“It's a lovely day!” said Val. “There's a buffet lunch, and sherry after the first distance, and we're all longbow shooters so nobody cares very much, and we just sit around in the sun and have a good time. The Wirral ground has it's own microclimate, it's always sunny. And the Wand is good fun.” That's me sold then.

First problem is sight marks. To get 50 yards at home I have to shoot uphill. Never mind, the first outdoor day of the season is on the Friday. So I turn up early and set up a couple of bosses in the rain. “You're optimistic.” they say. Never mind, while eight members sort out three people's work, I start shooting. Thump, thump, thump into the boss. I hope they can hear. What weight points shall I use? It doesn't seem to make much difference. OK, the heavy ones, it might be windy. Shelter under the pavilion balcony while I change points; the shelter isn't very effective. Shoot another dozen – six misses, rest in bottom of boss. My bow doesn't like the rain.

Limp home in confusion. Carefully dry out bow and apply two more coats of varnish. Has it been damaged irreparably?

Meet Val on Sunday morning – steady drizzle. Pick up Jim and head for Lloegr. Rain continues. “It's brighter over there.” says Jim.

After only one wrong turn, we arrive. Still drizzling. Val puts up her tent. Not as big as I'd hoped, or as waterproof. Retreat to clubhouse. Long wait, then sherry. Not as much as I'd hoped, but I have more in the tent. Plastic glass splits.

Val insists she must get six scoring shots on a distance before we're allowed to change. I don't see why I should miss at all. Val is closer to reality. I get six on the first end, and then it all falls apart. There is something about persistent rain that makes my shoulders hunch – not good. The bow seems OK, but the arrows look like wet hens.

After the first distance the judge asks if we want to continue. Of course we do. But some don't. I end up with two on my boss, one trying to keep the scoresheets dry, and me with shoulders and knees against the boss desperately dragging arrows out. How can anything that flies so slowly stick so hard?

Val is wearing four layers of tubex for her tennis elbow; her fingers get blue and cold, but it seems to be only the dye from her gloves.

After 5 dozen we break for lunch. Steak pies. Cold. Potato salad. Cold. Then we have to go out again. Ducks are landing on the field. They look happy.

It's all about survival now. Val has pitched her tent in what turns out to be a river. She sits with her feet in the stream, muddy water soaking up her trousers, and makes me wish I were still a smoker.

At last it's over. Val gets six on an end. I beat Val, but since she hasn't touched a longbow since last year, this isn't much of a victory.

The Wand is canceled.

Roll on next year.