I am very happy!

[Seaspriter]

Enfielditis! Yes!! That's what I have! ... the main thing for me is the story that carry these objects and other military objects, such as a helmet, a radio or a uniform.

Luis, as you, along with many of us, contract Enfielditis, here’s what you will experience for symptoms:

• You buy your first Enfield, fall in love with it and its “story.” Your imagination fills in the gaps of where it was built, how it got to the battlefield, the soldier who caressed it in his arms, the beads of sweat that fell upon it before the battle, the hundreds of rounds that were pumped through her loins in battle, the abuse she took and held up to the enemy’s counter-charge, the repairs a caring but harried Royal Armourer made behind the lines, the proud soldier who carried her victoriously marching through a French or Italian village, and then the lowly way she was packed in a womb of cosmoline in a harsh warehouse awaiting a new life in the hands of a collector like you.

• Then you fix and restore her: repairing and polishing and oiling and buffing and tuning. Next you will buy accoutrements – historic artifacts to augment her – slings, pouches, helmets, and books.

• As Enfielditis progresses, you will want another version, perhaps a beautiful, virtually untouched and pristine one, like a beautiful “Blonde” No.4 MkII from the 1950s that has hardly been touched – the Marilyn Monroe or Dianna Dors of Enfields. These are the idealized beauties of the contest, like a Grecian Goddess, to be put on a pedestal and adored from afar -- the mythical Virgin Princess encased by the protective shield of her unchallengeable beauty -- forever chaste, preserved, and enslaved by purity; so eminently graceful but sadly never to be wrapped in the robes of glory. Forlorn in perpetuity, the Blonde Enfields will never experience the agony and ecstasy of war; nor the exhilaration of a the blast of powder from within her loins; nor the pulsing rising beat of being loaded then expelling her spent shells; nor the feeling of joy brought by the soldier's battlefield embrace with an eagle's aim squeezing her trigger ever so gently yet so firmly; nor the sense of safety and security her sisters brought to the lonely and shaking soldiers who needed her so dearly to protect their lives, their honour, and our freedom; nor the warm protective loving touch of a restoration gunsmith or Royal Armourer caressing her skin back to wholesomeness.

• Then, as Enfielditis continues to gain progressive hold of your senses, perhaps you will gravitate to the other end of the spectrum, a gal that is worn, battered, and banged up, but she possesses a depth of the rich character reflective of her colourful past. This gal may have fought in both WWI and WWII, a No.1 MkIII. You will cherish her too.

• But as Enfielditis advances to it's almost diabolical stages, it may seem like unrequited love as you will yearn for a level of satisfaction that can never be realized unless you allow your imagination to fill in the many missing pieces in each gun’s history – a full, complete, and total historic record of each and every one of your Enfields including: who in the supply chain made the parts? who on the assembly line actually assembled it (many who made her were women)? who shipped it from the manufacturing plant to the chain of logistics that got it to the battlefield? how many German submarines tried to sink her on a Liberty ship if she was made in Canada or America? which soldier used it in what battles and the fear and courage that gave aim to the gun? and how did it get all its bumps and bruises and even brokenness? and then the whole chain of inspectors, armourers, importers, and former owners, before me -- the story of turbulence, courage, despair, heroism, trading, and restoration..... That's the "provenance" that you will longingly seek -- a quest for the grail that is seemingly unattainable -- missing and long forgotten. Only your imagination can fully complete the provenance's missing story.

For each gun I restore I write a history of the gun as best as I can fathom from its multitude of markings, repairs, and replacement parts. I then roll up the history tightly like a scroll, and put it in the butt stock hole so that another generation may continue the quest for the grail.

If only these rifles could speak -- like Gordon Lightfoot wrote: "If I could read your mind love, what a tale your thoughts could tell......." but alas I dream...... the quest, the quest .... like Don Quixote's impossible dream.