Sunday; northern France; Eurostar Premier Business at 200kph. Flat neat farming country, a hot morning, bright sunshine, and a busy railway line. But nothing deters the sporting French gent.
Every couple of kilometres a row of battered cars on the edge of stubble (not a Range Rover Sport amongst them, no style these Frenchies). And nearby a line of men, various in shape, size, age and dress (no plus-fours of course), all holding shotguns at dangerous angles, pushing their way through sugarbeet or maize.
Every couple of kilometres I say, but in some places every half a kilometre. No doubt they were all out over the same land yesterday and last weekend and probably Wednesday afternoon as well, having played hookey from the office or workshop or bakery. How can there be anything left to kill in these flat empty intensively farmed fields?
Except each other of course.
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