First ve haf ze bad news...
Saturday morning dawns with the sun shining out of a clear blue sky. As I drive up to the stables, the hedges stand out darkly against pastel-green frost-covered fields. It is a beautiful day to go hunting. I am running a bit late today, so as soon as I stop the car, I jump into my horsebox to start the engine, giving it time to warm up before it tackles the steep hill out of the yard. The sound of the engine brings Mark, the man who runs the yard, running out to the car-park. From a distance, I see him drawing a finger across his throat - the sign for 'cut it'. He looks grim. "B*gger it", I think. "Something's up with Branston. He must have gone lame, or worse".

Mark pointed underneath my lorry. "I only noticed that ten minutes ago", he said. "Some b*st*rd has been in the night and stolen the gearbox from your lorry." And there was the propshaft lying on the ground, surrounded by a few nuts and bolts, and a big gap where the box should have been. Now this yard is about a quarter of a mile from the road; it can't be seen and there are no signs. The thieves must have crept in in the small hours to do the deed; apparently for someone who knows what they're doing it is a 20 minute job to drop out a gearbox. The main problem is the weight - a lorry gearbox is a substantial piece of engineering. To shift it, they borrowed a wheelbarrow from the stables; put the box in it, and took it down the drive. They had to physically manhandle the whole lot over two chained and padlocked five-bar gates in order to get to the road and away. Amazing innit? I hope the insurance company coughs up - they usually find some way to wriggle out of paying.

And zen ve hav ze good news....
There was no point sitting there complaining about things; we informed the Police (for all that it's worth), and the insurance company wouldn't be working on Saturdays. Mark very kindly lent me his Land-Rover, and another friend lent me his trailer, and I arrived at the meet just as they were moving off. I caught up with the field at the first draw, muttering profuse apologies and an explanation to a sceptical Master. But what a day thereafter. The sun continued to shine till both horses and riders were sweating profusely; we galloped over old grass, post and rail fenges, 5-bar gates, hedges, ditches - the lot. At one draw we flushed out no fewer than four foxes; we chased one till it escaped into an industrial estate, then we went back for another crack at his friends. We covered miles, although later on a lot was around the edges of planted crops. The sun was going down as we returned to the trailer at the end of an eventful day.