The fragrant Mrs Putter and Mrs Bancroft dodge the back ends of horses to take around sausage rolls and dainty sandwiches to the assembled throng. Mostly, the riders are polite, but there are an ill mannered few who seem rather sniffy.
The Sheepwashes are notable by their absence and I justify my attendance by recording the event with my camera from the window. I'm not a hunt fan, despite being a farmer's daughter brought up in south Somerset. Conversely, though, I did not approve of the hunting ban, which was imposed on the countryside by an urban government.
Today is a chance for the village to socialise in the open air, watching the horses, riders and hounds and partake in light refreshment. Since our pub closed in September, we grab any chance to have a natter.
Like last night, when the performance poet Matt Harvey gave a very engaging show in the village hall. Part of the evening consisted of the audience coming up with lines of poetry on the subject of the village pub. Mr Prayer stuck the lines together with the help of two able assistants.
There were some classic lines: One landlord, with more than just an eye for the ladies and then the next one, who was as cold as Hades and The village pub isn't closed, it's under the table with my husband. And one I especially liked (because I wrote it): A glass of warm Chardonnay from a fridge too far.
The resulting poem was a lovesong to our local and we want it back - that's the pub and the poem. Because the latter has also disappeared.
Apparently, a lady in a blue jumper took the poem for the parish magazine. But the parish magazine editor was there and knew nothing about it. Lordy, lordy, such intrigue.
But we would like it back, please, that love song to our local, so we can present it to the brewery and ask them to get a move on.
That's about it.
Love Maddie x