My gran banned fox-hunting years before the politicians ever thought of it.

At the age of 60 she moved out of London for the first time to live next door to my uncle in a Kent village.

The master of the local hunt was a wealthy farmer, who I suspect may have been the grandfather of one of our horsey modern Olympians.

I was staying with her when the hunt appeared in the lane. Granny scuttled out to tell them they had no business there.

There was a bridleway up to our gate but from there the lane then turned into a public footpath with no horses allowed.

She was towered over by the six-foot farmer on his horse, but stood her ground - and huntsmen and dogs piled up outside the gate.

Meanwhile I had the job of hanging on to Lassie Harragan, about ten-stone of angry dog, who was alternating between barking and snarling at the interlopers and howling because her mistress was confronting a man without her moral support.

We knew from experience when riled that Lassie would clear the eight-foot fence with one bound - she had done it to a potential burglar and chased him through the woods. She probably ate him as well.

So I held on tight as dogs, horses and riders disappeared with their tails between their legs.

My uncle, a lorry driver who worked for farmers as well as industry, used to complain when the hunts used to insist that they were providing jobs and other benefits in the countryside.

They were just a “bloody nuisance”, he said.