It is a November morning in the Cotswolds. Spuds, bless his little cotton socks, has decided that we will go for a solo 16-mile hack today. A low grey sky spits drizzle every so often, then patches of blue sky appear. The wind is imperceptible, the temperature average. The overnight rain lies in puddles on the road; the earth squelches softly underfoot.

We trot up the big hill from the yard (why does he always make me trot uphill?), past the clay-pigeon shooters, then cross the busy main road. Noise and traffic disappear behind us; we are heading across country towards the Badminton Estate. We cross a few fields and join a country road that passes over the busy M4 motorway. A large stag appears in a field over on the right; he bounces across the ground as if on rubber-sprung feet. Up an embankment, across the road in front of us dodging effortlessly between two cars, down the embankment on the other side and away across the fields into the distance, his pace apparently effortless and unchanging; obviously a man with a mission.

We walk across the motorway bridge (scary that bit; the first time we've done it), then through a silent village, the only sign of life being an old chap walking a pair of black Labradors, and the smell of woodsmoke on the air from the chimneys of the stone cottages. Out into the country again and a canter along a good stretch of bridleway. A big grey heron rises lazily from a stream, making me start; he settles on a post a few hundred yards away to watch from safety. A flock of sparrows flutters into the air above the bushes from which they have been pillaging the last of the season's fruit. Magnificent Badminton House appears lemon yellow in the hazy light, visible in the distance through the naked trees.

We turn off to walk around Seven Mile Plantation, which runs in a semi-circle around the northern edge of the estate. We've still seen hardly a soul, although the sound of woodcutters is heard briefly in the distance. The track is soft mud with puddles on top, but a firm base of stone lies close beneath. The orange leaves of Autumn cover everywhere; the smell of rotting foliage fills your nostrils. We gratuitously jump a few logs and a wall with a drop on the other side just for the hell of it.

Eventually we turn for home, following a slightly different route. We pass by a field containing an impressive bull and about 20 youngsters; they all come running towards us as if the sight of a mounted horse were extraordinary. We cross the motorway by a cattle bridge this time (even more scary) and plod off home. Spuds jumped off and walked by my side for a while; he even gave me a carrot as we were walking. (Spuds has been told that if he knew of the effort that went into producing good carrots then he wouldn't feed them to horses. I resent him being told that!). In three and a half hours and sixteen miles we have spoken to just three people (two of whom were together) and two dogs. So what happened today? Nothing, but seeing as Spuds told me it was Thanksgiving day in America, then I thought that I would give thanks for being alive and able to enjoy an English autumn day like today; there can't be anything better on earth.