It was a day when the hail blew across Hampshire so horizontally that it seemed unlikely ever actually to touch the ground. You could see the storms coming, one after the other, like waves of bombers. When they hit you, you built a sort of igloo round yourself, both mentally and physically, and with whatever came to hand: with pigeon nets, pigeon sacks and gun cases, not to mention your own natural fortitude and resilience. Having done so, you trusted that none of the hailstones was big enough, or travelling fast enough, to penetrate your waterproof smock. It was that kind of a day.
Despite these adverse conditions, the Expert on pigeon shooting had been mildly optimistic. After all, he had shot 300 on the same field of clover only…