Cumbrian foot hunter Ron Black, a purist.“I am a native Lakelander,” writes Ron Black, “with roots going back to 1700, the fourth generation to follow hounds, with ancestors who stood on the cold tops at dawn, moved the heavy Lakeland stone to free trapped terriers, and also carried the horn on occasions. Hunting will not come back in the foreseeable future, perhaps not at all, but for three hundred years hunting and the church were the central thread to many communities. This is a part of the story.”
Ron Black has been a regular contributor to Foxhunting Life with his stories of hunting in the rugged fells of England’s Lake District. Foot hunting—the only pure way to hunt, Ron insists. And this, he also insists, is his farewell story.
I sat in the lee of the big boulder and watched the rainstorm disappear down the valley. Signs of its passing were everywhere. Small runnels of water ran down the fell side, water dripped off the crag behind me, and I was soaked. Oblivious to the rain, the huntsman remained out in the open, one foot up on a small boulder, his coat open to the waist.
Occasionally he blew a long blast on his horn. In dribs and drabs his pack came back to him save for two hounds on the opposite fell that seemed to be having a hunt of their own. A well dressed man of some girth, leaning against a rock, put down his binoculars and addressed us in a voice more accustomed to addressing the field from the back of some steed: “Heel way, I believe.” This caused some ill-concealed mirth from those of us who knew the secret destination of the hounds and a total blankness on the faces of those who did not—the huntsman, Master, and whip.
An old lad standing next to me blew a mouthful of smoke and asked, “What’s the joke?” I looked up at him. “They go and raid the dustbins back of the Sally (Salutation Hotel) on their way home,” I replied. “Been at it a while. They—I indicated the three hunt officials—don’t know yet! I don’t think they will be happy when they do.” The old boy spat on the ground, narrowly missing a beetle which had just emerged from shelter. “No,” he said, they won’t be.”
I sat back and watched the mist and low cloud begin to drift down the surrounding fell, it looked like a big storm was on the way but no one showed any sign of moving. By now the sterns of the two errant hounds had disappeared into the mist and presumably were well on their way towards a feed. I sat there watching the oncoming storm and my mind went back to lunchtime.
The sun had just crossed the yardarm when hounds killed above the out-gang track almost at the valley head. Them that do these things had had a hoot and a shout, and when the valley had gone quiet again, there was a discussion about what to do next. The consensus was for home, and we began the descent towards the village, the hounds ahead of us.
Suddenly a big fell fox jumped up almost in the middle of the hounds. Obviously a sportsman, he gave a disdainful flick of his brush and headed like a bat out of hell up the valley and over the top. We toiled along in his wake listening to the hunt climb out over the top and into the next valley, the hounds spread out like a hound trail. I caught a glimpse of the fox as he crossed the ridge. He paused to look back, again flicked his tail before dropping into the next valley. He was obviously a travelling fox who had traveled over into “our” valley in search of a mate and now traveled, admittedly a bit faster than he had come, back to ground he was familiar with.
By the time we arrived on the ridgeline it was all over. Pressed by hounds, the fox had dived into probably the worst borran in the area, a labyrinth of tunnels, dead ends, and drops. If that was not enough, above the entrance a boulder several tons in weight perched precariously. Over the years the hunt had given best to any fox that had gone in, the place was so dangerous. We arrived at the entrance puffing and blowing to find a young lad who for some time had been talking up his terrier preparing it to enter the borran.
“Nay, keep it out” someone said. The young lad looked aggrieved. “Be reet,” he said. “She’s a fighter.” A voice from below the borran carried up to the lad. “If you put thy dog in theer and it gets stuck, we will have to try and dig the bugger out with yon boulder waiting to fall on us. Leave it be.” We were joined by the whip, closely followed by the huntsman. The lad put the lead back on his terrier, which I swear breathed a sigh of relief.
And so we sat, watching the oncoming weather which soon enveloped us. Mists swirled, and big fluffy flakes of snow drifted by and began to settle. “Time to move,” the old lad said. “Where to?” asked the lad with the terrier. “I’m going home,” was the reply, and as one we rose and headed into the storm.
Posted April 29, 2017
(-Ed.) I enjoyed knowing you through our correspondence, Ron. Thank you for bringing some of the characters from your world to The Colonies (as you insist on referring to us) and reminding us how real men hunt the fox.