I spent a portion of a winter on a remote Greek Island. A stock pot sat on a stove in the kitchen and whatever food became available was added to this pot. First, in November, it rained and snails emerged from every nook and cranny. The women of the village set up collecting them in huge numbers and plastic bags sat in the corner of every kitchen, wet and squeaking as the shells moved against each other, breathing with a sort of squelchy, slow movement. From time to time a handful would be added to the pot.
We went fishing and brought back an octopus which was also added. And one day Stratos and I walked into the mountains taking a gun. With us came a friend with a club, a long stick with a swollen end. After several hours tramping down old river beds, stumbling across sheep lurking behind the oleanders and clambering up grassy hill sides, we had shot a couple of rabbits. And then another rabbit broke from the scrub and pelted across the slope, swerving and stalling. Our friend swung his club round his head and released it. Over a great distance the club twirled on its broken trajectory, seeming to slow and accelerate until it met its target neatly on the head; dreadful, deadly and fitting - a man feeding his family by using his skill, taking the one animal he needed and no more.