TUCKED away in the car park of a drinks warehouse, hundreds of men in green jackets and feathered caps, plus a handful of women, are swapping gossip and glugging beer. Suddenly comes the call: “Schützenbrüder antreten!” (marksmen line up), and the men fall into columns as a brass band strikes up. They begin a good-natured, not especially disciplined parade up the streets of Arnsberg, a small town in Germany’s Sauerland region, hollering “Horrido!”, an old hunting cry, to well-wishers. Soon they arrive at a large tent where, after a Catholic mass, the festivities begin: speeches, dancing and a lot of beer. Later that evening—having been forced to learn, somewhat against his will, a dance called the “discofox”—your correspondent takes his leave as a conga line begins.