Here and there a coat that is generations old

It would of course be very unsafe now, and quite a few of us now carry reflective waistcoats in case we get caught far from the lorry as dusk descends.

Modern rugs, travelling kit and feeding regimes make life that much easier on horse and groom alike, and as many of us are our own grooms these days, we really appreciate such changes.

But other ways are much the same, including plaiting-up manes in the dark, last-minute adjusting of hunting ties, and struggling with cold, unco-operative boots, polished to perfection.

Many familiar faces are here, and some new ones too. Horses have changed ownership, and there are new faces looking through bridles as well.

The Opening Meet is not the best time to bring a new horse hunting, or a horse new to hunting, but some will, and it is often a baptism of fire.

Any horse out of Ireland is sold as having seen hounds, but how close it was to them at the time, and what it did when it saw them, is a matter for conjecture.

As for me, I hunt on my feet these days, and probably see as much that is worth seeing as I ever did on the back of a horse, though the skills and thrills are very different.

Here and there I can see a hunting coat that is generations old, made of good Melton cloth, the quality of which we cannot get these days. It will be well-worn here, mended and faded there, but it will serve its turn for a good while longer, if the current owner can stay as lean as his predecessors.

Someone else has boots that are discreetly patched, and a different shape from modern ones, and those boots there with the mirror shine are waxed calf, the devil to get a shine on to begin with, and the best ever once it has been acquired.

Box calf criss-crosses with noble scars from twig and thorn, but waxed will polish out if you know the trick of it, using a deer bone for preference, though other types will do.

There is chatter and banter and gossip, there is the restless jingling of lorinery and creak of leather, steam rising from horses, a raising of glasses or partaking of sausage rolls and fruit cake for some riders, a tight-lipped concentration for others.

One hound threads innocently through the supporters, aiming for the cake supply until called back by name by the whipper-in. A last sad glance at the food, and the hound slinks back to join the others, wondering how he could have been seen.

A few words are addressed to the followers by one of the senior Masters, and then the serious business starts. A pathway appears as we all draw back in response to a call of “Hounds please”, we hear a brief note on the horn, and Hunt horses flank the whispering feet of hounds as they hack to the first covert and the start of the new Season, a grand cavalcade of horses and riders falling in behind.