Following the Hunt

Sara told me that she'd been out last week, following the last hunting meet of the season.
In the days when she was a head groom, she used to go hunting three times a week in the season, to exercise the horses. This time, she went with her friend Derek to follow the hunt by car and foot.
They met up near Capel-y-ffin, where a sumptuous buffet, plus mulled wine and rum, was laid out on a board over two of those big round hay bales. Derek smiled at her. "You made sandwiches, didn't you? Told you you wouldn't need them."
Well fortified, the hunt and the followers went up the road by the Monastery. And up. And up. And through a couple of gated farmyards. The hounds were on the tops by this time, and the followers were watching through binoculars. "You'd think thirty hounds would be easy to spot, wouldn't you?" Sara said, wryly.
They came at last to a narrow valley, black shale down one side, green grass down the other, and a waterfall running in steps down the length of it, with the sun glinting off the rushing water. It was easy to imagine how remote the farms had been only a hundred years ago.
The idea was for the hunt to go along one ridge, turn down the next ridge, and then go round the end of the hill. They got about two thirds of the way along with this plan, when a terrier got stuck down a hole and they had to dig it out. While they were waiting, Sara and Derek ate the sandwiches. When they left, the terrier was still being rescued.

No foxes were harmed during the making of this post (or the hunt itself).