This morning across the land, hounds will be whining, ponies whinnying and mares stamping impatiently. Hordes of followers, mounted and unmounted, will gather for the meet, steam rising from horses' rumps and riders' breath alike. Outside pubs, on village greens and in marketplaces, some 200 packs will rally to the call. For Boxing Day is one of the high points on the hunt calendar and, weather permitting, promises the biggest turn out of the year.
What better way, some would say, to work off the seasonal excesses than by galloping across glorious countryside, the winter wind full in your face? I clearly recall, aged 12, the early mornings with bitter Scottish gusts biting my ears and sneaking between the folds of my stock; when two pairs of riding gloves and charcoal pocket-warmers did little to ward off the chill. Yet fortified by surreptitious gulps from someone's hip flask, I would chivvy my pony in pursuit of the pack.
The thrill of the chase is endlessly cited as a key factor in the hunt and it is a tangible spur. How exhilarating it was to career along, ducking the clods of mud thrown up by those in front, and keeping alert for low branches, hidden ditches and barbed wire.
There was nothing better than following hounds in full cry. Then, you could soar to untold heights because all around were sailing over vast fences. At that time I viewed hunting as just an extension of the Pony Club, an opportunity to meet other riders in winter when there were few rallies or gymkhanas.
There was definitely tension in the air, but for me this was as much the fear that my over-excited pony might bolt and pass the master thereby committing a cardinal sin of hunting. Even the curious ritual of being bloodied (an honour usually bestowed on the youngest person at the kill) did not strike me as unpleasant. I never earned a brush but I did get a fox pad, which became a precious memento.
My home was close to the kennels, and sometimes we would "walk" young hounds (take them in while they are weaned). I remember my distress when two black-and-tan pups mauled my prize bantams. But the henhouse was also a magnet for numerous foxes over the years. There seemed a certain rough justice in the natural world.
When my favourite gelding died, I ensured he was taken by the kennels and fed to the hounds. It did not seem a gruesome practice: the hunt disposed of horses sensitively and humanely. It seemed a fitting tribute, not to mention appropriate recycling.
Like many hunting enthusiasts, I enjoyed it primarily for the unbridled excitement, the unpredictability and for the stunning scenery. But blood lust is inextricably bound up with it. Rare was the day that my scruffy hunt caught a fox, but there was still a sense of purpose and anticipation. Few would contend that a good gallop with friends, even with challenging fences, could make an adequate substitute.
For its many opponents, hunting stands for everything objectionable about our class-ridden society: landed gentry dressed up to the nines and lording it on horseback, forcing beasts to a protracted death and then calling it the sport of kings. But that is an emotive and extreme view. Most workaday hunts are open to anyone who can ride, and few are prohibitively expensive. The cap (or day's fee) ranges from ú5 or ú6 to about ú60 with the smartest packs.
Today, after mature reflection, I stand firmly on the far side of the fence. I find it ethically unacceptable to subject any animal to such a drawn out, cruel end. Yes, foxes often escape but, with terrier-men blocking up their lairs the previous night to prevent them going to ground, the odds are unfairly stacked. And cub-hunting, in which immature hounds are set to work on young fox cubs, is quite barbaric.
I have seen some of the savage things animals do to each other in the wild, but as I cannot stomach the sight of an exhausted fox being torn limb from limb by a ravenous pack, I no longer participate. Still, I can hardly condemn others for relishing what I spent many happy days pursuing. I may listen wistfully to accounts of a good day out, but I cannot personally reconcile it with my conscience.
Blood lust is an intrinsic part of our human make-up, and we should be prepared to acknowledge this. Yet there are many base urges we would be well advised not to act upon. There are, after all, many activities that bring as much exhilaration tackling a steep ski-slope, climbing a mountain, even going for a run - none of which relies on ritualised slaughter.
Recently I was speaking with someone who had once been an avid hunt saboteur. For him it had been part of being young and rebellious. He had seen it as an exciting day out in the country and had taken it up almost without question. It brought with it all the gratification of espousing a just cause as well as giving free rein to a radical impulse.
Years later, he says he would not go out sabbing and, while still opposed to hunting, has come to see that those who hunt do so not out of bloodthirsty motives, but are as much a product of their background as he himself is. This is not offered as a glib appraisal of all hunt saboteurs, many of whom are committed to a considered philosophy; but I was struck by the echoes of my own altered perspective. We had moved from two polar positions - both unthinking, heady entertainment - to a greater understanding of a complex topic.
Ethical questions demand a personal response, and nobody has a prerogative on them. We are ultimately accountable only to ourselves. So, while I object to the principle, the Boxing Day meet with its pink coats and toppers, shaggy ponies and anoraked groupies brings back joyful memories. Indeed, for many country people it is an integral part of the seasonal cycle.
