And Penhallows were skilled in the field. Dad's job was too peripatetic for him to be offered the Mastership, but he would have been perfect, and Mum even more so: it was offered, actually, but she turned it down with a laugh, knowing she was not temperamentally suited. She was too polite, too much of a follower herself, like me, and all Masters had their egos and their fiefdoms.

It was Sean Coats's turn to flex his Master's muscles today. Otherwise known as Saintly Sean, he was a lay preacher in his quieter hours. Old, venerable and well liked, he knew every inch of his county, but you certainly wouldn't want to get on his wrong side, or any of the hunt staff's for that matter. Particularly the grim-faced whippers-in, intent on controlling their hounds, who were spilling down the ramp of the truck even now, in a black, brown and white flood, baying and calling, making a heck of a racket, as Farthing stiffened beneath me and pricked her ears.

As I sat, at this, the opening meet, on my coiled spring of a young chestnut, I knew I had to be quiet and still and just let her bed in a bit. We'd managed it during the short autumn hunting season of the previous two months, but those few successful outings were only dress rehearsals and didn't prevent me from feeling nervous today.

The first meet of the season proper was quite different. This was the real deal. Always on a Saturday, it attracted a scrum of gung-ho, testosterone-fuelled alpha males, keen to let off steam after a week in the office or on the farm, and lots of over-excited teenagers. It wasn't the midweek event with the careful band of mothers, retired gentlefolk and occasional children like me — with yet another orthodontist appointment, and a huge wink from Mum, who thought coping on the hunting field a different sort of education. I was always made aware of the argument on both sides, though, and we had heated debates with my cousins in Devon who were anti, and sometimes came to wave their banners and follow on foot, before — no doubt bizarrely to some — coming back to our house for a raucous, riotous tea.

No antis today, I thought as I surveyed the scene with my best friend Shona beside me. Across the teeming mass of beautifully turned-out horses and riders, the former plaited and clipped, the latter snug in black coats and snowy white stocks, I saw Hugo with a couple of boys I didn't recognize. They were already being pretty loud, yelling at each other and roaring with laughter. Saintly Sean had them in his sights, however. He'd turned in his saddle and was narrowing his eyes as if he might ride across for a quiet chat.

"I'd be surprised if any of them have ever done this before," remarked Shona, on a piebald pony.

"Hugo has," I said loyally.