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HORSE & HOUND - 26.12.02
"It was Christmas Day in the Work House, The Master called down the
Halls 'Did you enjoy your Christmas Dinner? And the inmates answered…'Yessir,
please Sir'. I cannot remember where this snippet came from and it does
not end quite as I have written it here, but that sainted man, the great
Mr Clayton, used to like to remind me - 'Horse and Hound is a family magazine
and we must not upset the Pony Club' - Nossir, please Sir. I used to hate
Christmas, when I was hunting hounds, because it used to deny me from
enjoying the festive season with my family. I hate it even more now for
precisely the opposite reason - I now have no excuse to keep me from the
festive family board - all that forced jollification with paper hats,
crackers and screaming and the three line whip to 'enjoy myself - don't
I know it's Christmas?' Oh I know all that all right. All those ghastly
kids - can they really all be relations? I know that we are supposed to
love our families, but mine are all so unremittingly awful. Woe betide
the awful child that gets told: 'Go on, give Uncle Willy a big kiss -
cheer him up!' Then I have to explain that its ear is only a little bit
crumpled and will soon grow back into shape (probably) and whose dreadful
offspring is it anyway? Well, then cannot it not be kept under control?
Dammit all, none of my dogs try to smear me with semi digested Christmas
pudding and if you chose to think that this makes me an unregenerate old
curmudgeon, then you are not wrong. In my early days as a Master / Huntsman,
I used to make it a matter of honour that all of my tiny staff, got Christmas
Day off even if it meant my doing Hounds and Horses. I used to rather
like pottering about in the Yuletide calm that used to settle over the
establishment. Some kind person or other would always ask me to share
their festive board and I would always refuse. A cold bird of some sort
always found its way to my kitchen table, along with a wedge of Christmas
pudding and some wonderful clotted cream from the farm down the road.
I would open a bottle of wine and read a book whilst browsing and sluicing
- peace, perfect peace. After lunch, I would pull a cracker with myself,
put on the paper hat and go and spend an hour or so sitting with hounds
in the lodges. Then it would be time to feed round the stables. Christmas
was not always so peaceful. The one I remember best is the one when I
had 5 big south Devon cows to pick up. The reason for this was that the
knackerman, who usually got all the good stuff, was as they say in Devon,
'up to bed, poorly.' The reason for this seasonal malaise was that he
had been on an almighty bender on Christmas Eve (no doubt wetting the
head of the Baby Jesus - religion can take you in mysterious ways) so
that he could not raise his head from the pillow on Christmas Morn. None
of the farmers concerned wanted Old Buttercup with her legs sticking up
in the air in the yard, when the family came a-visiting, so they rang
me instead. I really did not mind. I made myself a packet of cheese sandwiches
and set out on a round that took me nearly 100 miles. One cow had occasioned
her own demise by falling into quarry. The only way I could get her out
was to skin her and cut her up where she lay. The component parts were
then hauled up the quarry face with ropes. All the farmers concerned were
extremely grateful and insisted on a Christmas ration of 'Oh-be-Joyful',
whilst their wives insisted on stuffing my pockets with cake and mince
pies. It was wonderful sunny, frosty day and I felt at peace with the
world as I weaved along the empty lanes (no breathalyser in those days)
belting out carols. The Hunt Ball always took place round about Christmas.
In those far off days I quite enjoyed them and set off for the revels
in my little Morris 1000 pick-up (grand little cars) I used the pick-up
(a) because there was nothing else and (b) because I had a Blackie Tup
(decd) to pick up en route. My younger brother was staying with friends
in the neighbourhood and was also to attend the revels (his first). He
appeared to enjoy himself greatly, until for some reason he was discovered
recumbent on the floor of the gents. With three stalwart farmers and an
arm and a leg apiece, we carried him out and shovelled him into the back
of the pick up. I promptly forgot about him until the next morning, when
I rediscovered him wrapped in what appeared to be an erotic embrace with
the tup (decd). Happy Christmas, one and all.
HORSE & HOUND - 12.12.02
Right then, the first question is where do we start? History and mythology
are both full of hunters and this is not surprising - Huntsmen have
always been important people. This is because they have always been
admired and valued for their skill in 'bringing home the bacon' whether
in the literal sense of dragging a woolly rhino up to the cave entrance,
or the more refined sense of producing a classic hunt across the cream
of 'High Leicestershire.' Most have disappeared in the dust of time,
but a few names linger. Nimrod is still used as a hound name and as
a description of a dedicated hunter, but who was he? He was King of
Babylon (c. 2,000 BC) and was a 'mighty hunter before the Lord', but
times have changed since his day and any comparison would be impossible.
We must make a bold forward cast to the birth of what might be called
'modern hunting' and its generally accepted 'Father' - Hugo Meynell
- Master of the Quorn from 1753 - 1800. This was the heyday of the 'Enclosures
Acts' when fences were first planted and England changed from a land
of open Commons to the 'patchwork quilt' we have grown accustomed to.
Hunting speeded up to accommodate those who wished to ride fast over
the new fences, rather than those to whom hunting was still an act of
Venery. This meant the breeding of a new and faster type of hound and
a change to huntsmen capable of coping with the new dispensation. Two
great names from this period were the two 'Tom Smiths.' Thomas Assheton
Smith started the Tedworth in 1826 and hunted the country until his
death in 1858. Napoleon referred to him as 'le plus grand chasseur d'
Angleterre' on account of his fearless horsemanship. Many think that
the title more properly belongs to Tom 'Gentleman' Smith (a.k.a - 'Craven'
Smith), who hunted the Craven from 1829 - ? He made a huge reputation
on that ferociously cold scenting country - one season catching 91 foxes
in 92 days. He was the inventor of the 'Tom Smith's patent all-round-my-'at-cast'
so beloved of Mr Jorrocks and many discerning huntsmen since. It is
best described in his own book and in Lord Willoughby de Broke's famous
'Hunting the Fox' , published in 1920 and still the best textbook on
the subject ever written. I used to read it every year before the start
of hunting and I would strongly advise every huntsman (however experienced)
to do the same - if he can find a copy. It is a treasure. I have heard
it said that the 'Golden Age' of hunting was from c.1860 to the Kaiser
War and then again from 1920 - 1940. It is sad, but no coincidence that
this was a period of 'Low Farming' (there was as much plough in 1850
as there is today) when thousands of acres went back to grass and fattening
cattle. The two stars of this period were Frank Freeman of the Pytchley
and Tom Firr of the Quorn. Much play has been made of which was the
best, but sadly their careers did not overlap. Freeman was a terrifying
man who turned out many of the fine professional huntsmen of the last
century. The C20th also turned out many of the great amateur huntsmen
of all time. Mr Isaac Bell is the first that springs to mind. I nearly
got to meet him, but not quite. Comparisons are odious. I am not going
to attempt to compare the men I regard as great merely to list them
as they come to mind. They were all men who hunted different sorts of
country with different sorts of hound, what they all had in common was
- SUCCESS. That lovely man Capt Charles Barclay (Puckeridge) , Sir Peter
Farquhar (Meynell and Portman) Mr W. Scott (Portman ) Maj 'Chatty' Hilton
Green (N.Cotswold, Cottesmore) Lt Col R. Eames (Cotley) Sir Edward Curre
(His Own) Major R Field Marsham (Eridge) Sir A.Goodson (College Valley)
Mr I Hedley (Border) the late, great, Duke of Beaufort (his Own) Mr
M Roffe-Sylvester (Taunton Vale Harriers) Capt P.Williams (Four Burrow)
and my great friend and mentor and 'bugger you, you bloody boy' Mrs
Mary Douglas-Pennant (Dartmoor and one of the very few women to hunt
their own hounds). All these were heroes of mine and were people to
whom I, and all of us, owe a huge debt of gratitude. Of course I have
a few current heroes, but I am not saying who they are (except Mr I.
Hedley- going strong in his 90s) the others will have to wait until
they pop their clogs before I tell them. But surely there is someone
missing - one man whom I have forgotten? Don't be silly - who could
forget the Late Great Capt R.E.Wallace. Now what a textbook on Hunting
he could have written.
HORSE & HOUND - 28.11.02
Many years ago, when I was a callow youth, I used to spend
much time inventing entries for Baily's Hunting Directory for imaginary
packs of hounds, which I would one day hunt. I even gave thought to
what I would do when I was no longer fit to hunt foxhounds - real or
imaginary - when I was "old and drunk and rather lame and something
of a bore" - that comes from a poem I wrote for Horse and Hound
and which I cannot find, but which many would say was remarkably prophetic.
One of the things that I invented for my declining years was a little
pack of Basset Hounds, which I would scouse about with on an old cob.
That dream, like many others, came to nothing in my case. However, another
much more practical man had the same dream and has turned it into reality.
Martin Letts, Esq. is a practical man and although he is not a man with
whom I have always seen eye to eye, I am happy to admit that he is one
of the finest hound men of our time and has become justly famous as
breeder and huntsman of the College Valley Foxhounds, which were passed
on to him by his wife's uncle, the even more famous Sir Alfred (Bill)
Goodson. I understand that these wonderful hounds have now passed into
the ownership of Mr Lett's daughter Diana - as staunch a pair of hands
as ever could be. I once caught one of Mr Letts's foxes for him, something
that caused a rift in our relationship for a time, so it is meet and
right that he should pinch my dream. Mr Letts is 68 and has hunted the
CVH since 1964. He has very properly taken thought for his 'otium cum'
and has started the 'Cheviot Vale Hunt', which practical man that he
is allows him to use the 'College Valley Hunt' button. The Cheviot Vale
consists of 5 couple of Basset Hounds. I admit to knowing next to nothing
about Bassets. The only pack that I have ever hunted with was in Gloucestershire.
I remember them as being rather heavy, long wheel base jobs, 'dewlapped
like Thessalian bulls', but with a wonderful sonorous cry. Their problem
seemed to be that they were not too fussy in the selection of their
quarry and were as happy hunting 'full astern' as they were 'full ahead.'
This made them quite easy to keep in touch with. Mr Lett's hounds are
very different animals. They are by a Bleu de Gascon Dog. BDGs are blue
mottled hounds that seem to come in various different sizes to hunt
various different quarries. The BDG dog was put to a couple of Dummer
Beagle bitches which might make them a Beasset or a Bagle - whatever,
they are very serious hunting hounds and, as Mr Letts pointed out -
"Bassets don't like being laughed at." - not that you would
have time to - these active, fit looking little hounds do not hang about.
They were on their noses from the moment they were unboxed. They are
mostly black and white with quite a lot of blue mottle. The meet was
at Quarry House, an isolated farm high up on the bleak ridge of heather
moor from which you can see the Cheviots to the West and the North Sea
to the East. There were half a dozen cars, 2 mounted ladies and me on
my quad. Mr Letts was mounted on Patrick his famous piebald cob. This
remarkable animal had started life as a shepherd's pony on the Lammermuirs.
It is often abandoned by its rider and will stand like a rock until
rescued. Miss Letts was whipping in on foot and I hope she will not
be offended when I say that she runs like a Cheviot goat. Hounds found
in a small plantation and were quickly away across a great expanse of
heather clad blanket bog, where they could be well heard (a wonderful
cry) but not seen. The hare came lopping along the bog road. Scent was
poor with an easterly wind and a black haze, but a nice hound hunt followed,
all round the knowe where I was sitting and eating my bait. I must say
that the CV Bassets are the most determined little devils and nothing
seems to get their heads up, even when hunting the line at right angles
to the hare that has just jumped up in front of them. If I wanted to
be unkind, I would say that they had all the determined bloody mindedness
of their master, being quite impervious to all threats and cajolery
and, as a result, we had a really very nice hound hunt on a day when
a lesser team would have given up long before. I am sure that Mr Letts
and his sporting little hounds will have great fun and I look forward
to my next day with them. I know that my dream is in good hands.
HORSE&
HOUND - 7.11.02
We met, by chance, in a bar in Moscow, of all unlikely places. He was
obviously English and so (obviously) was I. So in the desperation that
soon infects all visitors to Moscow, we began talking. It soon transpired
that he worked for the late and unlamented MAFF and was in Russia to
advise on the training of Russian vets. In fact the term 'Russian Vet'
is an oxymoron. It seems that Russian vets are all trained in the classroom.
Hands on training with real live animals is unheard of. In this respect
it is rather like reading for a degree in 'Countryside Management' in
this country - all puff and no practice. I heard of one of these strange
creatures who was trying to lecture a farming seminar on hedge laying
- he had never started a chainsaw or laid hand on a billhook in his
life. But back to the vet - when I discovered his profession the conversation
wound its way round to Badgers. I asked him how he stood on the vexed
question of Badgers and TB. It was like lancing a nasty boil - the poison
came pouring out. My companion worked at Tolworth which was the veterinary
advisory division of MAFF and, for all I know, now serves the same function
for DEFRA. It was quickly apparent that relations between Tolworth and
Whitehall were on a par with those between the Russians and the Chechens.
This was at the time of what was euphemistically known as 'The First
Chechen War' and conveniently ignores the fact that the Russians and
the Chechens have been fighting each other for at least 200 years and
look set to fight each other for the next 200 or the complete annihilation
of the Chechen nation, which ever comes first. It seemed that the Tolworth
vets were in absolutely no doubt as to the connection between Badgers
and TB and had been in no doubt for some years. However, Whitehall considered
the findings politically unpalatable and kept pushing them into a heap
on the side of its collective plate, destined for the gash bin. It was
perhaps unsurprising that word of the Tolworth position seeped out to
the NFU. A friend of mine was at that time, some sort of Head Shed in
the NFU and was part of a delegation to beard the Minister in his Whitehall
lair. The Minister at that time was Douglas Hogg (known throughout the
corridors of Power as - 'Piglet'). His response was electric and unhelpful.
I quote: "If you load of c-ts think that I'm going to get up in
the House and recommend a slaughter of Badgers you must think that I
am a bigger c-t than I look!" To this there could only be one response:
"Yes, Minister!" So there, that's where we were and that is
where we still are, waiting on the result of yet another enquiry - I
have lost count of how many there have been - which will result in a
lot of fudging and obfuscation and, almost certainly the setting up
of yet another learned and scientific enquiry. In the mean time the
Badger population will continue to increase and the disease will continue
to spread amongst it and from thence amongst the National Herd. Bovine
TB looks set fair to join the ranks of infamy alongside BSE and FMD.
In the mean time the politicians will continue to twiddle their thumbs
and to whistle for a wind to come and blow the whole nasty business
away. The ridiculous thing is that the science has already been done.
The Irish Government has already done a trial (called, I think, the
'Laoix Experiment' although I am prepared to stand corrected on this).
In this trial, a control area was selected and every badger in that
area was killed - the result? TB vanished as well. I have a friend who
has a large, old established and very valuable beef herd. He also had
multiple badgers. Not long ago he had the first 'reactor' he had had
in 50 years. He was devastated. I spoke to him the other day and asked
how the herd was? Clean as a whistle, he said "But what about the
badgers?" I asked"All gone." He said "How did that
happen?""You know" he said -"that's what's been
puzzling me." Control of the ever-increasing Badger population
is a nettle that must be grasped. This is not just for the sake of the
National Herd, but for the Badgers as well. We have a population of
sick and infected badgers. Under the present dispensation these badgers
are condemned to a lingering and horrible death. All this because the
Government is terrified of the Bunny Huggers. These well meaning, but
ignorant people are visiting a cruel end on the very animals they wish
to protect. They are, in fact, killing by kindness. I do not think that
Old Brock has any reason to be grateful to them.
HORSE & HOUND - 31.10.02
Over the last year or so, I have quite often taken a somewhat negative
view on the actions and re-actions of the Countryside Alliance. The
time has come to eat a slice of 'humility pie'. Whatever its imperfections
(and every organisation has them) it has proved to be more right than
wrong. If any reader can name me another organisation that could put
more than 1 million boots tramping peacefully through the streets of
London, then I will buy them a gold painted watch from the Portobello
Road. More than a million? Well, it is only fair to include the coach
loads of wretched people who drove more than 6 hours to march, only
to have their coaches turned round and sent home by the Old Bill without
their occupants being allowed to even set foot on a London Street. Anyone
suffering from DVT as a result should sue the Met. I admit that I had
grave doubts about achieving numbers that put the last march in the
shade - a doubt that was shared by some regional organisers. One confided
with me that he teetered on the brink of cancelling a booking for a
3rd special train (at £23 K a time), only to wish that he had
gone for 4. It is fair to say that these doubts were shared by the Media,
as a whole. Much of it doubted that the CA would achieve the magic figure
of 100,000. But to be fair to the Media (something I am sometimes reluctant
to be) once the figure of 407,791 had been established as official,
the Media was on the whole unstinting in its praise, both for the massive
turnout, its behaviour and its organisation and, above all, its good
humour. I particularly like the picture of marchers and police applauding
each other in Whitehall - a picture worth many thousands of words. To
wile away the journey home in the train on the Monday, Mrs Poole got
copies of the National Dailies. With a few predictable exceptions the
coverage was firmly on the side of the Marchers. The Daily Telegraph
(always a pro hunting and countryside stalwart) pointed out that - 'Most
of marchers were unpolitical people, but it is when unpolitical people
feel affronted by politics that politicians have to start worrying.'
The Times pointed out that - 'It is an achievement to have brought these
people to the boil, an achievement of bad government.' The Daily Mail,
which is by no means a supporter of hunting on the whole - 'As the marchers
reminded us, Mr Blair and his colleagues ignore the inextricable link
between the interests of town and country at the nation's peril.' The
Mirror described the march as a 'wakeup call for New Labour.' Even the
Sun managed a bit of positive coverage, pointing out that - 'The countryside
marchers were not toffs; they were real hardworking people, genuine
people.' There were dissenting voices. The Guardian could not ignore
the facts, but managed to be snide and peevish, concentrating on gins
and tonics in what it referred to a 'some of London's swankiest clubs'
although the ones it managed to penetrate seem to have been only second
division at best. The BBC ran the march first as 'head of the news',
and then did its best to ignore it. This is not surprising when you
remember that it later had to sack the News Editor of BBC radio for
an intemperate article that he wrote in the Guardian about 'fusty and
belch laden club dining rooms' as though no one ever breaks wind in
the 'Today' studio. The up sum of all of this is that the last March
got a much more positive and up front coverage, than the first one did.
There is more than one reason for this. Even a hardened and cynical
urban press cannot ignore a genuine triumph and getting a million boots
through London without anyone being kicked IS a triumph and a matter
for heartfelt relief. Such a huge crowd is bound to be volatile and
what would have happened if one act of political heavy handedness (remember
that Blair wanted Straw to get the police to stop the first march) had
lit a spark does not bear thinking about. The other reason is that since
its beginning the CA and the Campaign for Hunting have worked incredibly
hard to change political and press perceptions. The result has been
an undoubted sea change in the way that the media deals with hunting.
I would say that 5 years ago pretty well every newspaper was to some
degree anti-hunting and relied on the 'red faced, Old Etonian, ex cavalry
officer' cliché for those who hunted. Whilst such interesting
creatures do exist, the media has realised and accepted that it is not
the whole truth and that there is more to hunting and rural life than
convenient clichés. The exceptions to this change are the BBC
and the Daily Mirror, but what are they themselves if not sad clichés.
HORSE & HOUND - 17.10.02
Our Opening Meets might be complicated this year. You will have noticed
(sharp aren't you? Have they bred from you?) that I write 'meets'. This
is because we have two opening meets - one in England and one in Scotland.
This is because we cross regularly from one country to the other, which
is why our Hunt is called 'The Border'. So this year there will be certain
subtle differences. In Scotland there will be no red coats, or top hats
and we shall be festooned with firearms so that we all look like extras
from 'The Magnificent Seven'. I have broken off from the task of stripping
my rocket launcher to write this. My heat seeking missile gonna take
out that bad ol' Brer Fox an' Lord Mike he gonna say: "Yee- ha!
Way to go Boy! You sho'lly did bust his ass." (Or whatever that
might be in Glaswegian demotic). Mind you we do not go in for top hats
and red coats much on the English side. The Border hunt coat is officially
'Steel Grey'. This was the colour of the old local cloth woven from
Cheviot Wool. It was heavy, warm and impervious to weather. Sad to relate,
none has been woven since the Hitler War. The huntsman and the Whipper-in
now wear black coats. The field, most of whom will come straight to
the Meet from their morning shepherding round, wear their work wear,
which is practical rather than pretty. This is a fair description of
the winter weather in the Cheviot Hills. 'Twas not ever thus with me.
For me, the opening Meet meant an orgy of bulling, boning and polishing
top boots and garter straps - brasso and button sticks for hunt buttons
- the scrubbing and brushing of hunt coats and the boiling through and
reaming out of the horn - to get rid of all the old bits of moustache
and saliva left over from last season. In the bigger kennels, hounds
were often 'brothed' - they had buckets of warm gravy poured over them
so that they would lick each other to shininess. In the stables there
would be an orgy of polishing, strapping and plaiting. Every year I
would tell Roger that I hated plaited manes. Every year he would say
- "Very good, Sir" and every year I would have a horse with
a neat row of plaits. The Hunt Staff would also be scrubbed and shiny,
with hair cut to Guard's Depot standards. This makes me think of 'Peter
the Boy'. Many years ago, my stables were run by 'The Missus'. The Missus
was a terrifying old lady. She had been Master of those hounds for many
years, hunting hounds herself. She had a stammer and a flow of demotic
English such as would have made a Corporal Major blush. She recognised
a prize poop when she saw one and, as she had once had a soft spot for
my uncle, she undertook the running of the stables and me: "You're
no b-b-bloody good, B-B-Boy" she said - "but I'll make a f-f-fucking
Master out of you." What I thought of her you can judge by the
fact that 40 years later a picture of her with her hounds still has
a central place on my dressing table. Under her iron regime girl grooms
came and went with great rapidity and regularity until she said: "F-f-found
you a g-g-good boy, B-b-boy." Peter the Boy came. The Missus's
comparison of him to a badger's arse was not wrong, but he scrubbed
up not too bad for a boy from a bog on the back of the Moor. He was
a dreamy youth, but rode well; his main problem was his hair, which
swept his shoulders and this in the days before Flower came to Power.
"Get your hair cut, Peter." I would say "Yessir!"
he would say and the hair grew. Peter was to ride Second Horse to me
and I began to think I might have to fit him with a hay-net. I consulted
the Missus: "L-l-leave it to me, Boy" she said. The hair got
longer. The Opening Meet got closer. I was doing a bit of skinning when
I got a message to attend upon the stables, where pre-season clipping
was in progress. The Missus was standing on a chair, tidying up a forelock.
Peter was in his usual dream, holding the twitch. The Missus dismounted
and oiled the clippers: "Now P-p-peter" she said -"I
think the Master told you to get a haircut?" "I reckon 'ee
did, Missus." "Right you bugger!" she grabbed him by
the hair, pushed him into the chair and switched on the clippers - "M-m-move
a bloody inch and I'll cut your f-f-fucking ear off!" How I rejoiced
as the silken locks fell to the floor, until just a tiny topknot remained:
"There you are, B-b-boy. T-told you, I'd get his h-hair cut."
It's the opening Meet to-morrow. I've washed the quad, oiled my boots
and I'm just popping down the village for a haircut.
HORSE &
HOUND FOR 28.9.02
Silkhopehead is not near anywhere, except for its parent farm of Silkhope,
deep in the valley below. The farm is several thousand acres of rolling
white grass and bracken. To the west is the dark line of trees that
are the probing fingers of the great Kielder Forest - Europe's largest
man made forest and a haven for foxes. On average, Silkhope loses 50
lambs to foxes every year. Farmer Tim is glad to see hounds. The meet
was at 0900 - there is little point in meeting at sparrow-cough in the
high hills. I was late for the meet and I could see the white shapes
of hounds already fanned out in the big bracken bed behind the old ruined
steading that marks the meet. There was a steady hum of quads as they
spread out across the hills. Other quads were bumping in from out-bye.
The Herds had done their early morning rounds and were coming in for
'a day at the Hounds'. Hounds are for fox control in these wild uplands
and the Herds regard helping the hunt as part of their duties. There
are no coverts, as such, on Silkhope, but there are hundreds of acres
of thick green bracken where the foxes live and breed. I can see the
lithe figure of the master as he walks without apparent effort up the
steep slope opposite. After the horrific damage to his hip and thigh
2 years ago, he finds foot and quad more comfortable than a horse. Joseph,
amateur whipper-in and deputy huntsman, when necessary, is riding the
hunt horse. There are 3 ladies out on horses. There about a dozen of
us on quads, including 'Corporal Jones', game keeper and the designated
marksman of the day -the 'Scotch Fence' is only a mile away, by the
crow. 'Holding-up' is not practised on the hills and never has been
- you try holding up 500 acres of bracken - the hunting is wild and
open from the beginning. The first bracken bed is blank, but hounds
are speaking in the next valley and are soon in full cry. The bracken
is so tall and thick here that hounds cannot be seen. We follow their
progress by sound and the occasional sighting across a patch of bare
ground. The cry swells and my neck prickles - the first find of the
first fox of a new season - when that fails to excite me, I shall give
up hunting. The 'Corporal' has the fox 'in visual', with his 20x20 vision
- "he's up yon trod (sheep track) behind the black hut (hay shed)."
Damned if I can see him. Foxes are bad to pick out on these rough hillsides.
Ah! I see him - a dark loping shape heading effortlessly uphill. "Sh*te!
But he's for the forestry, I doubt". You can see the tops of the
first dark line of trees beyond the top of the next ridge. Hounds are
screaming on the line. It is a cool cloudy morning and there is a serving
scent. We see the line of hounds climbing out on the line of the fox.
There is nothing to do but watch and wait. The radio crackles. It is
the master in the bottom seeking information. We all carry VHF handsets.
It may not be conventional practice, but they are useful tools in this
rolling wilderness. "They're into the trees." And even from
a mile away we can hear the difference in the cry - deeper amongst the
Sitka. We wait. It is my contention that if hounds run a fox into the
trees he will often come out again. He does. The radio crackles again.
Hounds are running hard above Cocken Head - the next valley over. It
is a rough ride round, but when I arrive hounds are marking at a rock
place across the valley. Hounds are held back and no less than 3 foxes
pop out of the rocks. There is a track down the valley and I slip on
in time to see a big cub cross the road in front of me. There is no
need to holloa - hounds are hard on the line: "Was he playing the
bagpipes?" says the radio. He was. Fox and hounds ran hard parallel
to the Scotch Fence for a mile then over the Border and into a different
legal situation. Corporal Jones has loaded his shotgun, but the fox
is into a big badger sett, where he is left. Back in England, there
is a big 'rusher bed' which is nearly a certain find and which gives
us another busy two hours and two foxes marked to ground. People sometimes
ask our Master how long he intends to be out for? To which he replies:
"Until Hounds are tired." This moment comes at about 1600.
So 7 hours hunting and 22 miles clocked up on the quad - not bad for
a first morning. That is Autumn Hunting in the Hills.
HORSE &
HOUND - 12.9.02
The falcon stooped - 'she'll have the beggar' I said to myself, but
the Corby (Carrion Crow) put in a desperate jink and flew under a herd
of beasts, at the same time the other crows began to mob the falcon,
which was recalled to the Falconer. Falconry is one of the oldest of
Field Sports, having been recorded in China some 4,000 years ago. In
this country it probably reached its peak of popularity in the Middle
Ages. It gradually declined thereafter and was overtaken by shooting.
With such an ancient tradition it is not surprising that many words
from Falconry are in everyday use. A Falcon 'boozes' when it drinks
its fill. When it gorges itself on a kill, it is 'fed up' and disinclined
to further activity. That sweet little 'mews' where Jonquil and Emma
live was once a quiet place where hawks moulted in peace.The training
and keeping of hawks requires immense, skill, patience and time. It
has become very much a specialist sport. Dr Nick Fox is one of our foremost
specialists. He is Master of the Northumberland Crow Falcons. His home
base is in West Wales, but he has a farm near Corbridge and most of
his hawking territory is in the wide open spaces of the Cheviot Foot
hills. The Corby Crow is a thief and a murderer - the collective noun
for crows is a 'Murder'. Crows are big birds with a dagger like beak.
They rob nests, gobbling up eggs and fledglings. They will peck the
eyes out of weakling lambs and if a ewe is on her back they will have
her eyes and peck out her rear end. Farmers are all too pleased to see
the blighters killed. Dr Fox's season is from 1st August to Sept 30th.
The birds he uses are mainly Peregrine / Saker crosses - Peregrines
for speed and Saker (Desert Falcons) for tenacity and the ability to
kill on the ground. Most of his falcons weigh 800 - 900 grams - big
enough to deal with crows of which they take about 150 in a season.
Normally between 6 and 10 birds are kept in hunting condition and he
has 4 Falcons which have taken over 500 crows between them. The Master
and the members of the NCF wear traditional green coats. They are mounted
on small, agile horses, able to cope with the many miles of rough and
often boggy terrain. The Master rides in the middle, while the followers
spread out on either side, spotting for crows. The Master carries a
hooded Falcon on his left hand. He wears a thick leather gauntlet for
this and if you study a Falcon's talons you will see why. An experienced
follower will often carry a back-up bird. When a crow is sighted and
deemed 'hawkable' by the master, the falcon is unhooded and held up
to sight the quarry - 'A la Volee!' is the Hawking 'Tallyho!' The Falcon
may climb high to get above the crows, or she may go in low. Once those
dreadful talons are fixed the crow is brought to the ground, usually
dead. The Falcon is then rewarded with a tasty morsel and hooded up.
A fresh bird is then brought up. Crows are clever birds and they have
many tricks in their survival repertoire. They will fly amongst and
even under cattle. They will fly under vehicles and behind stonewalls,
but their favourite trick is to head for trees or woods, the thicker
the better. However a good Falcon will work in covert, provided it is
not too thick. I went to meet Dr Fox and his Falcons at Colt Crag Farm,
West Woodburn, where the Sedgwick Family made them most welcome. The
Hawks travel on special perches in the back of a 4x4. Before it is flown,
each Hawk has a radio transmitter attached to its tail feathers. A receiver
in the vehicle can then track it. Dr Fox is a genial soul. He was riding
a nippy little Arab cross gelding, an ideal sort for his work. We were
filming the day for my next video ('Willy's World 2' - out for Christmas
- see www.willypoole.com) and following on quads. The weather was cool
and sunny - ideal it seems - if it is too hot Falcons can 'blow up'
after c 300 yards. We spread out across the old grass fields. The first
crow was swiftly taken by the side of a stell, by Megan a 5 y.o. There
were plenty of crows about (I counted 22 in one field). The Crow Falcons
have a pleasant custom of stopping for a bite at about 3 pm - it is
also a change of hawks so I suppose it might be called - 'Second Hawks'.
It was after 6pm when we finished with 3 more crows accounted for and
one particularly spectacular flight with Falcon and 3 crows spiralling
high above until they became dots and then a most tremendous stoop to
bring the day to the right conclusion - a most fascinating day. Thank
you the Northumberland Crow Falcons and 'A la Volee'.
HORSE &
HOUND - 15.8.02
So, are you going to march in London on Sept 22nd for 'Life and Liberty?
I will remind you of the old Chinese curse - "May you live in interesting
times." We certainly live in interesting times. We have a corrupt
Government that is intellectually and morally bankrupt and which seeks
to destroy our cultural and historical heritage and to sell us, lock,
stock and barrel to a foreign power. This Quisling government has already
ceded much of our political power to Brussels and we pay something like
£11 billion per annum for this dubious privilege. This is a Government
that has honed the art of lying to razor sharpness, as several organisations
have found to their cost. Amongst the well and truly stuffed heads that
now hang in Downing Street are those of the NFU, the CBI, the old CLA
and the Countryside Alliance. All of these honourable and august bodies
fell victim to the undoubted charm of the Prime Minister and came away
certain that they had a done deal. All have now learned to their cost
that the verbal promises of this Government are not worth the paper
they might have been written on. So, are you going to March? Be under
no illusions. I firmly believe that this Government is bent on breaking
country people and on destroying the traditions that all of us hold
dear. Hunting is and has been the grand passion of my life. This Government
is hell bent on destroying it and if any of you believe the New Labour
promises that shooting and fishing are safe with them, then you are
indeed no more than what Lenin referred to as "useful fools".
Then there is the 'Right to Roam'. The old CLA was convinced that it
had struck a reasonable deal with New Labour - it got shafted. The Right
to Roam is merely a euphemism for land expropriation. The Right to 'peaceful
enjoyment of property', which I understand to be enshrined in the European
Convention of Human Rights is being violated. Landowners are being stripped
of their rights and are being raped with Government approval and through
the agency of DEFRA. The name has changed but the same dead-beat boxwallahs
are sitting at the same desks and blundering about as before, spewing
out a never-ending stream of paper vomit. The People who try to make
a living from the land are of no concern to DEFRA. I understand that
in the recently published DEFRA plan, the word 'Profit' appears nowhere.
'Tourism' is their great cry and rural tourism is an important part
of the rural economy, but what these political leaches cannot or will
not see is that the countryside that tourists flock to enjoy, did not
just happen by Ministerial Decree - it was made, dug, hacked out, by
the sweat of the countryman's brow and the landowners' money. The 'patchwork
quilt' of the English countryside, that oft repeated cliché,
was created by three things - farming, foxes and pheasants. Without
that semi holy trinity, there would be nowhere to tourist in. So that
important business - tourism is a parasite that feasts on the hard work
and creativity of others - notably the Farmer and the Landowner. So,
are you going to March ? As to 'peaceful enjoyment of our property'
we country people are offered no protection by the so-called forces
of Law and Order. I have seen ordinary country people being terrorised
by organised gangs of thugs who call themselves 'Hunt Protesters' with
the Police standing by and watching, often with their hands in their
pockets. But let any country people try to protect themselves they are
more than likely to get arrested themselves for 'assault' ; 'causing
a breach of the peace'; or any other of the numerous powers that the
Police have at their disposal. Yet rural crime is on the increase. The
old village bobby, who knew his patch and often nipped crime in the
bud, is now only a fragrant memory. All too often the only time Police
are seen in the countryside is when they come to inspect our firearms
or stake out the local pub on a Saturday night. Report a robbery and
you will be offered counselling. Try to protect your person or property
and it is you who is likely to end in the slammer. So, are you going
to March? Some police forces are better than others - a lot depends
on your Chief Constable - the fish stinks from the head and if that
head happens to have been stuffed with sociology degrees, then you may
well have problems. However there are steps you can take if you are
dissatisfied with your local policing. Make a written complaint to the
Chairman of your Local Police Authority. He is duty bound to bring it
up with the Chief Constable and what is more all such complaints go
on the Chief's record. This looks bad and makes them feel bad. So make
waves. The meek may inherit the earth, but they do not get better policing.
Not a very cheerful article I fear, but country people do not have a
lot to smile about. The way to cheer our hearts again is for all of
us to combine to wipe the greasy grins off the faces of our politicians.
We must shake loose the countryside and harry the blighted politicians
till they squeal. It is vitally important that the whole countryside
goes to town on September 22nd.
HORSE & HOUND - 18.7.02
The telephone rang. I recognised the slightly squeaky voice of Bob Scully.
It seemed that the Clan Scully had brought down a large flap of cows
and calves from the depths of the Moor. Bob had the grazing on some
fields about 4 miles up the road and wanted some help to transfer them
there. This meant getting them 'up the Main' before the traffic started.
The 'Main' in question was the A38 Birmingham - Plymouth road. In those
pre M5 days the A38 a byword for bottlenecks. The next morning was the
Saturday of the August Bank Holiday. We met at 0400 the next morning.
The lorry ramp was lowered and out trotted a mass of ponies all already
saddled and bridled. Ponies were another part of the Scully business
empire. Reg and I were to bring up the rear. Reg was a species of Scully.
We were allotted our mounts. Most people think of the admirable Dartmoor
pony as an excellent child's pony, but it was also the workhorse of
the Moor, surefooted, hardy and capable of carrying great weights. 'Great
weight' certainly described Reg who overflowed his saddle all round.
In deed there was very little of the pony to be seen, forbye the head,
neck and tangled tail. Beyond the gate were 300 Galloway cows bawling
for their calves and 300 calves yelling for Mum. Most of you will think
of cows as placid and gentle creatures. Galloways are wild as Fitch-ferrets.
The track from the field to the Village, angled down through a tangled
slope of boulders and scrub oaks, which fell away to the river in the
bottom. The track was not fenced. The cows were thirsty. Thus, as soon
as the gate was opened, the flood came pouring out and the whole boiling
disappeared into the wood and headed for the river, taking Bob's plan
with them. The plan had us through the village and heading north 'on
the Main' before 0600, thereby taking advantage of the cool of the morning
and scattered traffic. It took us 3 hours of tricky riding, sweat and
hortative blasphemy to extract the herd from its sylvan fastness. It
was past 0900 when we eventually forced the now sullen herd through
the narrow streets and eastwards onto the A38. In the 1960s the A38
was definitely starting to burst at the seams. It ran between solid,
unforgiving, earth banks and did not go in for poncey up-country stuff
like verges and lay-byes. It was a road that was easily blocked and
our drove blocked it like a cork in a bottle. The heat was increasing.
The muddle at the start had resulted in a great number of calves being
separated from their mothers. The mothers were distressed and bawled
for their calves. The calves were distressed and bawled for their mothers.
The noise and the heat contributed to the general confusion. It was
fortunate that Reg had his dogs with him, but they and the ponies were
tiring too - the heat increased - the speed fell. We crept up the Main
at about 2 miles per hour. Our position in the rear rank meant that
Reg and I were the nearest to the Great British Public. I could see
enough to realise that we had attracted a considerable following. By
10 o'clock the strength of the August sun was considerable. A car must
have been an oven. Every time I looked back I would see yet another
stalled vehicle with its bonnet up. Westbound traffic was nil. There
was a certain amount of confused shouting from the foremost vehicles.
If any distraught person ran up behind us to ask how far we were going?
Reg would take the pipe out of his mouth and growl - "Lunnon."
It was pushing midday when we did the 4 miles and turned the herd off
the Main, down a side road and into the fields that were our destination.
We slid thankfully off our streaming ponies and stood there mopping
our brows and telling each other about all the pints we were going to
murder in the pub on the cross roads. At this moment a police car drew
up and disgorged two of the hottest and angriest coppers that I have
ever seen. They were vexed. We had blocked the main road for 4 hours.
We had caused a standing traffic jam of some 13 miles right back to
Plymouth Hoe. We would be hung, drawn and quartered. Through all of
this Bob was rolling a fag apparently totally unmoved: "I'll tell
'ee what 'tis" he said pushing his cap on the back of his head
- "You arrest all us lads, so's you've a mind to, but, certain
sure, you'll have to take the ponies as well. Them's valuable pedigree
ponies, mind." How I wish that I could lie like Bob Scully. It
was too much for the Constabulary. Breathing threatenings and slaughter
they left us in a cloud burning rubber. By Golly, but that pint did
slip down well.
