Here we stand, braced against chill breezes, wrapped in layers to ward off the creeping cold; focused on a small yellow circle.
Bows in hand we begin the now familiar ritual - inhale, draw, focus, breathe, release; a rhythm born of muscle memory, forming the focus of a morning meditation.
There is no need for words; the silence broken only by the slight vibration of a loosened bowstring, and solid thud of arrows meeting their mark.
Looking down the line, we wait for the final release before a short stroll to the boss, where the tug and click as arrows are gathered and requivered is masked by a pair of rowdy magpies laughing from their fence post perches.
This is the field, and this our moment of peace in a hectic world.
