Last weekend's hunting really did my head in. I was seriously cheesed off to start with. All this season Spuds has been trying to get to the front. "Be bold, Branston" he says. "Be assertive. Don't hang around at the back. Go for it!". So I do these things, and then he has to excuse his bad manners by saying that I've got no brakes, and so on. But today, one of the most promising days of the season so far, we had to stay at the very back. It was our turn to shut the gates, and boy did I give Spuds a hard time about it (and caused our lovely lady Joint-Master to scowl at him).

All the rest of the field go galloping off into the distance, happy as larks, and there we are; left behind struggling with a heavy iron gate held up by just one hinge, the other end dragging through thick mud before having to be hoisted up about a foot to meet the latch, then fiddling with a peg and link chain to secure it. All life could pass you by while this goes on. Of course, Mister Spuds doesn't get off and on to do this task. He says that I'm too big for him to mount unaided, and that I'd run off after the others. He bribed his friend Toots with the promise of a meal out; she did all the jumping on and off and fiddling about, and he just sat there and held her horse. The only time he got off was where the Master requested that a tiger-trap be repaired. "Oh yes Sir. Immediately Sir" he grovels, basking in the momentary recognition of his unworthy presence. Out from his pockets come about 20 bales-worth of binder twine, probably enough to stock-proof an entire field, and the fence is lashed back together.

At the back you do see some interesting things though. Like the chap who followed the hunt on a small-wheeled foldable bicycle, leading his very small daughter on a spirited pony. When it all got too much to cope with, he crashed his bike into a hedge. Or seeing a line of riders posted along a hedge, and a huge fox running between them and off away behind whilst the hounds were otherwise engaged. Or seeing a fox watching from the safety of a tree whilst the hunt passed by beneath. You see everyone else's triumphs and mishaps too. Muddy and bedraggled-looking people struggling to remount excited horses, and bold thrusters gratuitously jumping huge bullfinch hedges in spite of a low wall nearby. And the Master's horse resolutely refusing at a small fence that ponies on lead-reins were clearing. Toots was going to offer him a lead over it, but decided that she wanted to be welcome out next time too.

And because you are at the back, and taking your time, you can appreciate the music of the hounds speaking from deep within a covert. You can experience the almost magical effect of entering old woodland behind 50 or so fit and steaming horses on a clear and crisp December morning with frost on the ground and the sun in the sky. Bring the two together, reflect on it, and go home contented.