Across the field they came. Six of them. Maybe seven. Coming at a lope towards me, in a loose formation. Not in uniform, but in a kind of uniformity marked by their masks and balaclavas, and their camouflage trousers.
Briefly, our marine hand to hand combat instructor's words flashed in my mind. "In a fight, drop the leader first. The leader is the first to speak, the first to appear, the alpha in the group. Don't wait. Drop him, and the others will cower."
The leader vaulted himself over the small fence, towards me.
I felt no instinct to fight, but none towards flight either. Just calm.
"Are you lost?" I asked.
"Mmhhrrrmmoph," said the alpha from behind his balaclava.
"You're a long way from a footpath," I prompted.
"Hrrmmaammpphhrrrr,"
"Why are you wearing masks and balaclavas?"
"..................................."
"Are you ashamed to be seen? Are you doing something which shames you?"
".............................................."
The six now stood like little boys receiving a parental reprimand, heads half hung. Boys gone too far in their game of cowboys and indians, goodies and baddies.
"Look," I said. "I'm no fan of the hunt either. But how would you feel if masked men came into your home? This is my home. I could feel frightened."
"Mmssiihhhhgghh"
The young men were saved from further questioning by the appearance of a minibus containing their fellow animal rights hunt saboteurs. They skulked aboard. I drove the few yards to the house, rather marvelling at my own calm. I don't doubt it will change nothing.
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