This was a grand day. With blizzards threatened we still had 18 hounds, plus a bulldog and a wee Jack Russell in there somewhere. We all thoroughly enjoyed our walk in North Somerset. The sun came out, the chaps sweated, the ladies perspired – the hounds lolloped.
Owners came from as far away as Exmouth, Bovey Tracey and Cirencester.
And the bluebells and primroses were out in amongst the wild garlic. The woodpeckers did their stuff, and the views over towards Wales, Exmoor, Glastonbury Tor and maybe even Dartmoor were magnificent. I don't think any hound disgraced themselves: no rolling or fighting or sheep chasing, and my Matilda wandered fewer than six times after some scent.
My abiding memory is looking back up the last hill where we'd descended through a field imperfectly cleared of gorse to see half a dozen stranded bassets scattered over the hillside. Whimpering, one paw up afraid of the prickles, begging their owners to come and rescue them, at least one of which succeeded in getting carried down. What wimps . . .
A bevy of bassets? A battery of bassets?
Sarah going the wrong way (and spot the odd one out).
Lunch stop on top of the Mendips
"I like this, can we come again?"
Wales in the background, Pauline in the foreground.
Always something to talk about.
Rear view in the snowflakes