Spuds went on a hunting holiday to Ireland last year. The plan was to spend a couple of days hunting, a couple of days pike fishing with his son, and two days touring en route from and to the ferry. The Irish Tourist Board produce a brochure called "Equestrian Ireland" listing all the horsey holidays and establishments, and after soliciting a handful of brochures and quotations, the Dunraven Arms at Adare was chosen. In fact it largely chose itself because it was the only place which seemed to want business in November; all of the others took ages to reply. A fax was duly sent off confirming a booking for the first week of the season; planning started and anticipation grew.

Fate took a hand when Spuds' son got a new job, and found that he just couldn't make that week. Spuds rang the hotel to say that he couldn't come, and could the booking be changed. "It's as well you can't come, sir, because we have no record of your booking. We're actually full up that week. You could come the following week though. The person who you dealt with is no longer with us".

Spuds had decided to go by car, largely because of the vast quantity of fishing gear plus a wardrobe of riding clothes, not all of which was appropriate. The short sea crossing to Ireland is only about 4 hours, but you seem to have to be committed to being present on a dockside in remotest West Wales or East Eire in the smallest of the small hours. The longest crossing (10 hours) from Swansea to Cork offered the most sensible crossing times and facilities. There was also the bonus of easy access from the motorway in Wales, and a straight drive to Adare (just south of Limerick).

The Dunraven Arms is an impressive establishment; a mixture of old and new with a "lived-in" feeling that is most welcome. The place is run by the brothers Bryan and Louis Murphy, who are both active fox-hunters and equestrian sportsmen. The hotel makes all of the arrangements for your hunting holiday; all you have to do is turn up. It's a *** establishment, with some rooms in the old part and some in a discrete modern extension. For hunting holidays the rate (1994) was 55 punts per day, including full breakfast, excellent evening meal and a packed lunch. Your riding gear can be valeted overnight for a few punts extra. You feel immediately at home when you walk into the reception, because behind the staff is a large clothes rail full of cleaned hunting coats; a long rack contains a row of shining newly-boned boots, and the most obvious item of furniture is a huge boot-jack. At this time of the year the hotel is full of guests, all with one aim in mind: hunting the fox. Hunting is available seven days a week, and the hotel fixes its guests up with any one of up to 10 packs including the famous Tipperary and Scarteen.

Spuds soon discovered that he was a small part of a truly international collection of people with the common interest of riding and hunting. There were Irish, English, German, Dutch, American and even an Italian. And the amazing thing is that with the common interest, all normal barriers cease to exist. Spuds tells me that in a hotel in England you can sit in splendid isolation all week, never speaking to a soul. At the Dunraven the restaurant and bar are full of complete strangers eating, drinking, laughing together and swapping stories of the day's exploits. The Murphy brothers and various locals come in from time to time to keep the pot nicely stirred, and ensure that everyone is sampling enough of the local throat lotion.

Hunting plays quite a large part in the local rural economy, and is one of the few things in Ireland not to attract an EEC subsidy. Cap fees seem to vary between 55 and 75 punts (exchange rate is about parity), and hirelings are in the same range. The hunt is also very much a part of the life of the residents of rural Ireland, and it seems that nearly everybody is out either taking part or spectating. The field at the end of the day remains a very high percentage of those who started the day. There is much less etiquette and formality involved than is normal in England; people just turn up and hunt on whatever horse they have to hand, and dress follows convention only loosely. At one extreme you have horses and riders as fine and finely turned out as any you would find in England. At the other extreme you have teenagers in jeans and jumpers riding unclipped scruffy-looking ponies which they outgrew years ago. Spuds even saw one youth on such an animal wearing a baseball cap worn idiot-fashion whilst galloping madly across heart-in-mouth ditch and bank country. He saw another chap about 40 years old riding a horse way too small for him; he wore wellington boots and jeans, his hacking jacket was tatty and he carried a broken-off sapling in lieu of a whip. It turned out that this man was a craftsman jeweller who owned 8 horses and lived in a big house.

Spuds' first day hunting was with the County Clare. This is a true local farmer's hunt with a reputation for friendliness and outstanding apres-hunt sociability. Social barriers being broken down, Spuds made the 25 mile journey with a couple of Germans; one a dentist and one a plumber. They were a part of a group of 12 Germans who had come over for 6 consecutive days hunting. Reiner, the plumber, spoke excellent English and wasted no time in telling Spuds all about his American wife, his big Mercedes and large house with stabling for his three thoroughbred horses. He was quite obsessed with his perception of the image of the English country gent; he wore brown riding boots, mustard-colour jodhpurs and waistcoat, the most beautiful waterproof Loden coat, and a flat cap. "I even have a Jack Russell at home", he said. "Even my dog barks mit ein Englisch akzent". The meet was at a pub which of course was open. It was here that Spuds first discovered the pleasure of a hot whiskey or two before a day's riding (Irish Whiskey, hot water, slice of lemon). They then went out to meet their horses. On their way, they noticed a large and sinister black Mercedes limousine, propped up against which were a couple of large dark-suited men with bulges under their armpits and wearing dark glasses (in an Irish November!).

An incredibly disreputable-looking horse-box was parked near the pub. Spuds had been told the magic word; "Geohegan?" he said. The man replied in an unintelligible accent. Spuds proffered him a bundle of 70 punts for the hireling. "It's 75" said the man, his accent now intelligible. "We were told 70" said Spuds. "Inflation" replied Geohegan. Around the back of the box, Geohegan's wife was opening up the ramp. As each horse came down, Geohegan assessed the crowd of waiting visitors and offered a horse he considered suitable. That horse-box was like a magician's hat; horses just kept on coming out of it. There were 8 visitors, plus a horse for Geohegan himself. The box was the typical sort of thing that you see at any horse event in England; it was built on an old Bedford chassis and with room for perhaps 5 at most in our view. The horses were unclipped, and didn't look as if they had been groomed since being turned out the previous spring. The tack was simply a disgrace, grubby and unmatched. The head-collars were made out of a length of binder-twine. To be fair though, the horses knew their job; they went well enough, knew their country, and jumped everything albeit cautiously. Another livery-owner said to Spuds; "You can have finely turned-out horses for the price if you want, but the buggers won't jump or go all day for you. We sell them to the English for about 4 grand each" (Irish eyes twinkling).

The cap fee paid (another sad victim of inflation) and the hunt was under way. Hounds drew a steep bank of gorse-covered hillside, and quickly found. Away they went, along a ridge and down a precipitous hillside. Spuds was third in line behind a local thruster at the bottom of the hill, where the ground levelled out into a green valley about 400 yards wide. The thruster spurred his horse on, then suddenly GLOOP. The horse was up to its neck in a peat-bog. The rider went over his horse's shoulder, and splashed and floundered his way to firm ground, followed by the horse. The rider stood there, completely sodden; stinking black mud covering him from head to toe. Then with a laugh he remounted, and continued the chase. The other riders decided on the path of discretion, which in this case took them about 2 miles out of their way in order to avoid the same fate. By the time the entire field was re-united the fox had long since been despatched.

The hunt moved on into fresh country, which had apparently not been hunted for some years. As the ground was in large part pure rock, this is hardly surprising. A number of blanks were drawn before a long and exhilarating chase across some beautiful, if waterlogged, turf. The jumps were exclusively stone walls in this country. Not the effete little things we have in the Cotswolds, but big solid unforgiving things made with sharp boulders. Eventually the light faded, and the field made their way back to the pub to enjoy some refreshment and swap stories.

The practice with the County Clare is that for each meet a different member of the committee is made responsible for organising the food and entertainment. Thus all the participants including the visitors were treated to a simple yet delicious snack with a bowl of soup and some spare ribs. People sang beautiful songs unaccompanied ("The Night my Old Horse Died" brought tears to Spud's eyes); told stories or jokes, and enjoyed the occasion. There were a couple of spectacular episodes involving the visitors. One was an American; he was in fact the occupant of the sinister black Mercedes. He appeared in the pub wearing a long black raincoat; it opened to reveal the fact that his jodhpurs were split from front to back, and his jacket was shredded. He had fallen off no less than four times jumping over the walls. After each jump he remounted and continued with increased zest; as he told the story his voice got louder and louder. He had never had such a good time in his entire life. Spuds thought it was a shame that the man's entire hunting wardrobe was ruined, but his sympathy diminished the next day when he learned that the man had hired a helicopter to transport himself and his wife on a visit to the Waterford Crystal factory.

Another faller was an Englishman called Neil, also from the Dunraven. His horse had jumped a wall into a very boggy patch, and Neil had gone over its head. Being a good horseman, he had kept hold of the reins. The horse moved forward dragging Neil along in the bog. Because he was facing backwards, his jodhpurs had started to fill up with mud from the top down, acting like a scoop on a digger. The further on he was dragged, the more they filled up and the deeper in he went. Eventually he released the horse, and was able to stand and empty out the black and stinking load.

Spuds travelled back with Neil and his party; they were all from the Croome and West Warwicks hunt. They were a friendly bunch of Midlanders, and invited Spuds up for a day hunting when he returned (another story). Spuds also met a woman who was to change his life. No; it's not what you think. Margaret simply showed him how to tie a hunting stock properly. Previously this had taken anything up to half an hour in front of a mirror, reading instructions, twisting, folding, pulling, until eventually the wretched thing was just a grubby mess. "Look", she said. "Turn it upside down and you see it's just a reef-knot that's been fiddled about a bit. Any Boy-Scout can recognise that. Simple now isn't it?"

The next day's hunting was with the Golden Vale. This was a Sunday hunt with a late start to allow everyone time to return from church. It was a long drive from the Dunraven, and Spuds begged a lift with a friendly American couple from Virginia. Jim and Cricket (!) had just got married, and came to Ireland on a fox-hunting honeymoon. They were both accomplished riders, and hunted regularly back home. They had hired a chauffeur-driven Mercedes for the whole week of their stay, so the journey was adequately comfortable. The Dunraven had even arranged a stop at a hotel near the meet, for pre-hunt "washroom facilities". The meet itself was at a remote farmhouse; it was well-attended and as friendly as ever. Spuds' hireling was better turned-out than the previous one, but still no paragon. "What's his name" asked Spuds. "FB" was the reply. At the end of the day Spuds asked what FB stood for. "Fleabag" he was told.

The hunt set off; a fox was soon found and persuaded to run in the right direction. All of the locals must have known the plan, because they were out in force. There were few walls in this country other than at the roadsides; it was ditch and bank country today. The previous few weeks had seen the highest October rainfall in the century, so the countryside was well sodden and the ditches were full. At the first ditch a local youth came off in the water, and Spuds saw his riding hat floating off downstream like a cork. There were quite a few falls at this point; you had to jump the ditch then scramble up a steep and muddy bank on the other side.

At the next water obstacle, Cricket became an early casualty. It was a wooden stage about two feet above a fast-moving stream, itself about two feet deep. She had an enthusiastic horse who plunged into the water at much too steep an angle. She went over his head and dived straight to the bottom of the stream. The horse then stood on her at the bottom of the stream as it climbed out. She was therefore completely sodden from head to toe, and also concerned that the horse may have aggravated an old back injury. She therefore decided to call it a day, still within sight of the meet. She rode off to find the chauffeur to drive her the 60 miles back home. Jim escorted her to the car, and returned to the fray later.

The day was fast and furious with many good points and some interesting obstacles to cross. Spuds particularly remembers having to jump over a wide deep ditch and up to the top of a 6-foot bank, then walk for 20 yards along the narrow path at the top of the bank before slithering down the other side and springing off over the equally wide deep ditch on that side. Fortunately FB knew his job. Another incident took place at a bank which was completely overgrown by shrubs about 20 foot high. The pony of a young lad landed on top of the bank rather than clearing it; it then did a sharp right turn, dismounting its rider, and proceeded to walk back and to along the top, nibbling at the shoots of the dense undergrowth. It took about 10 minutes before the pony was retrieved and the rest of the field could continue. The other recollection is of displaying abysmal horsemanship in front of a video camera. They had to ride down a lane and turn sharp in the lane, jump a wall with a 4-foot drop on the other side and carry on over a field. Spuds ended up cantering across half of that field hanging around the horse's neck, determined not to come off. An upright position regained, at was a further two fields before his stirrups were found.

Towards the end of the day the hunt had lost their fox, and was making the final draw at a nearby farm. "Look what I've got here" said the farmer to the huntsman. He pulled a milk-churn from a wheelbarrow and opened the lid. Inside was a fox. "I caught him hiding in here. He's been worrying my chickens".

"We can't chase him", said the huntsman. "It's against all of the rules to pursue a bagged fox. I'd be struck off for this".

"Suit yourself" said the farmer. "I thought you'd be grateful. I'm going to let him go anyway". He up-ended the churn and the fox ran off, largely ignored by the nearby hounds. Eventually a few of them gave cry, and a half-hearted chase ensued until the huntsman called them off. To nobody's great sorrow, the fox soon made good his escape.

The day ended, as expected, at a pub. Much beer was drunk, and food was provided by the Hunt Supporters club (what a good idea!). The chauffeur made another 120-mile round-trip to collect Spuds and Jim, and Jim was relieved to discover that Cricket was well apart from a hoof-print in her back.

Anyone who has the opportunity to go hunting in Ireland should take it. The people are so friendly, and the atmosphere is terrific. Don't be tempted to take your own horse though.