I'd been looking forward to this hunting trip. A chance to follow in my friend's footsteps, exploring those same fields I'd seen so often in his brilliant images—like walking into a painting. But with our Brussels workshop set for the morning, I have to admit defeat: my cold isn't getting better and I'll be needing my voice, my brain and my strength. So today, I'm home bound.
Bert returns late in the evening and shows me the spoils: one pigeon and a couple of ducks.
"I have to butcher the meat now" he says. "I don't much like this step but I need to do it. I need to see the entire process through to the end, on my own. It shows respect."
There's no glee, no chest thumping.