FOR the second time this season, and only the third time in 20 years, the hunt is meeting here on foot owing to a heavy frost. Perhaps it's just as well, as I didn't check the tide table when I agreed to the meet and there would not be space for horses and hounds on the beach. We gather in the yard instead, prudently keeping the chickens shut up until hounds have moved off.
As I weave through the pack holding sausages aloft, I reflect that, if there are any class warriors from Edinburgh hoping for photographs of posh people in hunting kit (there aren't as far as I can tell, but you can never be sure), they will be disappointed to find what looks like a shepherds' convention, with rustic folk on quad bikes in woolly hats and assorted agricultural garments of interesting provenance. Only the sight of gorgeous blond manes released from their customary hairnets gives a clue that this is no ordinary group.
The antis' narrative might also be spoilt if they meet our masters: George, our huntsman, a former jockey who shears sheep to help make ends meet when not devotedly looking after his hounds; Bud the Builder, under whose RSJ we eat breakfast; softly-spoken Gary the Joiner; and Corrina, who somehow finds the time to escape from juggling motherhood with a frenetic bed-and-breakfast operation to field master on weekdays.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة February 15, 2023 من Country Life UK.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك ? تسجيل الدخول
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة February 15, 2023 من Country Life UK.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
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