|Not a practical outfit for|
poo-picking the field
On this, several thoughts, to wit:
This is possibly THE MOST Telegraph-cum-fashion story ever in existence. I'm not sure there's anything that falls better into the very tiny section of that particular Venn diagram than what to wear for the Boxing Day hunt.
Now, it's lovely that enough people feel like they want to get involved that a national paper provides guidance on dress code. BUT… if you're involved enough with horses and / or the countryside that following the hunt is something that takes your fancy, you know what you're wearing anyway. Because it goes along the lines of: warm, practical, and something you don't mind getting muddy / covered in enthusiastic paw prints. Basically whatever you wear to walk the dog in.
But this clearly wasn't a guide for those thinking it might be nice to go and watch the hunt set off. The first clue was that it didn't list "warm jacket, scarf, wellies." It wasn't even for people who will be participating in the hunt - because at the point you've decided you're getting stuck in, either you know what you're wearing, and have battled the stock tie enough to prove it; or you're a bit unsure, at which point you call the hunt secretary. This - featuring full skirts from Temperley, various kit by Hermès, and red lingerie (rather than a sports bra) - is a guide firmly for those who simply want to look like they hunt, rather than go anywhere near an actual horse (although I've never seen anyone hunting in a Temperley skirt...).
If you wish serious hunters to take you seriously, you're better off buying from equestrian specialists, the piece says. If you want them to take you seriously, you're better off not dressing yourself up in the clobber making it look for all the world like you're suited more to a Thelwell cartoon in which you've lost your mount, to be honest.
I don't understand the fascination with wanting to look like you're horsey. Well over a year ago whilst walking to the office, I saw a woman in jodhpur-style trousers, riding boots, and a hacking jacket - all of which would be fine if she'd been actually on a horse, rather than the South Bank, and if the entire outfit hadn't quite clearly come from Zara. I don't play football, I don't hike, and I don't sail (the week sailing round the Greek islands doesn't count, given I did more lazing on deck in a swimsuit than the actual act of piloting the boat) - so I don't dress to look like I do. The whole concept of dressing up to make it look like you do a hobby that you don't really is quite bizarre.
And anyway, as we all know, there's only one sure fire way to look properly horsey, and it's one I very much doubt the fashionistas would ever countenance: a thoroughly practical (and not necessarily stylish) jacket, sensible boots that bear the scars of several hundred trips to the field where the gate stands in a muddy quagmire, and all over or at the very least on your sleeves and thighs, patches of variously-aged, unidentifiable patches of greenish slime and slobber. But for some reason, that was missing from the list.