HUNTING 153 



There one has no complaint of not jumping, 

 for your horse jumps a different way every 

 other minute, over the gorse or to avoid it, 

 and one comes across innumerable ditches. 



I well remember my first day's hunting at 

 Arcachon. The meet was in the town, through 

 which we rode in procession, headed by Jean 

 and his horn blowing regular fanfares. The 

 field numbered about fifteen or twenty, 

 mostly French. The men in immaculate 

 hunting kit of red coats, buckskin breeches, 

 and top-boots, the English effect of which 

 was a trifle feminised by white kid gloves. 



There were three of us mounted on hire- 

 lings, though my cousins had theirs more or 

 less permanently, as they were living in the 

 place for six months. 



My favourite mount was a nice little brown 

 mare Fille d'Or. The horses were decidedly 

 better than the saddles, and this first day my 

 saddle had no second pommel ; however, I 

 remedied this before we processed out of the 

 town. Mercifully I did, for our fox led us 

 quickly out of the forest into the Landes, and 



