Foxglove - February 10

It slopes in gentle downland curves, intermittently hedged in blackthorn, hawthorn, bramble and briar, some thick, some straggling, all rich with wildlife, ranging from the local black fallow deer, with an occasional sighting of cream or white individuals, through to the small creeping and flying life forms that feed those higher up the scale.

Pheasants step carefully through the landscape, searching for food, watching for foe.

Chalk downland gives itself reluctantly to arable: its best crops are game and livestock.

The white farmhouse on the hill was the home of a dear friend, a remarkable lady who had more than held her own in a learned profession at a time when it was very difficult for any woman to do so.

She was also a brave and accomplished horsewoman, having hunted in Ireland both sidesaddle and astride, as well as in England and latterly Sussex, becoming a familiar figure across our own hunt country.

A great supporter of hunting, she gave unstinting help whenever it was needed, whether unobtrusively behind the scenes, or in the forefront where her laughter and flashing smile made any event the more enjoyable.

In the summer, you might have seen her in the show ring, memorably at Ardingly, on one of her irrepressible horses, the sort most of us would rather admire from the ground than sit upon.

For us, her friends, her home was always a place of warmth, welcome, kindness, good conversation and, for those brave enough, incisive debate, often fuelled by ambrosial cake and warming home-made alcoholic substances involving the fruit of the hedgerows round about.

Such a formidable intellect coupled with such agreeable company meant that a kaleidoscope of visitors might be present at any time, right across the social and professional spectrum, and all equally respected and accepted for those qualities that were good in them.

I had brought five generations of dogs rabbiting in her fields, whether working solo or alongside her redoubtable Henry T, a dog of great charm and unnerving intelligence, or in later years, the supremely elegant and predatory saluki, Arabella.

Back in the grass yard by the house, cosseted chickens pecked and scratched, unaware of how privileged they were compared to most fowl, while the small neat stable yard was always cheerful with flowers.

Riders would pass on nearby bridleways, the horses in the fields sometimes lifting their heads to take an interest, or even cantering over in a snorting, head-tossing herd, to gain a better look.

Sometimes of course the grass was just too good to leave, a flock of small dark sheep being employed on a part-time basis to take the richness out of it before the horses were allowed in to graze.

Land and livestock takes so much more work behind the scenes than many would ever know.

As years pass, such a friendship deepens and widens to bring in grandchildren, the precious next generation, already familiar with horses, dogs, and the care needed with looking after them, already respectful of the land and fully engaged in its many delights.

A frisson of movement behind me as people rose to their feet brought me back to the present.

The glorious sound of the hunting horn rang the church to the rafters and filled my heart to the brim as the bearers brought their precious burden to the front, and the service poised to begin.