Broad Howe Borran, Cumbria, UK“They used to sit up all night on the borrans,” I said, taking a pull on my pint. Pete eyed me skeptically.
“Why?” he asked.
“To stop the bloody fox from getting in,” I said. “Don’t do it now, though.”
Pete thought for a while, always a dangerous procedure.
“Different kind of fox,” I said. “That was in the days of the old greyhound type.”
To be honest I don’t really know why the hunters of old went up the night prior to sit all night on the borran waiting til dawn to stop the hunted fox from getting in safely, but it is a well documented fact that they did.
“We could do that,” said Pete.
“What?” asked Jack who knew full well.
“Sit up on the borran overnight like the old lads,” replied Pete.
Jack who had been taking a drink from his pint almost choked, and the subsequent coughing fit nearly launched his dentures across the pub floor.
“No we can’t,” he said recovering his composure. “The significant other (referring to Pete’s partner) would never allow it.”
Pete smiled. “Putty in my hands,” he said. “Hounds are out early Sat morning. We can go up night before.”
“You’re doing what?” said my mother over breakfast next morning. “Bloody hell, it’s bad enough you going on the fell with that daft bugger in the daylight, but at night?”
I looked at her. “Be fine,” I replied. “Jack is coming as well.”
She sighed. “He is almost as bad,” she said.
Friday evening soon came around, and after getting changed and having my dinner I headed out to our meeting place—the pub. Pete was waiting and several pints ahead. Jack and I sat down and looked at him.
“We off then?” I asked. “Loads of time,” replied Pete. “Mine’s a pint.”
Eventually we got out of the pub, and in the twilight drove up the pass. This was in the pre breathalyser days where dangerous or not you could drink and drive. Parking the vehicle we climbed out and headed for the fell.
There had been a period of fine warmish weather in the days before our little adventure, and the night was clear but promised to be cold. Down in the valley a fox had been causing mayhem in the lambing fields for several nights. Normally I have no issue with foxes. It never bothered me if hounds did not kill, and at times I smiled to myself if the fox got away.
This fox was killing for the sheer pleasure of doing so, but doing it to an extreme, and several lambs per night were being killed for no purpose. It seemed fair to hand out retribution.
After what seemed ages we arrived above the borran in the increasing darkness. This borran is a big one, running several hundred yards across the fellside with many entrances, and once within, miles of passages and tunnels. It had played a significant role in the history of two fell packs, and many were the tales of rescue and failure. Explosive had been used in the past, and the signs are still evident today. We sat down.
“Going to be a long, cold night,” I said, taking out a flask of coffee. “Have a cup.”
Pete began to empty his pockets and lay the contents on a rock. Besides a pen knife and binder twine there was a torch.
Jack looked at him. “Good idea, that,” he said. “I left mine.”
Pete smiled. “Aye, going to signal to my lass at midnight we are ok,” he said.
Jack had another coughing session. “You’re bloody not,” he coughed. “You do that and Stuart Hulse and the rescue team will be up. We will have two doctors, a helicopter, and vehicles all over the place.”
Pete sighed. “Never thought,” he said.
“Nowt new there,” replied Jack.
“My lass will worry” Pete muttered.
“She will get out the insurance policies and be happy more like,” Jack grinned.
Pete continued to empty out his pockets, finally revealing the object of his search—a miniature bottle of whisky. He took a swig and handed it to Jack.
“Ron won’t drink it,” he said. “That’s why I bought it.”
I looked at the label on the bottle. Yup, it was Bells. (Readers of my stories may recall I have an intense dislike of Bells whisky, the stuff usually served at the start of many a meet in farmhouse or hostelry, and before “mi learned friend” instructed by J. Arthur puts down his secretary and sends me a writ, it is a personal thing. I prefer Talisker, but I am willing to try a crate of Bells and perhaps reconsider.) “Got it in one Pete,” I smiled. “Coffee for me.”
It was a long night; there was banter, gossip, and laughter. It was bloody cold as well. Midnight came and went and Pete compromised with a forlorn wave in the general direction of his abode in the valley below. We even had a sing-song, well a short one as the repertoire of known songs was quite limited, but Joe Bowman and The Mardale Hunt carried across the darkened fellside no doubt putting the fear of god into any passing fox.
Dawn was in the air, when Jack poked me with his walking stick. I awoke from a fitful sleep and looked around. In the valley below you could make out the flocks of sheep in the fields by the white painted farmhouses. The road we had driven up the previous night was empty of traffic, and our car had not been stolen overnight.
“Spread out,” said Jack. “Hounds are going.”
Very faintly on the light breeze the sound of hounds carried up to us high above the valley floor. We spread out along the top of the long series of borrans. I found a suitable rock and sat down with my back against it. To my right and some distance away Pete stood on the top of a small crag while Jack was away to my left. I got out my binoculars and began scanning the fell side beneath us. Suddenly the music of the hounds increased and traversing my binoculars I saw almost the whole pack tight together, moving quickly in our direction.
“The bugger’s coming,” cried Pete. “Just come through yon gap in t’ wall.”
I lowered my gaze and was rewarded with the sight of the fox coming our way, dodging around the boulders and small crags beneath our vantage point. I got up and began to run towards Pete, shouting and yelling. Jack close behind joined in.
“Whooo, whooo,” cried Pete like someone being strangled. He picked up a stone and lobbed it in the general direction of the approaching fox now in the boulder field at the base of the borrans. The fox paused and looked at him. I’m sure it mouthed “go to hell” before continuing its journey towards a gap in the rock, down which it went.
“Gone in,” muttered Jack, and, looking at Pete, “Useless bugger.”
Pete sat down.
“What’s he doing?” I asked.
“Thinking up an excuse for when the lads arrive,” replied Jack. “This is such a bad spot for terriers they will not even try.”
After a bit the entire hunt joined us on the borran: huntsman, hounds, terriers, Master and followers. There was a good turnout that morning. Pete just sat there quiet like, his fingers clicking the torch on and off, his mind elsewhere.
Ron Black is a regular contributor to Foxhunting Life. For more Cumbrian hunting history and commentary, visit Ron’s website.
Posted August 3, 2012