Deirdre Hanna
Lassie, Come Home
Halo: two years getting home / Illustration by Rosemary Coates
From The Hound Intelligence Series, published by Hounds Magazine (UK), edited by Deirdre Hanna, illustrated by Rosemary Coates. Click to purchase the 333-page collection.
Red Rock Halo by Lynn Lloyd, MFH
Years ago, in the mid-1980s, the Red Rock Hounds (NV) hunted an area in Northern California called Spencerville. The drive from Reno takes about four hours and crosses a mountain pass exceeding fourteen thousand feet at the summit. Here in Reno, we are about 5,500 feet above sea level, so the climb is substantial, and the range is vast. It is the same Sierra-Nevada range and the same pass (now Interstate 80) where the doomed Donner Party met their fate over the winter of 1846/1847 when they became snowbound migrating westward.
Coincidences of the Field
The author with renowned sporting photographer Jim Meads at the Peterborough Hound Show / Ginnie Beard photo
Life is full of amazing flukes—or coincidences—but for me by far the largest percentage have had something to do with foxhunting. So, starting at the beginning, I can hear the phone ringing and on the other end of the line is my Aunt April.
“You’ll never believe it,” she said, “but I’ve just been to the dentist and while sitting in the Waiting Room I picked up a copy of Hounds magazine. Remembering that you write for them, I was very interested to have a look at it. Imagine my amazement when I opened it and there was a photograph of my mother! She was riding side-saddle on her horse, San Toy, ready to hack to the meet.”
Young Handlers Classes Popular in UK
Captain Ian Farquhar and young handler at the West of England Hound Show, Honiton, in 2018 / Sarah Farnsworth photo
In response to the success and popularity of the Young Handlers Class established at the West of England hound show at Honiton, the organisers of The Harrogate and Peterborough hound shows have decided to hold their own young handlers classes for all hunts exhibiting at these shows in 2019.
Young Handlers Classes have been held for a great many years in the United States, chiefly at the Virginia and Bryn Mawr Hound shows, so we were delighted when, in the summer of 2016, the first Young Handlers Classes were held in England at some of our northern shows. The enthusiasm and zeal of these youngsters was remembered by those who ‘organise,’ and the following year at Honiton a full class of twenty youngsters put themselves forward to compete for the Captain Ronnie Wallace MFH Perpetual Memorial Trophy. The winner also received a hunting horn, and rosettes commemorating their participation were awarded to all entrants.
The Witch With Warts: Discovering America
Back in the late 1950s, Deirdre and her friend Sarah, both just nineteen, came to America from post-war Britain, where shortages still prevailed and ration books were in use. Sarah was to train horses and riders for Jamie Kreuz at Bryn Mawr Farms outside Philadelphia. Deirdre was to work for the Insurance Company of North America in Philadelphia and help Sarah on weekends. The pair's adventures discovering America, land of plenty, while struggling with a lively collection of foxhunting horses, timber horses, and show horses, have been published in these pages. (Use our Search function with the author’s name to find those stories.) What follows is a new installment revisiting “The Witch With Warts.”
Witch / Rosemary Coates illustration
Soon after our arrival in the States, Sarah and I were left in charge of Bryn Mawr Farms while the rest of the help went with the show horses to the Harrisburg Horse Show for the week. Jamie promised the two of us cubhunting from the farm and cocktail parties at the show as a reward. I took the week off as a break from my office job. This I quickly realized was going to be anything but a vacation.
High Jinks With Pink Gin
Back in the late 1950s, Deirdre and her friend Sarah, both just nineteen, came to America from post-war Britain, where shortages still prevailed and ration books were in use. Sarah was to train horses and riders for Jamie Kreuz at Bryn Mawr Farms outside Philadelphia. Deirdre was to work for the Insurance Company of North America in Philadelphia and help Sarah on weekends. Their adventures discovering America, land of plenty, while struggling with a lively collection of foxhunting horses, timber horses, and show horses, were published in five parts on these pages and popularly received. (Use our Search function with the author’s name to find those stories.) What follows is a new installment revisiting “Pink Gin, The Beer Swilling Timber Horse.”
Illustration by Rosemary H. Coates
Sarah and I had not been long in the States when Pink Gin arrived at Bryn Mawr Farms. Billy, who mucked out for us, was, as usual, the first to find fault with him.
“He do get drunk, he do. Proper beer-swiller he be. And he eats eggs and molasses with all his feed. Lord, if only I could eat like that!”
Badgering: A Fund Raiser for the Hunt
Deirdre Hanna, our elegant authorMany hunts are continually on the prowl for a new fund raising scheme. Here’s a game from Britain that may raise funds, but if the members get to brawling don’t blame FHL.
The idea of using badges to raise hunt funds was the brain-child of our Hunt Chairman and this is the way he made it work.
Every member of the Sennybridge Farmers' Foxhounds in Powys, Wales, was issued a badge at the start of the season. The badge cost £10.00 and the scheme was to last a year, until the start of the next season. According to the rules, all members had to buy a badge and show the badge at anytime, anywhere, when challenged by another Hunt Member, who also had to show their badge at the same time. Some minor points eased the situation for the ladies. Whereas a man had to produce his badge from a pocket, wallet, or coat, ladies could keep them anywhere on their person, as well as in their handbags or shopping bags.
Badgering: A Fund Raiser for the Hunt
*Many hunts are continually on the prowl for a new fund raising scheme. Here’s a game from Britain that may raise funds, but if the members get to brawling don’t blame me.* The idea of using badges to raise hunt funds was the brain-child of our Hunt Chairman and this is the way he made it work. Each member was issued a badge at the start of the season. The badge cost £10.00 and the scheme was to last a year, until the start of the next season. According to the rules, all members had to buy a badge and show the badge at anytime, anywhere, when challenged by another Hunt Member, who also had to show their badge at the same time. Some minor points eased the situation for the ladies. Whereas a man had to produce his badge from a pocket, wallet, or coat, ladies could keep them anywhere on their person, as well as in their handbags or shopping bags. Fifty pence was the fine for non-possession, and £10.00 to replace a lost badge. The money was paid in to the hunt by the challenger. Many people were caught several times, when on occasion their memory failed them, haste got the better of them, or they were forced to change plans (or pubs) when discovering they had left their badge at home. A member could only be caught once in twenty-four hours despite several challenges. One luckless young lady came out one evening badgeless and was immediately caught. Then, as the celebrations went on until the wee small hours, she was successfully challenged again, it being another day. Some people were caught in bulk. The lady publican at the most popular pub in the Hunt Country waited patiently by the swimming pool then caught half a dozen members in their swimming shorts as they came out of the pool. She had her badge in her swim suit. Eleven members, in football clothing, were caught during the interval at an inter-hunt football match! Our terrier lady—my mother (known as Mrs Mac)—who did the terriers on Tuesdays, now takes up the story: “So there it was,” she said. “Fifty pence while crossing the stepping stones in a river; fifty pence when climbing out of the swimming pool; where next, I wondered. “Next was to be by the edge of a grave. There we stood during the solemn funeral service with no one moving, until I got a nudge from the Chairman. I was horrified and told him he should not ask me for my badge here, of all places. He said that the deceased would have approved as he was always worried about bringing money into the Hunt. With these words, he considered his thoughtless manners were excused. “If I was on the hill, the badge would be in the terrier van; if I wore my duffle coat, the badge would be in my oilskins (for oilskins were what we hunted in, it rained so much); if I was putting terriers back in the van, the badge would be on the dashboard in front. It seemed at times that if I wore shoes, the badge would be on the other foot. “On Tuesdays I felt comparatively safe as the Chairman of the Hunt ran the Mobile Library for the County and worked on Tuesdays. So one Tuesday, the huntsman had asked me to take the terriers to the end of a drain where the water came out in a waterfall ending in a deep pool. As I slithered down the bank to my horror I saw the Chairman, up to his waist in water, and blocking the drain with his broadness. “He asked me if I had my badge—not if I had the terriers, of course not. I asked him what on earth he was doing here on a Tuesday and he told me he was having a day off, ‘to catch you out,’ he said. “For me it had been an extremely expensive winter, and in the end I tried to avoid anyone associated with the Hunt. I dodged down side streets in the town and even changed queues in the bank. But even the bank cashier was on the Hunt Committee. Finally I decided I had had enough and went to stay with my daughter who lived on the other side of England. Here I would be safe, I thought, and my paranoia about badges gradually subsided. “I judged the Terrier Championships and terrier shows in the east of England and began to relax. However, one day when we were traveling to Bedford I saw a straw-laden truck overtake us. Now there was nothing unusual about this; straw is often carried from East Anglia to Wales. However, I saw the lorry had Brecon licence plates. Then I saw the driver pull in at the cafe ahead of us where we too had planned to stop. As the driver got out I recognised him. It was none other than our huntsman who drove for a haulage firm in the summer. “I told my daughter I knew him (as she was puzzled because he appeared to be waving something at me). I told her I knew just who he was. He’s our huntsman, he’s waving his badge at me, and I’ve left my badge in Wales! “When I returned home a polite request from me to a farmer to produce his badge (as he sweated away cutting a thorn hedge) produced a very disgruntled reply. “I’m fed up with this b….y badge business,” he yelled, but great supporter that he is, I knew he’d be the first to volunteer if we started some other fiendish scheme next winter.” My mother finished by saying that ‘badgemail’ rather than ‘blackmail’ certainly paid off. The scheme produced a lot of good-natured camaraderie and jollity. It brought people together—even the shyest of people. They could always ask a hunt member they did not know well to show their badge (that is, if they ...
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Stinkum Dinkum and the Christmas Eggnog
Illustration by Rosemary CoatesBack in the late 1950s, Deirdre and her friend Sarah, both just nineteen, came to America. The pair had left Britain, where post-war ration books were still in use. Sarah was to train horses and riders for Jamie Kreuz at Bryn Mawr Farms outside Philadelphia. Deirdre was to work for the Insurance Company of North America in Philadelphia and help Sarah on weekends. What follows is Part VI of their adventures. Find the first five in the Horse and Hound drop-down menu, under Humor.
Dinkum was a hideous black horse with a foul temper. He acquired his stable name, Stinkum, right from the start. Billy, who mucked out for us, warned us about him as soon as we set foot in the barn.
Sex Spot: The White, Furry Menace
Back in the late 1950s, Deirdre and her friend Sarah, both just nineteen, came to America. The pair had left Britain, where post-war ration books were still in use. Sarah was to train horses and riders for Jamie Kreuz at Bryn Mawr Farms outside Philadelphia. Deirdre was to work for the Insurance Company of North America in Philadelphia and help Sarah on weekends. What follows is Part V of their adventures, which have included Part I: “How to Bridle a Green Field Hunter,” Part II: “The Witch With Warts,” Part III: "Pink Gin: The Beer Swilling Timber Horse," and Part IV: "Purrfec' Granary."
Illustration by Rosemary H. Coates
Two weeks after Sarah and I arrived in the States we were on the road northwards with twenty-five hunters. They were entered at the Piping Rock Horse Show on Long Island. The horses were loaded into nine-horse trailers for their journey. In the first compartment six horses faced each other across an aisle. Although three horses could be loaded into a separate compartment at the back, there was only one 11.2-hand pony in there—so small, he was up to his belly in straw. This was Sex Spot who would not travel with another horse; he had the three back stalls to himself. He got his name because he had a football-sized black spot on his rump, in an otherwise white coat.
Purrfec’ Granary
Back in the late 1950s, Deirdre and her friend Sarah, both just nineteen, came to America. The pair had left Britain, where post-war ration books were still in use. Sarah was to train horses and riders for Jamie Kreuz at Bryn Mawr Farms outside Philadelphia. Deirdre was to work for the Insurance Company of North America in Philadelphia and help Sarah on weekends. What follows is Part IV of their adventures, which have included Part I: “How to Bridle a Green Field Hunter,” Part II: “The Witch With Warts,” and Part III: Pink Gin: The Beer Swilling Timber Horse.
Illustration by Rosemary Coates
Sarah and I clearly remember Billy telling us about Purrfec’ Granary. Billy mucked out for us but he also had a way with words. This is how he described her infuriating ability to demolish stone walls and gallop off toward the rising sun.
“She lie down against a wall of stone—it's a trick she learned—and she do gently poosh that darned wall clean over. Then off she go wid ’er tail over herself!”
