T WAS a late October day, the sky clear after incessant rain. However, the sun was now setting on the hard-core suspects standing on the ha-ha outside my in-laws’ house, enjoying a never-ending supply of ‘one last glass’ of port. It had been a momentous and moving day; my father-in-law Peter Thorne’s memorial. Instead of a traditional church service, the family had the genius idea of inviting his beloved Warwickshire hunt to hold a ‘Memorial Meet’ in the stallion paddock beyond the ha-ha. The Hunt and beautifully behaved hounds had duly assembled, along with about 200 thirsty chums and supporters – a not unimpressive turnout for a 94-year-old. The once hard-riding lady minister gave a splendid address and finished by blessing the Hunt and hounds. Nobody present saw anything incongruous about honouring a man who had dedicated his life to looking after animals as a vet and yet owned and bred racehorses, was a keen jockey when young and hunted enthusiastically until he felt it unsafe to
