We rock up to S&D indoor firing range just outside Lexingtron, Kentucky. It’s last Sunday afternoon. Inside it looks like any retail outlet except here at S&D they sell firearms. They are stored in cases the way jewellery is displayed in a jewellers shop.

Rory, our friend who is originally from England, has lived here for a quarter of a century and sometimes drops by to kill an hour or two by firing pistols. He has ID which gets him, I and another friend, Maeve, into the firing range.

Neither Maeve or I need any ID. Bang, bang, boom. We can hear the muffled sound of guns being shot in the firing alley just behind the counter. We are given our pistols, a .45 and a 9mm, boxes of bullets, ear muffs and protective glasses and we are all set. It’s like a bowling alley or a golf driving range and there are human-shaped target posters at the top of each alley.

It’s quite petrifying. I have never shot a weapon before and to even have an empty pistol in my hand leaves my heart racing and butterflies in my stomach. To think what we could do with these things. An instructor comes over to show me how to load my lethal weapon. One side of me is a big guy with an assault rifle, bullet cartridges zipping past my ear with each shot. On the other, a boy no older than 10 or 11 is firing under the watchful eye of what seemed like his proud grandparents. All around me, an indoor version of a scene from Saving Private Ryan.

Bang, bang, boom! What if one of the many people here decides they want to go on a killing spree? Well, go right ahead because there is literally nothing to stop them unless you are quick and accurate to take them down with your own piece. It is no wonder gun control is a hot subject here.

I begin shooting. The power of the pistol is immense. The sound is deafening. What I am firing would kill an elephant. In a golf driving range, you are done when your bucket of balls is empty. Here, it is when your cache of bullets are spent, the floor littered with empty shells. After half an hour, we are done.

Rory wonders what I think. I am torn. I can get the whole thrill thing of firing the gun and now I can say that I know how to load and fire a pistol. But if I put my prudish hat on, what are guns for? And what was a 10-year-old kid doing there?

As we hand back our weapons, the man who had shown me how to load the gun and fire it tells me how simple it is to buy a gun. Spotting the accent he says: “Ah, you are from Ireland, right?”

“Yes, have you been?”

“Yes sir, last year with my church choir.”

A choirboy showing me how to fire a gun. Only in America.

Don’t become another statistic

Sun shining. School holidays. Silage making. Turning hay. Tractors and mowers. It is a time of the year I used to adore as a youngster. I am sure it is still the same for children living on or visiting farms, although technological advancement has taken some of the fun out of all the neighbours gathering to help stack bales or build silage pits. But the danger remains. I sometimes shiver when I think of how close I came to trouble around those tractors and trailers. For goodness sake, take care and don’t become another farm fatality statistic, young or old, this busy summer.