Dove Crag in the rugged Lake District of Cumbria, England
A sheep trod wove its way up the steep fell side, gaining height with an ease unmatched by any route a human could devise. Following it and climbing all the time I skirted small outcrops of rock, crossed a stream full of melt-snow water at the best point to do so, and finally arrived on the ridge. Stopping to catch my breath, for although the route to a sheep would have been easy this human was very unfit, I gazed at the view in front of me. My horizon was filled with snow covered peaks under a bright blue sky. Warm sunlight bathed the ridge and gave a small crag to my left a sharpness normally unseen.
The Coniston foxhounds had disappeared to god knows where, and had been gone for some time. I’d watched them climb the fell side I now stood on. It had been a beautiful sight as they climbed, in a line, like as someone put it “a hound trail.” Their music had carried down the valley, growing fainter as they crested the ridge and then as they dropped into the next valley it disappeared altogether, leaving an eerie silence.
Having recovered my breath I walked across the top of the ridge and sat down in the lee of a boulder, got out my binoculars and scanned the valley below me. In the very bottom of the valley lay a lake, on this morning reflecting back the sunlight like some sparkling jewel. To one side a wooded fell side climbed up the steep heights, and the old familiar wall running along the top of the wood was easy to see. The road which ran along the lake shore was empty of cars, and I inwardly cursed.
At one time car followers were disliked by the “fell top” brigade. There were a variety of reasons given: for example it was claimed that the exhaust fumes would spoil the scent and damage a hound’s nose should the hunt go near the road. This dislike did not stop a “fell topper” using the location of the line of cars to give him an idea of where the hunt was, when he had lost it, or gratefully accept a lift at the end of the day. To be honest the dislike was based on jealously. However I digress.
A figure whom I recognised appeared on the opposite ridge. He stood silhouetted against the skyline, and I studied him in the mistaken belief he knew something about the hunt I did not. After a while his demeanour showed him to have as much idea as I had as to the whereabouts of fifteen couple of hounds. In other words, none.
I sat in the warm sunlight wondering what to do. No sound carried up to me except the occasional croak of a crow as it flew along the valley beneath me on its never ending patrol. A speck in the distance upon closer inspection proved to be a buzzard riding a thermal given off by the huge crag warmed by the mid-morning sunlight. A thought came to me and I focussed the binoculars on the boulder field at the base of Dove crag some two miles away. At first there was nothing, but suddenly a speck of white against the grey background of the rocks, and off to one side another fleck of white moving slightly.
Realisation dawned; I’d found the hunt. The fox had gone to ground in one of the many dangerous borrans at the base of the vertical crag. I looked closely at the boulder field but there was no sign of any human activity, and the behaviour of the hounds suggested the fox was quite deep in the borran and it was becoming increasingly difficult for them to mark its position. Traversing the binoculars to my right I picked up the path which climbs from the valley bottom and made out figures moving swiftly toward the hounds. Soon they were climbing into the boulder field and finally came to a stop around, I presume, where the fox had entered the borran.
A discussion would be taking place about the best course of action. Obviously the huntsman would have the final say, as in those days—the 1970s—there was no CB radio and usually he was unable to consult with the Master. However, I could not see a red coat in the group. The group stood around for quite a while, and I had decided that they had put a terrier or two into the borran. The hounds by now had more or less totally lost interest, and specks of white could be seen on the fell side well away from the crag.
Suddenly the sound of the hunting horn carried up to where I sat, its notes calling hounds in. The white specks began to move in the direction of the sound and finally I made out a figure dressed in red, standing on a distant fell side. The flecks of white responded to the horn and soon the huntsman and his pack began to climb away from the crag. Returning my gaze to the little group under the crag, I saw them moving up to join the huntsman and hounds. Both groups met, paused, and began to climb the fell side together, the hounds slightly ahead, spread out in their quest for scent.
It was decision time for me. Soon the hounds and figures would be lost to my view, and there was a stark choice between a steep, thousand foot climb in the hope I would meet up with them on the top, or the alluring descent and walk down the valley to the pub. For reasons I cannot explain, I took the former, and picking up my walking stick set off. At first I moved quickly until the gradient increased and I slowed. An occasional bark carried down to me. Suddenly there was an explosion of music, and I looked up to see the entire pack coming down the fell towards me, so close together a towel would have covered them.
A movement below caught my attention, and I turned to see a big fell fox passing below the sheep trod I was on. The fox stopped and looked at me, our eyes meeting for a moment, and then he jogged away, moving purposefully down the fell side until he disappeared behind a small outcrop of rock.
A few minutes later and several hundred yards further up the path another fox came toward me. This one was not jogging but running like hell, for behind and not all that far behind were the hounds. The fox passed not twenty feet from where I stood motionless. There was no eye contact this time, as he raced by and disappeared down the slope in the general direction taken by the other fox. I raced after him to look down the hill and was rewarded by the sight of the first fox lying under an outcrop of rock, watching the second. As it passed the first fox got up and went straight up the steep fell side. Hounds by now were passing me and upon reaching the point where the first fox had been, swung onto his drag and followed him up the steep fell side leaving the second to escape.
Now I had heard stories of this happening, but never saw it before or after that day. The first fox seemed to recognise the danger the second was in, and to my mind, intentionally drew hounds off and onto him.
And what happened then you ask? Well the bloody thing went straight back and into the borran and, like the other one which went in earlier that day, was left in peace. And you know something? He deserved it.
Posted May 24, 2013
For more of Ron Black’s work, visit his website dedicated to preserving the history, culture, stories, and songs of Lakeland hunting.