Rather strange atmospherics on the moors. On Great Ayton Moor, views were blurred, drifting in and out of clarity. While a flocculent duvet covered the Cleveland Hills.
A short while later I encountered the Boxing Day Hunt, a village “tradition” that seems to be in its dying throes. Just a couple of redcoats and a dozen or so hounds, easily out-numbered by the gymkhana class on tinsel bridled ponies, out for the hack.
I followed it for a while, to see if they were up to mischief. But soon my patience ran out.
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