When my gold car misled some fox hunting hounds

A lot of people have uplifting songs which remind them of a momentous day in their lives.

For the eventful weekend just gone 'I get knocked down (but I get up again)' by Chumbawamba springs to mind.

But when we talk about 'getting up' I should input a new line of lyrics involving 'falling down again'.

This event refers to my trip to rural Shopshire, and the subject of ground refers to the muddy, soily kind. It may not have been an inspirational occasion like skydiving or getting married, but I was going to attempt to follow a fox hunt for the first time and in an impartial manner.

If you are suddenly imagining me competently horse jumping or hooting at hounds you're barking up the wrong path.

This type of activity was all new to me.

In-fact, following this hunt, was all in aid of my rather farfetched documentary for my journalism studies.

Think Louis Theroux, but more haphazard. And with a much smaller budget.

As we all know, fox hunting is a contentious issue, and rural Shropshire became a key location for my filming. But who could I convince to come on a four hour trip to help me - who lives near by this tree invested location?

My good mate David Row that's who - you may know him from previous blogs.

Dave might not have been informed the full scale of what he was getting into.

He may have been led to believe he was going for a jolly in the countryside.

Strong winds, torrential rain and a fast paced hunt put that to bed.

Obviously these were part of two key elements not in my control: the weather and a pack of hectic hounds.

We arrived at Dave's house late on friday night- his brother thought we burglars.

Carrying two metal suitcases which hold the filming equipment can make you look a tad dodgy. It had been mentioned that carrying these silver suitcases I envisaged a CIA agent, or a drug dealer. I wish they did have wads of cash in them, but not from selling loads of drugs, obviously.

Also for some unknown reason Dave thought the hunt 'meet' was at a pub.

I assure you I did not know 'The Mount' was a secluded farm in one of Shropshire's smallest villages.

"A pub around here! I don't think so," a horseriding lady laughed as I wound down the window of my gold Peugoet 306. Yes, I am from Essex.

Although I was keen to keep this on the down low.

Anyway we arrived at the farm on Saturday morning armed with a pair of wellies.

However these large boots borrowed from the Row family materialised to be a tad too large.

I won't lie, I waddled into the farm conveying a serious constipation problem.

But I was in a cup 'half-full' mood - plus Dave gave me some encouragement, although he hadn't put on his wellies.

Arriving on the farm was an intimidating procedure, although a friendly women offered me a concoction involving alcohol. It shouldn't be described as punch - I was drinking it like Ribena - easing a swarm of migrating Borneo butterflies in my stomach.

Before we knew it I had interviewed a prolific hunter, and the horses, and hounds, were off.

We ran to the car - Dave didn't make it as quickly as possible - he fell flat on his face, in the mud.

It wasn't the best start I think he would agree but he gamely carried on, slightly fazed.

Anyway we arrived in my gold automobile and drove off in pursuit, but before I knew what was going on we were back on foot, running off-road. Some older ladies suggested as we took flight that we looked a bit like 'antis' (animal activists). I don't know if it was prejudice against my car or the fact we were running with a camera at the ready.

Then, we were lost - if I was to compare it to a gym we were the ones falling off the treadmill.

My nightmare the previous night suggested a fox would start circling us for protection.

Luckily this never happened, but it was never far from my thoughts.

The wind whipped our faces and the rain soaked our clothes. Dave looked like a literal Rain Man. His facial expressions also suggested he wasn't overly enjoying himself as we slipped over on several occasions in the country mud. I thought this is where he was at home. I think that's where he wanted to be.

Quad bikes flew fast - they didn't offer us a lift - I'm not sure why.

Deflated, we headed back to my car to search via road.

Now I should probably mention we'd been informed not to get too close to the hunt as we risked distracting the hounds and ruining the event.

I thought it was unlikely we would even find the hunt.

Following this 'sport' seemed like finding an unknown location. You need GPS.

But, as we drove up a small road in the middle of nowhere, with no sign of horse nor hound, something suddenly arrived very close in our eye span.

The pack of hounds, and the prolific hunter.

This was not great.

The hounds started to run at my car - I became their fox - to be fair, my car is a similar colour.

I panicked, and Top gear suddenly came into my mind as I asked Dave:

"What the bloody hell should we do now?"

I put the car into reverse, which went well until I went off road- into some tree branches.

We found a gap and sheepishly parked up, unsure of what negative impact we had had on this hunt.

A bit later.

Filming was again bravely attempted as horses were seen on a nearby field - I say bravely because it was unclear whether we were still viewed favorably, not helped as I fell down a small mound amongst an array of competent horse riders.

They had probably assumed I was of the experienced country variety, this view may have then changed. The wellies may have prevented this but I had taken them off to drive.

As I pointed a camera upwards and filmed a horseman he asked: "What ARE you doing?"

At this point I really did ask myself this question and wasn't sure of the answer.

How had I got myself in this situation - problematic weather and unpredictable animals.

So I'm doing it all over again on Tuesday.

I'm not sure Dave wants to help me.