Joining an Anglo-German jubilee

For all the world, it looked to be a quintessential English hunting scene. A pack of hounds streamed out in front of us as we galloped over old turf and popped neatly trimmed hedges. The huntsman’s horn rang out across a landscape of hills and hidden valleys, bathed in late November sunlight. We could have been in the Shires, Gloucestershire, Dorset or indeed any English grass country.

If you looked carefully, however, you would see some subtle differences. The hounds were not foxhounds but black-and-tan bloodhounds. As you passed the farms, you might notice the distinctive low-pitched roofs that you would not see in England. And if you greeted a passer-by with “Good morning,” you might get a blank stare back.

This was because we were in Germany, not England. More precisely, we were in the heart of the Weser Vale, a stunning stretch of country that encompasses the River Weser, which snakes its way through north-western Germany.