On a perfect winter morning, I mount a dapple grey horse in an icy farmyard a few minutes from the Prime Minister’s country home and prepare to go hunting with the Chipping Norton set. David Cameron’s local hunt, the Heythrop, is meeting just round the corner from where the PM lives, in the Oxfordshire village of Dean, and the Cotswold elite are out in force.
As we hunt, we will be skirting the estates of Jeremy Clarkson and Rebekah and Charlie Brooks. There are more socialites gathering on horseback than you can shake a hunting crop at, though at this stage I am not aware I might have to.
The scene could hardly be more like a Christmas card. Ladies in quilted jackets offer the 50 or so riders glasses of mulled wine. But a strange atmosphere prevails. Icier even than the freezing weather are the looks I get from the Chipping Norton crowd. A close-knit group, they do not seem to be taking too kindly to an outsider in their midst.
When I park my steed alongside a man on a big chestnut hunter and ask him gently enough if he is pleased with his neighbour the Prime Minister’s performance in government so far, he affects a haughty laugh and says, ‘Been out much this season?’
I repeat my question. ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I’m writing an article about Cameron and the countryside and what he has or has not done for grassroots supporters.’
‘Ha, ha, er, oh, I must just say hello to someone.’ And he pulls his horse around and trots away. It is the same whoever I talk to. Every effort to engage is met with ‘Get many days?’ This is the hunting fraternity’s most meaningless small talk; like a hairdresser asking ‘Going anywhere nice on your holidays?’
Moments after we set off, I’m really in trouble.
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