Our farm-stay digs were a foxhunters Mecca. Mounted above the sideboard, in a display cabinet, a fox sat perfectly still amidst a stage-set rural scene. The stuffed animal fixed would-be diners with an unblinking glassy stare. It was madness to overlook Wainwright’s haven whilst distracted by a ‘Test Match’ silly mid-off or long leg. After all, ‘the wise man, when he walks, just walks’.