Silence reigned. Total, respectful silence, actually. Any child still chattering was glared at hotly as Sean removed his ancient Patey hat. In his lilting Cornish accent, he spelled out what he expected from his flock today, in terms of respecting farmers’ property, keeping off the crops and shutting gates. Then, when he'd thanked the Hendricks, whose farm we were meeting on, he broke into a benevolent smile and wished us all a happy day. One almost felt he might be tempted to make the sign of the cross over us. Mike Harris sounded his horn, and together with Malcolm, who was Second Whip, they gathered up the hounds and trotted smartly off towards the first cover, which was a good couple of miles away, with plenty of open countryside to gallop across first. There were some very solid stone walls too, which required serious jumping, being high, wide and, unlike hedges, very unforgiving if you dropped a hoof. Plenty had ditches in front, and at least one had barbed wire on top, whilst another had a hideous drop into a lower field on the other side. To accommodate the drop you had to let out the reins, lean back, shut your eyes and pray.

I obviously hadn't had breakfast, never could when I hunted, like many disciples of this terrifying, glorious sport, and I felt my heart change places with my stomach as we gathered up our reins. We set off in the jostling scrum, and my eyes darted about as I tried to locate Mum. She, Babs and Iris were all in a row, looking incredibly slim and glamorous in their white breeches and navy fitted coats, and with many eyes upon them. Mum's pretty Arab mare tossed its head. They were well ahead of us, right behind Sean, in fact, who led the field in his red coat.

"Come on," said Hugo, spotting them, too. He gave his two mates a jerk of the head to follow him up to the front, neither looking quite as confident as they did a few minutes ago. "Chop-chop, we need to get up there. We certainly need to avoid this idiot."

One of the fishermen from Port Tavern, on what looked like a very green youngster, was taking great leaps and advancing precariously on his quarry, Tanya Roland, who put it about a bit locally. As we passed we heard Tanya say: Don't waste your time, Bobby Summer. I'm not a novice ride. She cantered towards Charlie Pascoe, a rich divorcee, whose land we were heading towards.

"Her eyes are on a much bigger prize," confided Hugo, and I laughed.

It seemed he'd rather fallen in beside me, and the field had turned hard left down a muddy, wooded path, with room enough for only two abreast. We were cantering beside each other now, and Shona, when I glanced behind, was with Hugo's red-headed friend on the gray.