April 6, 2014 by Sez
The horses huffed sharp steam into cold morning air. The hounds howled, the humans hobnobbed.
Since the ban, of course, they’d had to be careful, but at 6am on acres of dew-soaked downs, who was going to know?
Soft city folk could say what they liked. The hunt, like the maypole and Morris dancers, must not be sacrifices to political correctness. The horn sounded. Exhilaration flowed through hound, horse and human.
The quarry, a wily young female, savage with fear, held up a defiant middle finger before diving for cover, insolent in the face of inevitability.
The hunt was on.