The art of the matter
It was one of those shoot days when all the elements were against us. Every drive seemed to face the roaring wind and the freezing rain that burrowed its way through our layers to soak our core, forcing even the bravest Guns to hide beneath the peaks of their flat caps.
Lunch could not come soon enough, as not only did it bring a change of clothes, but a hot drink and shelter within the lunch hut nestled at the top of the wood. Eyes adjusted from the December light into the dim but warming gas-lit interior, revealing a rickety old oak refectory table and relics from the shoot’s past.
Slumping into a creaky Victorian chair, I broke into my lunch box with my Clumber’s jowls warming my knee. Relaxing, I began to walk my eyes around the walls of our sanctuary. It
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