The meet was about an hour away, and I arrived where directed a half hour early.
No one there.
So I drove around, casting wider and wider, still no luck. Stopped to ask where there looked like there was life, no luck. The man at Secret Seeds suggested I try the public house a couple of miles up the road. (And really,how does he expect to keep it a secret with a web page and a sign right there on the road?)
So I did, it was the Exeter Inn, near Bampton.
One often hears, and sometimes experiences, that English hospitality and service are poor. Not at this place! Alison took charge, and started looking through old bookings to find the telephone number of someone she knew would know the way.
Then Trevor arrived- he'd just seen horses unboxing a couple of miles away, so off I dashed- to find nothing.
Grr. Back to the Inn, where they had been telephoning everyone they knew who might know- all, of course, failing to answer.
Another reconnaissance, fruitless. Baaaack to the inn, success! Clear directions to the meet, where I fell in with hounds and got soaked, cold, confused- the kind of day you usually pay extra for. Actually it was fun, not least for seeing my favourite western pack and their hard working, hard dancing, and cheerful staff in action. 
(In accordance with best insurgent practice, no names, no faces, no license numbers, dates fiddled.)
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