It’s a short walk to the shooting line, but it’s another 140 yards to the bright pink flag you have to hit. Positioned in a ditch almost out of sight, it waves to you like a child playing hide-and-seek.
The low, winter sun breaks through, warming the air, and smiling faces warm your nerves. The whistle blows, and the dance begins.
Lifting their wooden partners, the first set shoot. Huge, leafless oaks line the field, like spectators. Some catch arrows.
Everyone promenades down the emerald ballroom. Ladies circle at 140 yards. Gentlemen march to 180. The winners take their bow.