His thick Groucho eyebrows arched again behind the glasses and the hint of a tongue-in-cheek smile played across his lips. He held the expression for a couple of seconds, then relaxed.

‘How was that?’ he asked, rubbing his cold hands together.

Rose Whitely nodded. ‘Yup, it was good. A bit on the cheesy side maybe.’

‘Bugger. It felt cheesy doing it. I hate these talk-to-camera pieces.’

She disconnected the camera and collapsed the tripod with a practised efficiency. ‘Well, we need a set-up piece, Jules. At the moment we’ve got more than enough footage of you interviewing the yokels-’ She shot a glance towards the park ranger sitting patiently on a log nearby and sipping her coffee from a Thermos. ‘I’m sorry, Grace, I didn’t mean it to sound like that.’

Grace shook her head. ‘No offence taken,’ she replied with a gruff, twenty-a-day voice.

Rose turned back to Julian. ‘Anyway, it looked good. You looked like David Attenborough crouching there amidst the foliage.’

Julian smiled. ‘Did I?’ He liked that.

‘Well, no, not really.’ Rose looked up at the sky. Through the canopy of leaves and branches, the languid white sky was beginning to dim. ‘I think we’re losing the last of our daylight for shooting.’

Julian nodded. ‘Yup, I think we’re done.’

Grace tipped the dregs of her coffee away, screwed the cap on her Thermos and stood up. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘we’ve got an hour of light. Need to find a decent-size clearing to pitch the tents.’

She bent down and scooped up her backpack, slung her rifle over one shoulder and pushed through the undergrowth. ‘Let’s move out.’

Julian watched her for a moment, groaning as he wearily picked up his pack and pulled the straps over his shoulders. Rose brushed past him, carrying about twice the load — camping pack, camera and equipment — and grinned.