"It's not just being out of your depth, though," I reflected. "Hunting shows people's true colors. Because it's . . ." I felt my own color rise as I tried to explain. “So raw? So . . . I don't know . . ."

"Primeval?"

"Yes, that's it. It strips you bare, somehow. Leaves you nothing to hide behind."

“That's because there's authentic danger, which is rare in our lives these days. And it also channels some ancient romance of the soul, I think. It's weird . . ." His turn to look a bit embarrassed. He went on more pragmatically: "On a practical level it should be available on the National Health. Hunting three times a week would sort out a lot of people's mental-health issues, plus the obesity crisis — there, I've halved the budget in one go."

"Except Sally Chambers hunts three days a week," I reminded him, as a huge, scary blonde on an equally enormous Irish roan cantered bossily past as if she was part of the management. "And she's foul to that poor tiny husband of hers."

I was keen to keep the banter light, but also thrillingly aware he'd said romance. Oh, it was said in a different context, but still, he was lyrical. I added that to my list.

Suddenly the rest of the field were cantering up behind us and we were off again, but it was with an even greater sense of excitement that I gathered my reins and cantered amongst them.

We were going across to Larks Ridge now, further inland. Here there were fewer wealthy wind-farm owners, and more tenant farmers trying to keep body, soul and smallholding together. These walls were not remotely manicured: they were crumbling and patched, some with rusty corrugated iron, and I'd even seen an old radiator filling the gap in one. Local knowledge was key. Unexpected bogs, ditches and sudden drops were not uncommon, and if you didn't follow Sean closely and went blithely off piste, eagerly jumping a nicely collapsed low wall, you could easily hit the deck with your horse on top of you, courtesy of a pile of fallen stone on the other side.

Hounds were speaking now and streaking away from us in the distance as the land rose steeply towards the horizon. The wide, grassy hill was one I knew of old and always greeted with relief, as the horses invariably lost a bit of steam, but what goes up must surely come down and you had to really take a hold down the other side, particularly with the wide gaping ditch at the bottom. A couple of small stone walls were also thrown into the equation before the ditch for good measure, which, if you were in control, had the advantage of steadying you for it, but if you weren't, being small and easily leaped, could have you flying even faster for the water.