Armistice Day - and death in the hills

I live near an estate that has a Pheasant Shoot every year that runs for about 2 to 3 months.

George the dog goes absolutely mental bonkers - not with fear, but with excitement. But if he's inside when the guns start to go off, he destroys stuff. So we take him for a walk or something to get away from it all.

Unfortunately, my walk took us right into the line of fire (not literally) of today's shoot. We walked right past it as it went on up the side of the hill - I could see the beaters working their way through the bracken, and the sound of 12 bores echoed through the valley. You're looking at their fleet of 4x4s which brought them to the start of the shoot.

As usual, George went loopy. I just plodded on, keeping him going towards home and peace and quiet.

I found the whole thing rather bizarre. It felt very strange to think of these chaps blasting away with their guns at precisely 11 am when most of the rest of the country was observing the two minute silence to mark the end of the Great War.

There is something so deeply ironic and twisted and oxymoronic about that, that I almost can't quite express it.