Foot hunting in the Cumbrian fells / photo courtesy of Ron Black
Further adventures of our old friends Jack and Pete in Cumbria, a majestic landscape populated by some who might see themselves as the only true purists of our sport. We hope mounted foxhunters won’t take too much offense at this story. A little will be well justified, though!
With the benefit of hindsight and a few drinks, there was a certain inevitability about the whole affair. It began innocuously enough, with Jack sitting in the pub telling us that a friend had invited him out for a day with hounds. “Wot pack?” said Pete, muscling in on the conversation.
Jack named a mounted pack some miles down the motorway. Pete took it all in and thought for a moment. “They ride,” he announced. “Not getting me on a hoss, smelly bloody things.”
Jack sighed. “We can follow in the Land Rover,” he said. “They will give us a guide.”
I looked at Pete. “The significant other might find the thought of you astride some powerful grey, booted and spurred, quite erotic,” I offered.
“Chelsea have just signed him,” he replied. I fell for it. “Who?” He grinned. “Erotic, a central defender, now go and buy a round.”
Several days later found us outside a large farmhouse standing on the gravel drive. A steady stream of horse boxes and trailers arrived and disgorged their occupants, both two- and four-legged. Much was the tacking up, grooming, picking out of feet, and bandaging of legs. The substantial door to the farmhouse opened, and an elderly lady stepped out carrying a tray of glasses filled with alcohol. She moved among the riders who sat gossiping and chatting. A couple of excited mounts pawed the ground. Each rider was offered a glass, and as she passed our little group Pete seized the largest glass off the tray.
The elderly lady snatched it back. “Not until the riders have had one,” she glared. Chastised, Pete wandered off to look at the hounds. I was about to make some comment to Jack when we were almost knocked over by a very large chestnut horse. On his back sat an equally large woman in a red coat.
“Morning, Jack,” she boomed. “I see you have brought them.” Jack reached up and shook her hand. “I did Mary,” he replied, “but no good will come of it. They are at their best when seen on a fell top in the far distance.”
Just at that moment the big chestnut, which up to that point had been standing quietly chomping on his bit, decided to make a grab for a button on Pete’s jacket. Before Mary could react, Pete had punched the horse on his nose. The horse stepped back but followed up by making a grab at the front of Pete’s trousers. Mary regained control. “I’m sorry,” she spluttered. “He’s feeling his oats.” Pete eyed her suspiciously. “He’s not bloody feeling mine,” he said.
This exchange was brought to a stop by the arrival of the huntsman astride a coloured horse followed by fifteen couple of hounds. He rode up to Mary and doffed his cap. “Morning Master,” he said. “Grand morning.” Pete eyed the coloured horse suspiciously as Mary did the introductions. As we shook hands with the huntsman a voice behind us boomed out, “You’re supposed to lift your cap.” I turned around but before I could speak Pete replied. “Yer what? I lift my cap to no bugger. What age are you living in?” The huntsman looked down at Pete. “It is etiquette to doff your cap,” he said. Pete spluttered and was about to say something when Mary intervened.
“Jake,” she called to a scruffy, elderly man standing some distance away, viewing the proceedings with ill-disguised humour. The old man walked over and looked at Mary. “Yes, Master,” he said. “These are the three I told you about,” she replied. “I’m relying on you to show them around.” And, as an afterthought, looking at Pete, “Keep them out of trouble.” The huntsman smiled and, turning his horse, blew a blast on his horn and set off for the covert.
The old boy looked at us. “Come on then,” he said, “let’s go and have a laugh.” Jack looked at him quizzically. “Load of bloody toffs,” the old boy said. “I only come to watch the buggars fall off. I was up here the other night, and there’s a big dog fox in yon covert. It’s a good guess that when they get onto it it’ll go out by Devil’s Dyke. There will be bodies all over the place.” He spat on the ground and rubbed his hands together in anticipation, and headed for our Landrover.
A short while later we parked fairly close to the Devil’s Dyke. It certainly was an impressive place. I wouldn’t even have climbed over it, let alone jumped a horse. True to his prediction, soon after, a fox appeared, crossed the dyke and glanced over his shoulder. On the breeze came the sound of excited hounds and the horn blowing ‘gone away.’ Down the hedge line a whipper-in positioned for this eventuality stood up in his stirrups and pointed with his cap in the direction taken by the fox.
“Now for a bit of fun,” said Jake as the air was filled with the sound of approaching horses, and I’m certain I heard a woman shriek, “Slow down you bastard!” presumably to her horse. The first flight of riders cleared the obstacle, but the first horse of the second wave fell, unseating its rider and bringing down several others. The old boy lit a fag and exhaled the smoke. “God, I love hunting.” he said.
We looked at each other. It wasn’t quite the morning we had anticipated. “Lads met at the White Hart this morning,” said Pete. “They’ll be on the fell at the back of it. How far will it be, Jack, from here?” Jack thought for a moment. “About an hour,” he said. “Let’s be gone,” said Pete, “this is not for us,” and with that he climbed into the Landrover, doffed his cap in the general direction of the carnage, and slammed the door.
Posted April 7, 2015
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