I was walking down the main street in our little 17th century village today when all of a sudden the most tremendous roar of horses hooves sounded suddenly behind me. As I turned around I had barely ten seconds to step out of the way as the local hunt, some fifty of them, so magnificent in their green tweed jackets, blazed past me along with their pack of foxhounds, gleefully chasing after them. Both lanes of traffic instantly ground to a halt to allow the thunderous ensemble to pass by. It was all quite a sight which literally took my breath away. If there was a fox somewhere in the mêlée, running for his life, I did not see him. I have to admit that the sight of the hunt is breathtaking to me and my legs quiver each time as it passes within spitting distance. I can only imagine how exhilarating it must be to charge along on a fine horse with a pack of excited hounds for company.
Today was freezing cold and my morning walk, my meditation, my hymn to the Gods, took place amongst the frosted fields and woods. How lucky am I to walk for miles and never see a single soul apart from the odd kestrel who fancies me for his breakfast.