Several years ago, I was on a trip through France and stayed a night in a hotel in the Sologne region, several hours south of Paris. It was one of those relatively rundown and unloved sort of places with interiors dating back several decades, owned and managed by a charming old lady and her not-quite-so charming husband.
I was sitting at the bar with a gin, when two Germans came in dressed head to toe in that paradoxical attire of luminous orange camouflage pattern. The indecision over which gin they wanted with their tonic gave me a small window of opportunity to break the ice, as I recommended to them the one I had on the bar in front of me.
It didn’t take much to get them on to the subject of hunting and, with one gin leading to the next, we were soon swapping
