Cupid, draw back your bow

Human history might be a story that started with survival, but over time it became one of progress, advancement and, ultimately, domination.

It reads like a fable written to show us how brains can beat brawn, and to outline the limitations of physical strength.

In a world as oppressive and inhospitable as that inhabited by our ancestors, to survive, compete and prosper, they had to use their wits, and call upon their creativity.

They sharpened stone. They cut wood. Then, after staring at the two and scratching their heads for a while, they crafted the bow and arrow.

A symbol of how man’s instinct fuels his invention, it was by the bow that our predecessors put food on the fire.

These days, though, as you have likely noticed, a man’s prowess with a bow does not mean as much as it once did.

Agriculture made archery redundant as a means of acquiring one’s dinner. And it was not long after that the bullet proved its supremacy on the battlefield.

However, despite its loss of real-world utility, the bow and arrow has not gone away.

Today, in a world saturated with supermarkets, and where wars are won by bullets and bombs, there are still those who practice the ancient art of archery.

Recently, to meet a few of these bow-wielding neo-warriors, I took a spin up to Drumquin.

In a souped-up chicken-coop, nestled away in the wooded hills, I was bestowed with a beginner bow, handed a set of arrows, and introduced to the world of modern archery.

“If you get a bit of a funny smell in here, that is because the chickens aren’t that long out of it,” joked Simon McKelvey, a man with as many archery trophies in his cabinet as Kevin Costner had arrows in his quiver.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it pretty quickly,” he said, opening the door of the converted coop.

Stepping inside, I felt like I had just came out the back of CS Lewis’ wardrobe.

Just as one should never judge a book by its cover, neither should one think they know a shed by its shell.

“Welcome to Drumquin Archery Club,” said Simon, with the thinly concealed pride of a friend introducing you to his new, unexpectedly beautiful girlfriend.

Inside the long, low shed, red lights hung from the roof, a bicycle rested against the wall, and a hodgepodge of unrelated sofas, all of different frames and distinct upholsteries, sat in the corner.

“I see you’ve found the social area,” said a friendly voice.

A grey-haired, shaggy-bearded man had just landed through the door, a woman by his side.

Looking down the range, hands on his narrow hips, your man adjusted his glasses and showed his white teeth.

“Right,” said Dessie Irwin, the founder of the Drumquin Archery Club, “so you’re looking to learn a bit about archery?”

“That bicycle in the corner is for the longshot,” said Dessie, pointing down the range to a large dartboard-like target 55 yards away.

“We installed it for the convenience of those who can’t be bothered walking down to retrieve their arrows,” he laughed. “It has become a permanent fixture of the place.”

Two dogs milled around our feet, taking occasional breaks from sniffing each other’s butts to try and get a sniff at ours.

Indeed, everyone, canines included, is welcome at Drumquin Archery Club. The membership knows no boundaries, as Dessie explained.

“We have all sorts come, from 12 to 70, from Killyclogher to Castlederg, and from Strabane to Donegal.

“They come from all walks of life, and if you have a question to ask, by god, you’ll get it answered in here,” said Dessie.

“The craic is mighty!”

But I was not there for mighty craic.

No, I was there to see if I had what it takes to become an archer.

Reorienting Dessie towards the task at hand, he slapped his knees, took me to the back wall, and showed me an emporium of what seemed like a hundred bows.

After giving me a crash course on the different models, styles and specifications, Dessie handed me back over to Simon – an archer of international acclaim.

“So this one I am using is called a compound bow,” said Simon, lifting an elaborate contraption that only scarcely resembled what you might imagine a bow to look like.

Made of matt black metal, fitted with telescopic sights, and constructed of many intricate looking wheels, cogs and pulleys, this thing appeared designed to take down aircrafts.

Apparently, according to Dessie and Simon, misfiring a compound bow causes it to ‘go supersonic’.

If this happens, I was told, you may as well sweep up what is left of your six grand bow and sell it for scrap.

To demonstrate its power, Simon shot a few arrows at the 55-yard target.

The distance is too great for the naked aye to appreciate, so I watched on a small CCTV camera as Simon’s arrows alighted within inches of the bullseye.

“Jesus Christ,” I said, astonished at his accuracy over such a distance.

Simon, letting his bow fall serenely by his side, said, “We will take you over to the 20-yard target.”

“Right,” said Simon, “Here is your bow.”

Trying my best to follow his instructions, I stood with my feet either side of the shooting line, turned 90 degrees to face the target, secured my arrow, raised my bow, drew back the string, and let an arrow fly.

“Give it another go,” said Simon, as the arrow sailed over the target, hit the curtain behind, and clattered to the floor.

Four shots later, and as many fallen arrows, Simon suggested we move down to the ten-yard target.

Gutted that I was not the natural I had hoped I would be, I took aim at the ten-yarder.

This time, a split-second after releasing the string, I heard the dead thump of an arrow penetrating wood.

“You didn’t hit the target, but at least you got the board,” said Dessie, encouragingly.

About ten arrows after that, with my index and middle finger starting to sting, I managed to place an arrow within one of the target’s outermost concentric circles.

“That’s better,” the boys cheered, restrainedly.

Letting about another dozen fly, I started to correct for my natural bias to shoot about two foot high, and one foot to the left of where I aimed.

The last arrow I released, I am proud to say, found flush contact with the bullseye.

With my confidence unduly up, we concluded my crash course among the trees. Here, Simon explained, is where an archer is tested to their limits.

“In the world of archery, they say outdoor shooting is the thinking man’s discipline,” said Simon.

“You have to factor in the conditions, think of angles and trajectories, and account for all the different variables that could influence your shot.

“You cannot just shoot the next arrow the way you shot the last,” he said, with the relish of somebody imparting the wisdom of their passion.

Having proven myself on the indoor range to be in such desperate need of practise, the thought of letting an arrow fly outside seemed like it would be bordering on disrespectful – not to mention, it would have almost certainly been the last time anybody saw that arrow.

With this in mind, I told Simon I might be back, and we headed back towards the club.

If anybody has the faintest notion of giving archery a go, I don’t think you will find a better place than Drumquin to sail your maiden arrow.

To get in contact with Simon and Dessie, just search ‘Drumquin Archery Club’ on Facebook. And who knows, perhaps you will discover some untapped potential within yourself, and join the likes of Simon, or Junior World Indoor Champion McKenna Chadwick, as one of Tyrone’s top archers.