When I was about 8 my Dad caught me arsing about with bullets, putting them in the vice in the shed and lighting them off with a hammer. Once his thermonuclear rage had subsided he realised that hed never stop me messing about with stuff like that if he simply tried to put his foot down, so he taught me to shoot and bough me an air rifle, and by God did he instill safety into me. When I was about 14 I graduated to rimfire .22, and got some good practice in with that.
When I joined the Army I was the only spud on our intake to qualify as marksman at the first try, so was wearing the crossed rifles badge before I'd even finished basic training. Would have loved a chance to get to the sniper school at Deal, but the chance never arose.
Ex Mrs D had an irrational fear of guns, so I kept my airguns but was never allowed a shotgun in the house. The new improved Mrs D is much more chilled, and having worked in Roads Policing was used to being around armed bobbies, so never batted an eyelid when I raised getting a shotgun. I bought the safe, installed it, jumped through the hoops and got my ticket, and she bought me a Beretta Silver Pigeon Sporter for Christmas. Theres a farm about 300 metres from here that does both competitions and casual clay shooting, and another about 300 metres in the opposite direction which does field trials, so in season I'm spoiled for choice.
Next village, about 2 miles away, there's an air gun club, some there most Sundays throwing lead about the landscape. Pretty good, £50 a year and shoot as much as I like on their rifle and pistol ranges. There's also a range in Northampton, and about once a month I meet my fellow rednecks there.