The inhabitants of the Lake District, home to the venerable foxhunting foot packs of Cumbria, have always been superstitious, their lives governed by beliefs and ritual to prevent bad luck. There were many beliefs, but the one I remember best is that in Wasdale a mother did not wash a baby’s arms until it was six months old. This, it was believed, would stop the child growing up to be a thief. As time passed, superstition of events and the cause of happenings became less, or did it?
On July 23, 1995, Alan Hale in New Mexico and Thomas Bopp in Arizona discovered, independently, an unusually bright comet outside of Jupiter’s orbit.
Now the approach of this comet in 1997, which became easily visible to the naked eye in the night sky, did not register on the radar of Pete who only saw stars after closing time, and would never dream of looking to the heavens anyway on his way home from the pub up the streetlight-less road. As the comet neared the sun it became brighter still in the night sky, and the talk in the billiard room was of nothing else. Even hunting took second place.
“I hear t’ hounds sit and howl at t’ bloody thing,” said Alan over his pint. “Auld Mary hasn’t slept for a while now; t’ whole pack starts yowling when it ga’s dark.”
(Mary was an old lady who lived near the kennels and spent her waking hours complaining about them and their occupants.)
Pete smiled. “Good” he said, taking a pull on his pint. “Hope the buggar stays forever.”
A ripple of agreement filled the room.
“She was moaning about the smell to me t’ other day,” I said. “Mind you the wind was in her direction, and they were doing the drains.”
General mirth carried round the room.
“They move in and buy up all the housing,” said Pete. “Push the locals out and then begin to moan about this and that which we take for granted.”
Mrs. Mary Hiley had “retired” from “London after a lifetime of service in the Civil Service,” and soon after her arrival began to stamp her mark on the village, forming various groups and societies, all of which were dedicated to restoring the village to its “original state,” an original state the locals were desperate to leave in the past.
Pete was right. At the time there was a move to bring in a speed limit (which subsequently happened) on the lakes, so the tranquillity of the area would not be broken by engine noise. The new “locals” also wanted (and still do) to ban low flying military jets who use the Lakes for training.
“T’ buggar’s will want hunting stopped an aw afore long,” said Alan prophetically.
The remainder of the evening was spent in “doing down” those who had “retired” to the area, and at closing time we went to our respective homes and beds. Overhead the comet was easily visible in the deep black night sky.
Now Pete was a superstitious man, and it did not take much for him to associate the loss (that very night) of several hens to the local fox, with the arrival of the comet.
“More likely the useless bugger forgot to fasten the door,” said Jack when he heard. “But things are definitely not quite the same since the comet arrived.”
Pete, much aggrieved, got on the phone to the Master of Foxhounds and a “bye day” was arranged at the hen house to deliver retribution for the loss of his hens. A few days later we stood in a biting wind surveying the rolling acres of Pete’s smallholding, with its piles of rusting agricultural machinery dotted around, watching hounds quest about for scent. At one end of the field an old pony cropped the grass, one eye on the hounds.
After a few minutes an old hound struck the line and with the rest of the pack dashed into a nearby wood and unkennelled the fox, who took off for the high fell with the pack in close pursuit. A big beaming smile spread across Pete’s face.
“That’ll teach you, yer bugger,” he grinned.
Suddenly the music of the hounds faded to an occasional bark, and then nothing.
“They’ve lost the bloody thing,” said Jack.
“Couldn’t have” I said. “They must have been viewing it.”
Suddenly the CB radio crackled into life. “What’s happening?” the electronic voice said. “Lost it,” went the reply. We stood watching the hounds milling about. They spread out searching the fellside for any trace of the fox but there was none. It had inexplicably disappeared.
Pete thought for a while. Clearing his throat and narrowly missing a sheepdog lying in the mid-morning sun, he said, “Ah towd thi, tis yon bloody comet. Nowt’s been the same since the bugger arrived.”
Jack thought for a moment. “You’re right,” he said. “You’ll need to make a sacrifice to appease the spirits. Perhaps you should give up the drink, and maybe our luck will change.”
Pete cleared his throat again. This time a great globule of spit landed on the head of the sleeping sheepdog who, awoken from a deep slumber, snapped at Pete’s leg. Choice words followed this brief exchange, and the sheepdog skulked off to a quieter place and returned to sleep.
The day was lost, the hounds were unable to once again get on the line of the fox, and we all went home. For the next few nights Pete was absent from the pub.
“Mine host,” monitoring his finances as closely as only a publican can, became so concerned about Pete’s prolonged absence, he went around to his house to enquire about his health. The following Saturday night I was watching Match of the Day when the phone rang. Thinking it to be an insomniac double-glazing salesman I answered it with a torrent of abuse. There was silence at the other end of the line, followed by the voice of Pete’s significant other.
“Please come and take him off to the pub; his sacrifice hasn’t worked,” she pleaded. “I’ve just looked out of the window, and the sodding comet’s still there.”
I abandoned the flickering screen and went outside. Making myself comfortable on the garden wall I looked upward to the heavens. The comet was there all right and if anything clearer than previous nights. It appeared to have two tails and was a truly spectacular site. I remember sitting there for ages lost in wonder.
Several nights later we looked in the direction of the comet and were surprised to see it had gone. The hounds returned to sleeping deeply on their straw covered benches at night, and the darkened hours were quiet. Mrs. Hiley briefly stopped complaining and even smiled. Holding forth in the back bar that evening, Pete’s explanation of the comet’s disappearance was simple.
“It’s gone off to spoil some other poor bugger’s life,” he said.
Posted August 24, 2010
Foxhunting Life is pleased to bring you the Further Experiences of Ron, Pete, and Jack. And nearly true at that! Visit Ron’s website for more.