Summertime And the livin' is easy Fish are jumpin' and the cotton's high

Gerswin

Yeah. Life is good for a hunter in summertime. Laid back, switched off. Know what I mean? Months out in the paddock with my friends, plenty of time to establish myself at the top of the pecking order in the geldings' field, and enjoy some really meaningful mutual grooming. The sun ceaselessly beaming down from a cloudless blue sky to warm my back, and my fat belly swaying around like Big Ben's pendulum.

So why is old Spuds all dressed up in his finery today? Best butcher boots, beige jods., collar and tie, smart hacking jacket. And why has he been grooming me for so long? Perhaps I'm going to meet a publisher.

"Actually, Branston, you're going to have your photo taken today. Twice, in fact". Spuds enlightened me. "My friend Eric has arranged for a professional photographer to meet a group of us in the grounds of the National Trust's Dyrham Park, and we are going to have elegant photos taken in this magnificent setting. The stately home will be the backdrop. Now if you'll just stand still, let me see if I can bring some semblance of order to this mane-from-hell of yours."

"Still as offensive then, Spuds."

We set off down the lane to the Park. I'm still in the middle of a strict six-week walking exercise regime, so that I can build up strength in my injured leg. This made us late; Spuds has no idea of timing. When we got into the Park, all the old memories came flooding back. A huge expanse of green grass as far as the eye could see. I just wanted to go. We saw the other horses and riders across the park. This was even more exciting, of course; surely we were going to have a bit of fun. With difficulty Spuds restrained me to walk the half-mile to where they stood. Some of this walk was crab-ways; some a jog on the spot, and sometimes even backwards.

"Go and stand over there", directed the photographer's assistant. "Make him look at us. Will he stand still for a moment?" These arty folk are so fussy.

"We'll walk to the top of this slope", said the photographer. "We can get nice individual pictures of you cantering towards us."

"If you lot are going to canter", said Spuds, feeling just like a nervous beginner, "do you mind if I just walk on alone in front?. Cantering Branston may not be a good idea at the moment."

We walked up, the others cantered in small groups or individually, and the photographer snapped happily away. I stood and fidgeted on my own, kept well away from the others.

"I say", said the photographer's assistant. "You on the dark bay. I think your horse wants a little canter too. We can get a picture if you like."

"I'm well aware that he wants a canter" replied Spuds through gritted teeth. His knuckles were white, and his arms ached from the strain of holding me back. "But he's in the middle of a walking regime. I've told him, but he doesn't believe me. If I let him go, we'll end up in the next county. Your photo may be the last record of my existence on this earth."

"I see. Well, perhaps not then. Maybe another photo of you standing over there."

We walked back to the yard, and I settled down to a more seasonal frame of mind. Spuds washed me down and gave me some hay. "Considering that you've done nothing but walk, Branston, you've got yourself in a right sweaty mess."

Later on that day I had another visitor. This was the animal portrait artist, a diminutive woman who exerts an awesome authority over every living creature within her domain. She had come to take some photos from which she would paint my portrait. Perhaps Spuds will use this on the cover of my book. By now it was late afternoon; the day was hot, and I didn't feel like playing.

"He's not as big as I remember him", said the artist. "And he's totally switched off. Those ears a flopping around like a donkey's".

"It's his El Burro look", said Spuds. "I don't know what to do with him".

"I have a secret weapon for this type of horse" said the artist. "But I better hadn't use it here in the yard. Those two horses on the horse-walker will go crackers".

We walked out of the yard, and off down the drive towards my paddock. The artist carried a ghetto-blaster in her hand. When we came to a suitably deserted spot, she put it down and switched it to play. "Hold tight", she warned Spuds. I continued to take little interest in the proceedings, just looking forward to being turned out again. What happened next is best left to Spuds to tell.

"The artist is also the Hunt Secretary, and she had recorded the sounds of a meet. At the first sound of a hound, it was as if someone had hit Branston's ON switch. He jumped to attention just like a lazy soldier caught napping by the sergeant-major. His body must have grown by a full hand, and he was on his toes. His head rose up about two feet higher in the air, and his ears shot forward like two miniature Eiffel towers on top of his head. His eyes were like saucers, searching the area for hounds. Then there was the sound of the huntsman blowing his horn. Branston's excitement seemed to generate enough electricity in the air to power a small town. 'Come on Spuds, come on. I'm off, with you or without you'. The artist clicked away for a few minutes, then the tape stopped."

Spuds turned me straight out into the paddock after this episode, and I galloped right around the field bucking high in the air; a completely fired-up horse. The artist told Spuds that when she drove past ten minutes later, I was still running around searching for the hounds.