integral part of getting it to the table; death is an element of shooting & eating rabbit.

And mushrooms? Well, you might say, this is where the analogy falls down - since if anything death is surely something to be most strenuously excluded from the experience of eating wild mushrooms. And yes, of course it is - but I'd argue that it's still there, nonetheless. There as a kind of central and necessary reference point around which the whole question revolves: these ones are tasty, these ones are less so and these ones will kill you stone dead - so beware.

Just as it is with shooting & eating rabbits, so it is with gathering wild mushrooms: there's eating - and there's death. The elements aren't conjugated in the same way - but they're there just the same. There are, if you like, different plus and minus values ascribed to the elements ('eat', 'die') in the different equations: the rabbit must die if you are to eat it; you eat mushrooms but must not yourself die.

So, yes; actually, it was a rather cheerful walk. I arrived back home feeling much better and put the whole idea of sudden death behind me.

Today, sitting down outside my flat to smoke, I thought about the fields at the bottom of my road. I very rarely go there since I don't have permission to shoot on the land - but there's a public footpath and people and dogs pootle across it all the time. What the hell, I thought, I'll smoke in the field instead.

I stepped over the fence and within fifty yards had found a fine Giant Puffball which I promptly uprooted and took home for tea. This one, I know, won't kill me.

Bon appétit!
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Late afternoon stroll

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 21:09:00 +0000

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Sturdy fence between me & this guy, thankfully.

Someone else's little pony.

Rural lanes (six of them).

These pods burst eventually & hundreds of little men in S&M gear pop out & start looking for nightclubs.
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Atomic!

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 19:19:00 +0000

Sit waiting on edge of damson grove for something to stir beyond thin camouflage of nameless weedy stalks.

Nothing stirs. Grow bored.

Take snuff.

More boredom. Listen over and over to words of Blondie's 'Atomic' repeating themselves internally (was playing in grisly supermarket earlier when buying reduced bags (seven pence!) of carrots and parsnips.

More boredom.

Atomic!

Observe rabbits 90 yards away. Take blurry picture of same.

Decide to move to where rabbits are at least visible - knowing that this will scare them away but hopeful that after brief respite in burrow they'd re-emerge.

Move. Check for cow-shit. Lie down on grass. Look along now-deserted fence-line.

Wait. Grow bored again.

Atomic!

Teeter on edge of giving up and going home.

See movement.

Shoot rabbit.

Take - for reasons far from clear - picture of dead rabbit and gun.

Walk towards home across fields.

Find patch of mushrooms on way. Observe faint yellow bruising on cap when touched, smell faint aroma of aniseed, note 'cog-wheel' on membrane under cap. Remember as descriptions of 'Macro Mushrooms' (Agaricus urinascens). Pick same.

Walk home with mushrooms and rabbit (admiring, the while, imagined image of self doing same: bespectacled Ray Mears, horny-handed son of rural life etc., etc....).

Struggle through barbed-wire fence with now-bagged gun, rabbit and mushrooms.

Atomic!

Arrive home. Smoke. Drink coffee. Take artfully arranged picture of dead rabbit and mushrooms (again, for reasons far from clear).

Look long and hard at River Cottage Mushroom book. Note that pale yellow staining is absent from base of stem and persists elsewhere rather than going brown - ruling out therefore possibility of their being poisonous 'Yellow Stainer Mushroom' (Agaricus xanthoderma).

Cook rabbit, carrots, parsnips, mushrooms, etc.

Look long and hard at River Cottage Mushroom book again while cooking.

Smoke. Drink tea.

Eat.

Lick plate clean.

Worry slightly about mushroom poisoning. Check book again.

Blog.

Atomic!
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Mushroom: NOT from Tesco's!

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 11:51:00 +0000

I have now picked, strenuously identified (thanks to John Wright's River Cottage Handbook) and consumed one Agaricus campestris - a common field mushroom. Initial reports suggest that I am not dead.

The farm's abandoned damson grove in Autumn...

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 17:35:00 +0000

Hubert's Lunchbox

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 10:01:00 +0000

Dirty job.

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Wed, 06 Oct 2010 19:19:00 +0000

I was standing in front of the 'reduced items' fridge in the supermarket of the grim estate down the road earlier today, holding a knock-down plastic pack of pink and perfectly oblong 'sliced pork product' & thinking the sort of thoughts I always think when I'm on the verge of buying this sort of thing, i.e., gloom, gloom, gloom and more damn gloom.

In the end, I didn't. I bought fruit - like you do - and cycled home instead, still feeling low.

I'm off to London for the day tomorrow and buying anything to eat on the go there requires a small mortgage - so taking sandwiches is pretty much a necessity. But what could I put in my butties? Nada. Zip. There was nothing in the fridge (since I don't actually have a fridge) and the cupboard was bare.

So, go out and try to get a rabbit? Oh God, I'm not sure I can be arsed.

So I blobbed & played 'Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas' while the sun started to go down outside.

No. Bugger this - go out. Try and get some grub for tomorrow.

I needed to change my jeans though, they were clean on this morning. Could I be bothered? No, no I couldn't - I'll just make sure I don't get them dirty...

So, obviously, when I drop to take a shot, I drop straight into a nice fresh pile of cow shit and then, before I've figured out what I'm lying in - before the smell and the damp start to make themselves felt - I roll around on the ground to get into a better shooting position.

Still, got something for my sandwiches.

Time for a shower.

The Midland Game Fair

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 17:49:00 +0000

So, yes, I went to the Midland Game fair and, yes, it was an absolutely superb day out. I'd never been to one before and had no idea what to expect - I didn't know if I was going to love it or be bored stupid and regret the whopping £17 it cost to get in. But I really shouldn't have worried, it was close to being Hubert-heaven. I could have spent one whole, happy day just sitting in the falconry arena and watching the beautiful, spooky, dappled-white-and-ochre barn owls swoop about; I could have passed an equally fine day just watching mesmerised while a pack of infinitely patient sheepdogs herded a flock of geese. There was so much I wanted to see it was just mind boggling; I left feeling that one day was nowhere near enough and if I were to go next year I'd pitch a tent and stay the whole weekend.

Getting there, though, was a pain in the bum. Like a fool I'd decided against the scenic but wiggly back-lane route and chosen instead to cycle down the fast, cramped and choc-a-block-with-4x4's nightmare that is the A5. It took me an hour and a half of sweaty pedaling and the tally of cursing at careless motorists came to about a half-dozen bursts of standard-grade swearing plus one fit of furious and obscene screaming (some bugger who missed me by a scant foot at 70mph).

I finally pedaled over the brow of a hill onto the site itself and was just gobsmacked by the scale of the place. I set off at once down Gunmakers Row and there I peered at rank after rank of shotgun & rifle stands and the unbelievable crowd of people. Then I gawped for a while at bloodhounds and ferrets before I realised I was absolutely shattered and needed to flop with a coffee & bun right then or risk keeling over. Nicely recharged with carbs, caffeine and tobacco I set off for the Air Gun quarter.

I spent hours there: marveling at the unreachably-expensive but gorgeous Daystates; admiring the tidy and determined-looking new BSA's; frankly coveting the Falcon PCP pistols; puzzling a bit at the Gunpowers (they do look bonkers but I'd still have one); shooting terribly on the ten-metre match range; pondering pellet lubes; chatting very happily, as ever, with Tony and Tracy (both worked off their feet) at the Sandwell Field Sports stand; seizing the chance to finally eyeball a Weihrauch HW75 - in other words, having a bit of an air-gun orgy. Knackered once more I was forced to sit down, gobble a pasty and gape at the milling throng of fellow air gun fanciers (including one dapper bloke sporting a suit & plus-fours all made out of Realtree camo).

Then I set about trying to say hello to some of the writers I hoped would be there. I was in luck: I had the great pleasure of a conversation with the editor of Sporting Shooter, James Marchington.

James' Blog is simply the place to look if you're at all interested in reading a serious, intelligent and often very funny treatment of the contested politics in the UK shooting scene; he's a great advocate for shooters, has a fund of great stories to tell and I would have nattered with him gladly for hours.

After saying cheerio to James, I spent a while chatting with the friendly folk at the new Airgun Shooter magazine: with Mathew Manning (whose nice-looking book Hunting with Air Rifles: A Complete Guide has just been published) and with Nigel Allen - the editor - about the pro's and con's of paper versus net publishing for airgun writers (yes, it's a shame, he thinks, that so much great writing languishes in unreachable magazine archives but putting it on the net at the moment seems like a vast amount of work with very little obvious financial return for the writers). Then I wandered over to talk a while with Jim Tyler, the veteran shootist of AirGun World who was kind enough to give me a few photography tips (don't try stalking rabbits with a huge digital SLR round your neck, for one).

For me - a gonzo amateur airgun writer - this kind of chance to speak with so many professionals in one place was worth the sweat and cursing of the journey all by itself.

With the day almost done I threw myself back into the crowded streets of the fair; caught a display of gun dogs joyfully pulling dummy birds from a lake; gazed at something like a hundred magnificent hawks, falcons and owls; considered the sharp-suits, cut flowers and champagne on tap in the 'Weath Management' marquee - then found a shooting range.

I'd never fired anything beyond an air rifle before but here - after deciding against ten shots for a tenner on an AK47 - three quid bought me an enjoyable eight shots on a bolt action Marlin while a fairground PA thundered out, of all things, Jefferson Airplane's 'White Rabbit'.

I rubbernecked a while in the knife stalls in the hope I could find a little folding Fallkniven near the reach of my wallet (not a chance) and then found my eye taken by the work on one of the smallest stalls. A young chap called Oliver Davison had, he told me, built a propane forge in his own back garden, taught himself the craft and was now producing fine pocketknives that seemed perched half-way between utility and jewelery. Lovely things.

Shiny objects aside, a lot of the day's pleasure came from pure people watching. Much of my past was spent in cities so it's still fascinating for me to get glimpses of lived lives that I wouldn't have been able to guess at while I was crammed in the Tube under Oxford Circus: blokes from farms in their Sunday best; falconers from Devon comparing scars; flawless tweed on landed youth and camo-clad lads from Shropshire towns - all of this is fascinating for me. And everyone had a dog, or more often had five dogs - and it seemed to me that no one there would have so much as batted an eye at the notion of someone bagging the odd rabbit for tea...

Near the end of the day a bloke packing up his stall said, 'Hey, do you want some beer?' He pointed at a crate of John Smith's, 'I'm off now and I don't want it - help yourself!' I thanked him sincerely and did what he said.

Really knackered by then - and dreading the A5 - I sat down to stoke up on hot chocolate and jam butties. Munching, I cursed myself for not bringing a map to help navigate the back lanes when suddenly I remembered - of course! - I had a Sat Nav on my phone.

So, recalling the great day I'd just had and vowing to go to another one soon, I cycled home smiling along the peaceful lanes of the Staffordshire countryside - pausing for a beer half way - while a nice lady robot told me which turnings to take.

Frugal lunch chez Hubert...

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 12:11:00 +0000

Tapping up my take on the Midland Game fair I'm disturbed by tum rumblings. There's no bread in the flat and I can't be arsed to walk to the shop. There is a rabbit I shot last night - but cooking that will take a couple of hours. Open the cupboards: 'Savoury Rice Cakes', a couple of months old - and ketchup. O.K. Fry the liver & kidneys in butter with a sliced tom, liberally coat rice cakes with ketchup, slap on the fried stuff & eat.

Marvellous. Lick the plate clean.

For pud, coat another rice cake with some home made damson & apple jelly I was given. Pretty damn good.

Back to writing...

The River Cottage Mushroom Handbook

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 09:42:00 +0000

A free gun wasn't the only good thing to come through my front door yesterday - I got my copy of the River Cottage Mushroom Handbook by John Wright in the post as well. It's my first mushy book and I ummed & ahhed long over the choice between this and 'Mushrooms' by Roger Phillips - the classic foragers guide.

Too restless to sit down at home I took it to the yard of the Swan pub in town and - while seeking the remedy for my ills in Old Speckled Hen and Irish Flake - read the first fifty pages or so.

It's funny; I chuckled, I 'laughed out loud', even. John Wright is clearly a walking encyclopedia of all things mycological but he's also possessed of an infectious dry wit. So as well as being useful it's a thoroughly enjoyable read (perhaps a shade more so if you're off your head on weapons-grade tobacco and and strong ale).

Pretty much the first thing he writes in the book, though, is: Do not use just one book as a guide when picking wild mushrooms.

Ah well, O.K then - I needn't have ummed & ahhed - I should have just got them both. I'll remedy that too.

A Meteoric Gift...

noreply@blogger.com (Hubert Hubert) — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 21:13:00 +0000

A bloke came to my door today with a gun. 'This is for you', he said. 'Oh, blimey!' I said, 'thank you very much indeed!'

The bloke - my upstairs neighbour - has just sold his flat and was having a bit of a clear out. 'It's been sitting in the back of my wardrobe for years and years,' he said, 'I thought you might like it?' I do like it,' I said, 'In fact I'm chuffed to bits!'

I spent a good while thanking him - and vowing to help shift his wardrobe & sofa next week - then threw myself into the Net to research this wonderful gift.

Turns out it's a Mark 4 BSA Super Meteor in .22. It was made - so I soon discovered - in Birmingham between 1974 and '78. New, it put out pellets - possibly quite-tricky-to-find 5.6mm pellets - at about 8ftlb. Cracking the barrel revealed that the breech seal had totally disintegrated so I hot-footed it over to T.W Chambers' site and bought a new one for a modest £3.24.

Then I cleaned out the remains of the old seal, fettled a few marks and scratches off the stock and applied a wee bit of gun oil. The mechanism felt smooth and everything seemed to work just fine (though of course I can't fire it till I get the seal in the post). That done, I just marveled at it.

A new gun. Out of nowhere. Sing Hosanna!