The Purdey Sidelock: A Study in Form and Function

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The world of bespoke gunmaking is a small and storied one, its geography centred almost entirely on the London postcodes of Mayfair and St James's. Among the handful of names that define the craft—Holland & Holland, Boss & Co., Westley Richards—it is James Purdey & Sons that perhaps resonates most deeply in the sporting consciousness. To own a Purdey is not merely to possess a fine tool for the field; it is to become a custodian of a particular English tradition, one where function, form, and heritage are fused in walnut and steel.

A fortnight ago, under the soft, diffused light of a late September morning, I found myself at the Royal Berkshire Shooting School. The purpose of the visit was to pattern a newly delivered 20-bore sidelock, a process that is both a technical necessity and a quiet ceremony. The gun, commissioned two years prior, was finally ready. Taking the brass-cornered leather case from the boot and laying it on the baize-covered table in the gunroom felt like a reunion with an old friend I had not yet met. The scent of oiled walnut and the faint, metallic tang of the action is a perfume known to any shooting man, but with a new Purdey, it carries a particular potency.

The heart of any great London gun is its action. The Beesley self-opening system, patented in 1880 and used by Purdey ever since, is a marvel of mechanical ingenuity. As the barrels are dropped, the mainsprings are compressed, meaning the gun is effectively open and ready to be loaded with minimal effort. It is a fluid, almost organic movement. Running a hand over the receiver, the fine rose and scroll engraving, executed by one of the firm’s master craftsmen, was so shallow as to be almost imperceptible to the touch, yet it gave the metal a visual depth and texture. This is not decoration for its own sake; it is the signature of a house that has spent two centuries refining its aesthetic.

Stepping onto the stands, the gun came to the shoulder with a balance that is the hallmark of a bespoke piece. The stock, carved from a blank of Turkish walnut selected long ago, was shaped to my own measurements, the grain flowing perfectly through the grip. The first few shots at the pattern plate are always a moment of truth. The recoil was crisp and manageable, the ejection of the spent cartridges clean and precise. The gun moved with a liveliness that belied its substance, a testament to the way Purdey distributes weight between the hands. It felt less like a machine and more like an extension of intent.

We moved on to the high tower, which simulates the flight of a driven pheasant. Here, the gun’s true character emerged. The 30-inch barrels, choked a customary quarter and a half, swung smoothly, and the satisfying report echoed across the Pangbourne valley. There is a particular confidence that comes from using a tool so perfectly suited to its task. Each element, from the crispness of the trigger pulls to the subtle cast of the stock, works in concert. It is a reminder that while technology has advanced in countless ways, the fundamental principles of shotgun design were perfected by these London makers generations ago.

Leaving the grounds as the afternoon light began to fade, the gun, now cleaned and resting in its case, felt different. It was no longer just a new object, but the beginning of a story. A Purdey is built to last for generations, to be passed from father to son, its history recorded not only in the company’s ledgers but in the small marks and memories accumulated over seasons in the field. It is a profound connection to the past, and a beautiful instrument for the present.
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