October 28th. Spuds and me have been looking forward to this all through those long hot endless days of summer. And eventually the day dawns, yet another blue sky and temperature well up into the 60s. But this is Autumn now; there's been a touch of frost overnight and the dew is heavy on the ground. The Blankshire meet on the Common in the centre of a small Wiltshire village. Everyone looks very smart; the horses are all plaited up and coats brushed to a high gloss, their tack is all freshly cleaned and oiled. The riders are smart in their black or red coats and clean jodhpurs; boots gleam and faces glow. There is anticipation in the air, and pleasure in meeting friends not seen since the end of last season.

There's a field of between 70 and 80 out today, plus a fair number of foot and car followers and curious (i.e. interested) villagers. Oh, and a curious (i.e. unusual) group which Spuds tells me are "The Antis". These are quite easy to spot. A fair number are obviously immature humanoids; the sun reflects blindingly off their pasty white faces; their proliferation of pustulous red spots plus assorted nose and ear decorations a stark but colourful contrast. Of the older ones, the females tend to have hairy legs, droopy boobs, greasy hair and devout expressions. The inevitably bearded, bespectacled males are an even sadder sight; their shoulders hunched through carrying too many babies on chest-papooses; their office-worker fingers callused through having to change so many nappies in their lifetime. Spuds says he wishes they would get a life, and stop presuming to impose their views on him. "For fox sake stop the hunting" says the placard. "What the fox going to happen to the animals if we do?" says Spuds. "Don't they understand conservation? Ask any farmer on Exmoor what happens when do-gooders interfere. They should stick to trying to reduce the fat content of their vege-burgers ho ho". (rant over).

We're off; half a mile down the lane and into a field where the Senior Joint-Master gives us The Annual Bollocking, and introduces our excellent Field Master for the day. This over, the hounds conveniently find and we gallop through a few fields and over the first hunt jump. A check, then round the edge of some seeded land, down a lane and back again, across a common and into another few fields, A check, then back almost exactly the way we came, and then back again. As one rider said to Spuds; "Our foot followers don't actually have to go anywhere. We just keep galloping past in front of them". Spuds thought that it was going to be like a day Autumn hunting a few weeks earlier, when the foxes had been distinctly unsporting and our lovely lady Joint-Master had been moved to remark that "Nothing makes much sense today, I'm afraid".

However, things eventually settled down and we moved into some fresh country. Quite a few hedges and fences were tackled, and Spuds was pleased with my efforts although we did get balked a few times. "I'm going to stop being so bloody British about this" said Spuds. "I'm going to take an Assertive Riding course, and we're going to the front of the queue boy". I did make one error though (and I have to say that I blame it on inadequate instructions from Him Up Top). We were walking (if you please) in procession around the edge of a field then across a small ditch. I failed to observe the ditch for what it was; planted both my front feet in the bottom of it; banged my nose on the top of the bank, then had to clamber gracelessly out. To make it worse, there were Distinguished Persons both in front and behind. Spuds called me a prat, which I think was un-necessarily hurtful.

At this point Spuds' friend and horse-box co-owner Toots had to retire, her horse having lost a shoe. This seems to be a particular problem for her fellow, and very irritating. One person of Spuds' acquaintance offered the advice: "The only cure is for her to shoot the horse and buy one that doesn't keep losing shoes". I thought this was a bit harsh myself; the boy's a friend of mine after all. Toots swears by Farriers Formula, so she'll probably o/d him on the stuff in order to develop the quality of the hoof.

By now the heat was beginning to tell on the riders. Spuds had put on his lovely Tattersall check waistcoat purely for sartorial effect as it was the opening meet. For Spuds to make any sartorial effort is an event, and on this occasion it was also a mistake. Several of the ladies were also beginning to glow a bit. What is it they say; "Ladies glow, Men Perspire, and Horses sweat". We were all at it, whatever it was. Some of the riders were by now beginning to look a bit dog-eared too, with copious mud stains over what were previously pristine garments. At one stage there seemed to be more loose horses around us than mounted ones (Toots says this is an exaggeration; perhaps there were two or three).

The hunt moved on to draw a wood at the boundary of a nearby private school. The school's permanent cross-country course provided some further entertaining jumps. By a large and circuitous route we returned to the school grounds from the other direction and jumped the course again, followed by another procession around the edge of a seeded field. By this time we had been out for about 3 hours, so Spuds decided that in the interests of my welfare we should call it a day. We hacked back to the horse-boxes in pleasant company, and I got stuck into my haynet. I was surprised when the hunt suddenly shot through a gate right in front of us and hared off down the road, followed by a much depleted field. I was tempted to follow, but the hay was too good. There's always another time.