Ever since I was a chubby child with bottle-thick specs, I’ve been a bit of a wimp. You know that kid at the back of the class with her head in the book while all the others shout and whoop round the playground. That was me. Things haven’t changed much in recent years. I get drunk and have fun but I’m never the one to start a singalong, dominate the dancefloor or chat up random men. In fact, lately it’s lost me the odd boy when I’ve backed off and left others to the limelight when I should probably fight for some myself.

Finally, I’ve decided I’ve been a wallflower too long and need to learn to be braver. Which is why, when I received an invitation to a press trip on a ranch in Montana, I said yes – despite the fact I’d never been on a horse, shot a gun, or done anything remotely ‘outdoorsy’ since the days I’d tag along with my brother to Scout camp. It was time to step outside my comfort zone.

Our lass in London goes to Montana to discover her inner cowgirl...

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Of course, my luxury cabin at the ranch was a little more lavish than our Scout tent and waking up in my four-poster bed the first morning, I found that the most strenuous activity on the day’s itinerary was a tour of the sprawling ranch. A picnic lunch by the creek followed then it was time to hit the spa for a pummeling from the masseuse. Hardly a challenging introduction to ranch life but, over an after-dinner bourbon in the saloon, the owner Jim reassured me that things would liven up the next day: “And there’s no reason not to have some fun now: Hank, fire up the karaoke machine!” It was clearly time for bed.

After wimping out of the singalong, I wanted to start the next day with a challenge and given that I’ve never touched a gun in my life, clay pigeon shooting sounded just the ticket. Heading out with instructor Max, I pulled up at the range quaking in my cowboy boots. There’s something very daunting about holding a loaded shotgun for the first time. It felt heavy and awkward in my grasp but I aimed, fired and…missed. After four or five fails, I was about to give up when Max suggested holding the gun to my left shoulder rather than my right.

Head wrangler Tom
Convinced I’d miss, I took aim and pulled the trigger. Then something magnificent happened, the clay exploded in the air. “Bullseye!” yelled Max. “Now do it again.” So I did. And again. I had no idea how I was doing it but whichever way the clay shot out – straight up into the sky, in a high arc across the horizon, or along the rough ground like a rabbit – I was hitting them. It was the biggest buzz I’d ever felt. “That was great,” said Max. “You’ve really never shot before?” “Nope, never shot, never been good at any sport, and never had very good eyesight – I don’t know what happened.” “Nothing happened,” laughed Max, “You’ve just got the skills.” Me? Skills? This was a strange and wonderful revelation.

Feeling proud as punch with myself, it was straight onto the next challenge – my first time on a horse. I was feeling brave when I jumped onto my trusty steed, but I soon discovered horses are more temperamental than guns. Mine, Bow, was besotted by head wrangler Tom, which meant wherever he and his horse went, Bow followed – this seemed an advantage when we started out but not great when ten minutes in, a couple of guests decided they weren’t up for climbing the huge hill ahead and wanted to dismount. As Tom turned to lead them back, Bow took off in pursuit, I screamed, grabbed on for dear life and heard second wrangler Chris yell: “Pull up hard on his reigns! NOW!”. Doing as I was told, I managed to stop Bow in his tracks but getting him to turn around and join the rest of our group was a more challenging. Instead, the crazy bronco favoured going round in circles, apparently an amusing sight for the other experienced riders in our group – not so much fun for me.

Somehow making it safely to the top of the peak and back down in one piece, I was relieved to bid Bow goodbye for the night. It was onto the saloon to celebrate and in the spirit of stepping outside my comfort zone, this time when someone thrust the mic at me, I grabbed it and belted out an enthusiastic and totally tuneless rendition of Sweet Home Alabama.
It seems in Montana, I have balls – and when we left our new cowboy friends a few days later, I promised to try and keep them. I might not be able to ride horses or shoot guns in my daily London life but I can certainly stop being such a wuss.

Now I wonder if there are any gun clubs round these parts…