A down-to-earth start to the season

WE enjoyed our first full day's hunting of the year at Broughton Hall, near Skipton, last Saturday. I took out a Maiden Pointer who doesn't kick hounds (a huge crime on the hunting field) enabling me to "whip in" with the hunt staff.

It's a job I barely have time for but have enjoyed doing for over 10 seasons to Richard Lloyd, our gifted and brave (or is it crazy?) huntsman. Holly, one of the stable lasses, came out on a particularly stubborn yet talented racehorse I train.

It was his first experience seeing hounds and I was hoping it may be the key to disposing of the grumpy, reluctant Victor Meldrew streak that flares up in him on regular occasions. Unfortunately chopping off his testicle last month did not seem to have had the desired effect the vet had promised and we had anticipated. But Holly ended up having a fantastic day. It seems old Victor took to hunting like a duck to water, never scowling or digging his heels in once.

My day wasn't quite so fulfilling. The first fence saw me eating dirt, much to the hunt staff's amusement. My white moleskin breeches are so black they will probably fit my three year-old son by the time I get them clean.

Each season Richard runs a "fallers fund" – anyone hitting the deck donates 5 to the pot and my seasonal total always seems to be dramatically higher than any other member of the hunt servants. I'd like to think as the regular crash test dummy for any new, young or difficult hunt horses, I have a rather feeble excuse, however costly it may turn out.

It was a pleasure to see my 22 year-old ex point-to-point horse, Monkey Ago, overtaking everyone as the field galloped up towards Carleton Moor. He was ridden by our host, Bridget Tempest and has been on loan to her for two seasons.

He has truly landed on his feet, retiring with Bridget's first class care on the magnificent Broughton Estate and looks like a sprightly 12-year-old again. He won 11 races in 10 seasons and was the horse that really got me established. So a happy retirement is the very least I owe him. In early December I got a call from an old friend asking if I taught first-time jockeys to ride. "Regularly," I said. "Is your daughter old enough?"

"No, my husband is having a mid-life crisis and wants to make a fool of himself while we all watch," she explained. It seems he picked up the riding bug when his daughter joined the pony club, packed in the golf and promptly bought himself an ex-racehorse.

After attending the local point-to-point last year, he announced his plan to ride in the hunt race, much to his wife's amusement, although as the date draws closer there is a definite sense of panic in her voice. She has offered me a night out if I can talk sense into him.

Our first lesson was interesting. He had started going to the gym three times a week, his weight was a reasonable 12 stone and his dedication seemed faultless.

Watching him trot round the sand pit I felt reasonably confident his aim was achievable and his wife may not need to hide behind the weighing room tent after all.

However, things came unstuck. He ended up crawling round the sand on all fours groaning and swearing after the horse had stopped suddenly on seeing his mate across the field.

One positive came from our first session, he has now learnt how to roll like a jockey when he hits the ground – vitally important to protect those collarbones.

The next session is booked, so the ego must have recovered quicker than the bruises. Apparently he is still undeterred. My friend may be upping the stakes, she has now offered to take up golf.