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HORSE & HOUND FOR 30.1.03
I can just remember the end of horsepower. On the little Cornish farm where I was 'bred and buttered' we had a huge Shire mare called Lady - a gentle giant if ever there was one. It was my great delight to ride home from the field on her great rolling back, clinging tightly to the hames. Charley, our neighbour, worked the farm alongside his own, whilst my father and uncle were away at the War. I can remember the 'binder' being pulled by a pair of horses. It was a moment of wonder when they disappeared and were replaced by a Standard Fordson Tractor. The Hunters were all turned away in the Pump House Field 'for the duration'. I had no idea what a hunter was, but I used to take an apple for 'Surprise', because he was special, being my Father's Point to Pointer - whatever that was. There was also George. George would be described as a 'vanner'. My Uncle, who was busy solving the Enigma code, although no one knew that then, decreed that George be broken to harness and used for light duties about the farm. George deeply resented this. Rendell, who had been my Grandfather's Stud Groom, was put in charge of this operation. They tried George in the chain harrows. He ran away with them. Tucked away in a secret place in the buildings Rendell had a precious 'light cart'. It was hidden as Rendell explained because of 'they buggers', the Remount Officers who might commandeer it. Rendell had been a trooper in the First War and a groom before it. He had seen his precious horses taken away and had a deep and abiding distrust of Remount Officers, even if the species had long since ceased to exist. Anyway the precious cart was brought out of hiding for a load of potatoes and George was persuaded between the shafts. All went well until 'some silly born Bugger' dropped a bucket. George bolted. He was easy to track, first by the line of spuds and secondly by pieces of cart. Relieved of its load the cart began to rattle. George did not like this and set about systematically kicking the cart to 'flibbets'. When the pursuit finally caught up with him, only the shafts were still attached. All my young life the remains of 'George's Cart' stood in a corner of the stackyard as a sort of memorial to George, who was no longer on the ration strength. I never knew my Great Uncle Jack, who hunted his own hounds for some 40 seasons, but I can just remember my great Aunt Mary. She refused to have anything to do with cars (or 'motors' as they were called in those days) and used to potter about in a donkey cart. The donkey was called Albert (pronounced Allbert) Edward in honour of Edward V11. The great aunt used to carry a tin of stones to rattle. This served as an accelerator. Even after WW2 there were few private cars and farmers still went to market by horsepower. And came home the same way. Unlike our own PC days it was not unknown for men to get a little 'market peart'. People will tell you that it is no crime to be 'DIC' of a horse. In fact this was added to the Charge Sheet in 1895 and carries a maximum fine of 30 shillings. Or so I am informed. The great advantage of horsepower was that it would take you home. It was not unusual to see Jim's horse and cart trotting happily along the main road, apparently without benefit of human guidance. Jim would be laid out in the back, under the pig net, snoring contentedly. Another variation of this theme was the Mumford family. They had a big moor farm up behind me when I lived in Devon. There were two brothers and a sister, none of them wed. The big old farm house had no facilities of any kind. The sister and one brother never left the farm, but Cyril would go to the Mart once a month mounted on one of their excellent Dartmoor ponies. The pony would be put up at the London Hotel, whilst Cyril did the business, which mainly consisted in him getting absolutely blootered. Come closing time, he would be carried out and plonked on the back of the old pony. His hands would be tied to the mane with baler band and his feet secured to the irons. A slap on the rump and the old pony would pit a pat through the winding lanes in the dark and up into its stable. The sister would be looking out and would come out with an oil lamp, feed the pony and cut all the band. Cyril would slide gently off into the deep straw of the stall and sleep the sleep of the just - the 'just returned from market' that is. I know of no motor that will do that for you.

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HORSE & HOUND - 9.1.03
What is a Terrier? This question has to be asked because there are many jolly little dogs whose owners proudly proclaim them to be terriers, when they are manifestly not. I can do no better than to give the definition supplied by that great Man of Terriers, Sir Jocelyn Lucas, MC, in his famous book - 'Hunt and Working Terriers': "A working terrier means, in sporting parlance, a terrier that will go to ground to fox, badger, or otter and not merely a dog that will kill rats or hunt out rabbits." In other (French) words they are dogs bred for 'La Chasse Sous Terre.' Badger and fox digging are pursued with enthusiasm in France. The famous Parson Russell laid down his standard that a working terrier should be the size and shape of a vixen fox - i.e. roughly 15 inches at the shoulder and 15 lbs in weight. Such a dog will have the length of leg to run with hounds and should be easily 'spanned' - put your two hands round the barrel of the chest - the thumbs should meet on top and the fingers underneath I strongly believe that there are no such things as 'breeds' of working terrier, only types. They only become 'breeds' when the showing fraternity get hold of them - 'pedigrees' mean prizes (and money). I thought it might be interesting to look at the main current 'breeds' and ask where they came from and where they are going. So alphabetically, we start with the Airedale - these are supposed to result from a bull terrier / otterhound cross for hunting water rats. It is obvious that they are too big to go down any hole short of the Tyne Tunnel, but they are excellent guard dogs and were the first police dogs. The Bedlington is supposed to be a terrier x whippet and was regarded as an excellent poaching dog by the Northumbrian miners. The only ones I have seen have been shivery creatures at Shows. The Border is a well known type and is easily divided between 'Show Bench' and 'Working'. Show terriers are usually too big. Examples of good working strains can still be found in the Anglo- Scottish Border country. They are staunch, but not hard and are often to be seen following a mounted owner throughout a hunting day. The Bull Terrier was originally developed for Bull Baiting. They are very hard and a 'dash of bull' was often favoured for Badger digging. Marvellous ratters, but to my mind too hard for work with foxes. Cairns, Skye and West Highland Terriers are all of a similar type and were originally favoured for fox control by Highland keepers. Prick eared and wire coated, they must have been very hardy little dogs, but now seem to be confined to the Show Bench. I have never known one working, but they do tend to have a Gaelic temperament. Dandie Dinmonts are another West Highland breed. I think the name comes from a character in one of Sir Walter Scott's novels. A Dinmont is the old name for a shearling tup. Its main claim to fame is as one of the progenitors of the Sealyham. The Jack Russell is the centre of much argument. I have met many people who claim to have terriers whose pedigrees go back directly to the Parson's terriers. I beg leave to doubt this. Parson Russell bred a type' (see above). He was also a dealer and was always buying, selling and swapping terriers. It is not thought that he ever kept records or attempted to establish a breed, so a 'pedigree Jack Russell' is likely to be an oxy-moron, however game and attractive it may be. Now stand bye for an avalanche of protesting letter. The Lakeland / Fell / Patterdale are all chips off the same block. Bred to run the Fells and work the crags and borrans of Lakeland, they take no prisoners. I had a Patterdale, who was locally known as 'Psycho'. She killed 20 foxes single-handed in her first season. My strong advice is never to have one of these, most charming dogs, unless you are able to work it regularly. Lucas / Sealyham. Sealyhams were 'invented' by Capt Edwardes of Sealy Ham in Pembrokeshire, from a melange of local terrier and Dandie Dinmonts. He had a pack to hunt weasels. Sir Jocelyn Lucas bought these terriers as the foundation of his own famous pack. One of his Sealyhams got lined by a Norwich Terrier (another melange of small working terriers). Sir J was so pleased with the result that (being a man who was ever keen to turn a shilling) he called it the 'Lucas Terrier' and described them as 'proper little devils' - he was not wrong. Whatever your terrier may be, forget about its 'pedigree' and just enjoy these most charming and courageous of little dogs.
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HORSE & HOUND - 27.2.03
You may remember some little time ago and in some leafy suburb of London, a fox was found sitting on a pram, licking its lips. Instead of regarding the baby in the pram as a 'wunderkind' and ' the next Prime Minister but three', the fox was obviously looking on it as the 'plat de jour' and why not? Foxes take piglets and lambs of much the same size as the baby. As it was, the mother appeared and frightened the poor fox with her screaming. I remember that the story did not have legs. One reason for this was that had the fox eaten the baby, it would have upset all the editorial pre- (and mis-) conceptions of the fox as a charming cuddly animal (Basil Brush). The other reason was that the mother was found to be 'mittel European' and therefore over excitable and liable to make a fuss about nothing. The father swore to terminate the fox with extreme prejudice, whereupon the RSPCA threatened him with the utmost rigour of the law and a spell in the slammer. They never disclosed their grounds for prosecution. I regurgitate this story only to demonstrate the fact that London and indeed all urban areas are lifting with foxes. The foxes were already there; they just got built round and soon adjusted to a life of easy scavenging. Urban Man tends to be somewhat ambivalent in his attitudes to foxes. Some welcome them in their gardens and watch them and feed them. I can understand this, as I; too, love watching cubs playing and the old foxes about their business. Others are not so keen, especially if they are enthusiastic gardeners. I get letters on the lines of - "I wish that you would bring your hounds to my place. We are overrun with foxes." What they would say after hounds had caught a fox in the herbaceous border, is another story. I remember a man telling me of his horror when his hounds caught a fox in a back garden in a conurbation. When he got there the householder was dancing about, Who-whooping! And Worry! Worry! Worrying! It was chance in a million that the garden belonged to an ex-huntsman of the S.Devon. Another London friend wrote to complain to City Hall about foxes and was told that they were protected animals. Yet another man lodged a similar complaint with Richmond Borough Council and received a reply on the lines that we must all learn to live in harmony with our furry friends. Someone is doing some fox control in London. According to the 'Standard' - 9,000 foxes were killed in London last year. They were cage trapped and then dispatched with a captive bolt pistol. Who ordered this and who is doing it is not known, but the rumour is that it is being done by a retired keeper, who goes under the pseudonym of 'Red' and charges £40 per fox. Other urban authorities have other methods. Foxes are trapped, put in vans and then dumped in the countryside. I had a call once from the FUW (Farmers' Union of Wales). One of their members had pulled a van out of a ditch. The driver told him that the van was loaded with foxes and his orders were to loose them in the country. He had been hired by a well known (not to say 'notorious') animal charity. It was unfortunate that the farmer neglected to take the registration number of the van. I wrote this story in another place and got a furious letter from the RSPCA to the effect that in no way would it condone such goings on - well, I should hope not. In no way had I suggested that the RSPCA was involved. I had not mentioned the RSPCA, any more than I am mentioning the RSPCA now - anymore than I am going to mention the name of a certain Midlands Urban Authority, one of whose members boasted in the local regional newspaper of the number of foxes they had 'returned to freedom in the countryside.' The ignorance and well-meaning infliction of suffering involved here, is staggering. Do these kindly fools really think that once an urban fox is dumped in deepest rurality, it will, by some mysterious method of osmosis, suddenly acquire all the hard-won skills of its country cousin, or that these same country cousins will form up in a line to shake paws with all these economic migrants suddenly dumped in their own territory? Not so I am afraid - I had speech with a farmer in Mid - Wales who had risen one morning, looked out of the window, rubbed his eyes and looked again. From his bedroom window, he counted 14 foxes, just sitting in his hay meadow. They had not got a clue as to where they were, or why. They only knew that houses = humans = food: "So what did you do?" I asked. "I rang up Jones Kennels" he said - " he brought the 'ounds and they had the lot in 10 minutes." There must be a moral there somewhere.

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HORSE & HOUND - 16.2.03
I will start by saying that I am indebted to Mr D.J.B. Denny, B.Vet. Med. MRCVS for all the veterinary and scientific information that appears in this article. Many of you will have read Mr Alun Michael's letter to H&H. In this he says "The Bill bans deer hunting as evidence clearly shows it is unnecessarily cruel and there are more effective alternatives to control populations." In another place, he stated that he had: "Incontrovertible evidence as to the cruelty of deer hunting." Fine - but anyone waiting for the publication of this 'clear and incontrovertible evidence' has waited in vain and my advice is not to hold your breath - it does not exist. There are only 4 possible sources for this 'incontrovertible evidence' 1) The Masters of Deerhounds Association' and to the best of my knowledge and belief, Michael has never sought its opinion; 2) The League against Cruel Sports - it has certainly been approached, but its evidence must be tainted by the facts exposed in the Sunday Telegraph (24.11.02) that the LACS has been totally irresponsible in the management of its own deer on its Exmoor property. The League's policy is 'Live and let die' as a result many of its deer are suffering from malnutrition, disease and injury. As a deliberate management policy of 'Population control' this must equate with the Nazi policy over the inmates of Belsen 3) The British Deer Society - the BDS was formed as a Charity to look after the welfare of wild deer. I am a member of this Society and was for a brief time Chairman of the N.E Branch and I know that many members of its ruling council are at best, ambivalent about hunting and some are dead against it for various reasons which range from 'cruelty' to commercial - more of that anon. 4) The egregious and discredited Bateson Report. I consider the last to be the most likely source. After attack from the Scientific Establishment, Bateson, himself has admitted that his science was faulty. When questioned by a fellow professor as to why he had undertaken the report, he replied, very honestly - "Because I needed the money." I think Bateson to be the most likely source for "incontrovertible evidence" - his science may be in shreds, but his conclusions are 'Politically Correct and Convenient' Mr Denny defines cruelty as - "the causing of unnecessary suffering." He goes on to say that - "Culling is necessary, in fact critical." Both for the control of damage and for the management of a deer herd. There are only two methods that are legal and acceptable - "Neither hunting, which is disciplined, nor stalking, carried out efficiently, can be classified as cruel". Bateson was (is?) High Provost of King's College, Cambridge and Head of Biology at the Royal Society - indeed a most eminent scientist, but, or rather BUT, he is an 'animal behaviourist' (specialising in cats). He had no experience in 'exercise physiology' on which his whole report depended. The main planks of this report and subsequent decisions were as follows

1) Hunted deer suffer potentially fatal muscle damage
2) The blood of the deer was damaged at an early stage of the hunt
3) The deer were stressed.
4) Stalking was 'deer friendly'

"The physiology and anatomy of the red deer are unique to the species." Deer are 'flight animals' and are uniquely designed to be hunted. Their peripatetic way of life, gives them a natural fitness. A hunted deer that gets away, may indeed suffer some stiffness of the muscles, but no more than marathon runners and top footballers. The average speed of a hunted deer is c.3mph no more than a fast human march. Ask a Royal Marine if a 'yomp' is fatal and see what he says. Bateson did his blood tests by taking samples from hunted deer. The blood samples were taken from the jugular or the abdominal cavity by the hunt staff (Bateson never attended a kill). Bateson claimed that the hunt staff was giving strict instruction as to the handling of samples. The men deny this. Samples were contaminated with hair, pieces of bone and intestinal rubbish. They were kept in pockets, vehicles and kitchens. "Once blood has left the animal, it is very sensitive to temperature changes and to any contamination, particularly water" The treatment of the samples rendered them useless for scientific purposes. All animals feel stress. It is the trigger that fires them into flight or fight - a galloping horse is stressed in scientific definition. It is important to differentiate between stress (natural, good) and distress (unnatural, bad). As long as flight animal's flight is not hindered it is only (beneficially) stressed. Look at the eyes of a fox cub being cuddled by a bearded Australian on the telly and there you will see genuine distress. And it has almost certainly pee-ed itself - a frightened animal voids its bladder - many hunted deer have full bladders, when thy are 'paunched'. All in all, Bateson gave poor value for his alleged 5-figure fee, but he gave Alun Michael and the National Trust Council the tainted science they wanted, so I suppose he earned it. It is unfortunate that there is no room for the hunting / stalking debate. That will come another day.

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HORSE & HOUND - 27.3.03
I am reminded of one of those lovely hunting cartoons that used to appear in Punch in the good old days. They were always beautifully drawn by artists of repute (Leech, Armour) and usually based on fact: Follower to Huntsman: "How's the new lad coming on?" "Never be no good, Sir. You remember that good hunt last week when, I lost the fox?" " Yes." " Well, I caught him whistling, whistling mind you, in the kennels when we got home." That was a true story of Frank Freeman. One of my favourites was of Mr Fitznoodle whose harriers have just caught a fox in the thunderous presence of the MFH: "Never mind old chap! You can catch one of my hares any time you like." Is it possible to hunt hares and foxes with the same Hounds? The generally received wisdom would be "NO!!!" By the same token the French maintain that you may hunt Fox and Boar with the same hounds, but not Boar and Deer. Mind you most Foxhounds would take little persuading to hunt a hare. Also I have seen an otherwise bomb proof pack of Foxhounds; hunt a jack hare in the spring with the greatest dedication. It would seem that Jack hares can smell almighty like a fox at certain times of year. I remember going out with a famous Yorkshire pack, whose Master/ Huntsman was sliding towards a well lubricated resignation. I would have put my hand on the Holy Writ and have sworn that, in my opinion, his hounds were cheered onto hares all day. Of course it 'kept the tambourine a' rolling' and my old and valued friend (a dedicated foxhunter) who took the hounds on the following season had a hellish time getting hounds steady again; especially as there were only about 2 foxes in the country. I have heard tell of a sharp witted whipper-in from the Shires who was put as huntsman in a notoriously badly foxed country and immediately started to show amazing sport. 'In vino veritas' he confided his secret to an old huntsman, I knew: "I hunts any a hare I can find (the downland country was lifting with them) and keep changing until I've made a 6 mile point, then I gets hounds to mark at the nearest rabbit 'ole." Oh horrid man! But and it is a big BUT, I hunted that same, nearly fox less country, myself, half a century later and I remember recommending to the Committee that we changed the hounds to Harriers and hunted Fox or Hare according to availability. My suggestion was roundly damned, but I have thought about it a lot since and have come to the conclusion that it would be possible with the right sort of hounds. My great uncle Jack hunted his own pack of West Country Harriers for some 40 years and he hunted both quarries quite happily. He kept one piece of country especially for hare hunting, whilst, in the better foxed places he hunted fox. Quite a few of the West Country Harrier packs hunted both at one time. The secret seemed to be to hunt whichever animal you found first and then stick to that species for the rest of the day. The West Country Harriers are splendidly adaptable little hounds and seemed to understand exactly what was required of them. I have seen this done amongst the many Harrier packs that used to exist in the West Country. Once they had found and hunted whatever was the first quarry of the day, they would stick to that quarry. I certainly would not suggest this course of action with foxhounds - it would sicken them. Also the hare would be over faced by foxhounds and it would be unsporting, but your WCH would be ideal for both jobs. It is said (and I agree) that the finest cure for riot in foxhounds is the blood of the fox. In a well-foxed country there is little trouble in breaking in young hounds. It is much more of a problem where foxes are scarce. It is in the nature of hounds to hunt and where they can't hunt one thing they will quite naturally wish to hunt another and the deer and the hare are much more natural quarries than the fox. There is a hunt near me, which used to be well foxed, but where the foxes now suffer from the vulpicidal tendencies of pheasants and grouse. I have often thought that they could have good sport with the right hounds and the strong hill hares. As it is they spend much time trailing about in the vain search for a fox. As a friend of mine says - they might as well go pony trekking, but with a change of hounds and quarry, they could have some grand galloping sport. It is none of my business, but I have no doubt as to what Great Uncle Jack would have done.
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HORSE & HOUND APRIL
There are only two legal methods of killing deer in the UK - hunting with hounds and stalking. Were I rich enough and 8 stone lighter I would be a staghunter. I regard it as the most interesting and challenging of Field Sports. It is also the most reviled and misunderstood - even foxhunters of my acquaintance have been known to pipe an eye and say that they could not possibly go staghunting - think of Bambi's Mother. Bambi's mother was shot. To my mind, hunting with hounds is far and away the best and fairest way of controlling deer. A lot of time and expertise is used by the Harbourer to select the right deer to be hunted. There is no space here to discuss the Harbourer's skill. Suffice it to say that these men are great experts, both on their locality and the deer that live therein. The average all over speed of a deer hunt is 3mph. At the end of the hunt the deer stands at bay and is despatched by a trained marksman using a shotgun with special shot. It is shot in the head at close range. If the deer does get away it suffers no after effects apart from the same sort of stiffness that a hunter (horse) might experience after a day's hunting. There are 6 kinds of wild or feral deer extant in this country - Red, Fallow, Sika, Roe, Muntjac and Chinese Water Deer. There are 3 packs hunting Red in the West Country - Devon & Somerset, Quantock and Tiverton. The New Forest Buckhounds used to hunt Fallow up until a few years ago, when roads, motorways and suburban creep made their country impossible. There are some unofficial packs hunting Roe in the West Country. Our present government is out to stop all deer hunting. Alun Michael claims to have 'incontrovertible evidence' that deer hunting is 'cruel.' Strange to say he has yet to produce this evidence. The only legal alternative to hunting deer is to shoot them. There are those who ask why it is necessary to cull them at all? Left to their own devices, Roe will increase by c.40% per annum. Deer damage trees and trees are a crop like any other. At one time, Roe were driven like hares and shot at with shotguns firing birdshot. The wounding and suffering was terrible. In England, now, deer can only be shot with a rifle with a minimum calibre of .240 and a muzzle energy of not less than 1700 ft/lbs. The bullet must not be less than 100 grains and must be soft or hollow nosed. A deer rifle is only a tool (albeit a lethal one) and is only as good as the person driving it. It has become a journalistic cliché to speak of the 'skilled marksman with a high powered rifle'. It is unfortunate that there are more 'high powered rifles' than 'skilled marksmen' - this means that more deer are shot at than are cleanly killed. To put this in perspective: it can take several months to train a military sniper, during which time the trainee will fire hundreds of rounds. Very few stalkers will go on the range once a week - if that - some would not fire 100 rounds in a year. With staghunting only 3% of the deer require a second shot - add hounds to the equation and there is no chance of a wounded deer escaping. The same cannot be said of a stalked deer. I am indebted to D.J.B.Denny, B.Vet. Med, MRCVS for some of the statistics used here. Mr Denny has made a lifelong study of deer."Except for the very few deer that are hit in the brain, all deer have to suffer intense pain as the result of the bullet wound for a period of time. They will not have raised endorphin (nature's analgesia) levels in their blood to protect them. Few of the deer will be unconscious immediately. A deer shot at 100 yards may run another 100 yards before collapsing. It will take at least 2 minutes walking to arrive at the shot deer."In practice you are recommended to wait the time it takes to smoke a fag, before making your approach…"In my opinion there can be no hypothetical number / factor that could possibly equate temporary tiredness" (of a hunted deer that escapes) "with the suffering from permanent bullet damage."Very few stalkers attempt a brain shot - it is too small a target. The 'vital area' on a Roe is roughly the size of a pan loaf. A bullet placed in this area is invariably fatal - eventually. C.5% of deer shot at are hit, but their carcases are never found. Alun Michaels's phrase was that hunting would be judged on 'cruelty versus utility'. There can be no doubt in the utility, and necessity, of stalking, but those who do it must accept the fact that they may cause suffering in the name of utility. Therefore they 'knowingly cause suffering,' which, strange to say, was exactly Prof Bateson's definition of cruelty.
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HORSE & HOUND - 8.5.03
The late, great, Capt G.P.Williams of Scorrier, famous Master and Huntsman of the Four Burrow for more than 40 years, had a quick way with anyone who asked to see his hounds, but whom the Capt considered to be not up to snuff. He always kept a particularly ugly Doghound in his kennel, which was always pulled out first. The visitor might feel compelled by ignorance or politeness to praise the hound; whereupon, the Cap'n would say briskly:"Well you obviously know nothing about hounds, we'll go and look at the horses instead." I once summoned up the courage (he was a kindly man although he could appear intimidating) to ask him whether he preferred hunting dogs or bitches? He adjusted his famously crumpled trilby hat and replied that he cheated. He ran a few old bitches with the Dog Hounds and a few castrated dogs with the Bitches. Thus he reckoned that he got the best of both worlds. It is a guinea to a gooseberry that most professional huntsmen and most amateurs, come to that, prefer to hunt a bitch pack or a mixed pack with a leavening of dogs. Few countries have the space, or the finance to hunt two separate packs. I am horrified when I hear how many hounds some hunts keep in kennel and "keep in kennel" is the trigger phrase. How on earth can a 2-day a week pack justify keeping 40 or 50 couple? "Oh we hunt two packs,"they say grandly, which probably means that some of those hounds only hunt once a month. I knew one huntsman who never hunted his young entry after the opening meet. It was small wonder that he had problems. The only way to keep hounds hunting fit is to hunt them - at least 2 days a week and, in this time of almost universal motor transport, probably three. I know huntsmen who will throw their hands up in horror at this. When I was carrying the horn and hunting 3/4days autumn hunting and 2and a bye after opening meet, I might start hunting with 30 couple, but it would be down to the low 20s by Christmas and every hound that was sound, hunted every day. That is why they were fit. Fat hounds won't catch fit foxes. So, Dogs or Bitches? Most professional huntsmen go for bitches. Bitches are sharper and more biddable. If yours is the sort of country where you have to handle hounds a lot - as it might be to keep them from main roads, housing estates, railway lines and such then bitches will stand more interference. If you are hunting hounds in a well foxed, galloping country with 200 mounted clowns hard on your stern, you may not have the luxury of being able to make a 'Mr-Thomas-Craven-Smith's-patent-all-round-my-'at-cast', you may have to lift your hounds to the next well foxed covert and 'hit off the line' there. I once watched the late great Capt Wallace make a 7mile point like this with his Bitches. He then settled his bitches on a fox, which they caught 2 miles further- a brilliant display of hound handling, but I wonder if he would have tried it with his Doghounds. I always preferred Doghounds. I have no doubt that a properly handled pack of Doghounds will catch more foxes than a pack of Bitches. Well-tuned Doghounds have a relentless quality that I always loved, but and it is a BUT, they are nothing like as forgiving as Bitches are if you balls it up. Dogs will hunt across the Hob of Hell for you if they trust you, but they need very careful and skilled handling. Too many mistakes and they will sulk andeventually they will come to ignore you altogether. This, too, I have seen. The great secret with Doghounds is that if you have to help them, then do it in such a way that they believe they have done it for themselves, Bless them. Remember the old quotation:"The greatest praise is for a fool to say -'we had a great run today and killed the fox and the huntsman might as well have been in bed' " That huntsman understood Doghounds. Where there are two packs kept, the Doghounds are usually given to the Master to play about with on the 'Woodland side'. This makes sense as the amateur can seldom get near enough to hounds to make a mess of them. Sometimes calculations can go awry. The late, great, Duke of Beaufort was a famous hand with his Bitch pack, but he was a Duke and Dukes don't like coming second. In the 1930s the Duke put on a professional called (I think) Fred Holland to hunt the Doghounds. For three seasons the Doghounds caught more foxes than the Bitches. His Grace was not amused and Holland found himself sharp drafted to hunt the Cattistock (I think). Cave Canem.
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HORSE & HOUND - 5.6.03
'Discipline' - almost a dirty word these days, smacking (oh dear, can one use such a word in Horse and Hound?) as it does of anal retention and negative vibes; the PC Fascisti hate it. We need more of it and the world would be a better place. You may argue about this if you wish, but you cannot argue but that discipline is a vital necessity for hounds and children An ill disciplined pack of hounds is a disaster waiting to happen; ill disciplined children are a disaster that has. I once went to stay with a MFH whom I knew only slightly. He seemed a nice man and if he was anything like as good at hunting as he was at procreation, I thought that I might be in for a good day. He had nearly enough children to mount a Queen's Guard and they were dearly in need of the firm, but gentle tutelage of a Regimental Corporal Major. They were as poisonous and ill mannered a collection of brats as I have ever come across. They sneered at their father's pathetic attempts to maintain order, nor was he helped by his wife who explained to me that they did not want their children's' formative years sullied by any form of negativity. "Dear God" I thought to myself - "what on earth are the feller's hounds going to be like?" The answer to that was - "just like his children!" They totally ignored the only fox we found all day, but otherwise they hunted anything on four legs too beautifully -in spite of the plaintive wails and popping whips of their Master and his 1st & KH, who had 'Gin' written all over him. The total tally for the day was 1 guinea pig - and that I sat on at teatime. Discipline is vital for any pack of hounds and is easily achieved with firm but sensible handling, which does not include bellowing and whip cracking. I had a desperate keen chap that I put on as amateur 2nd whipper-in. He was coming on fine until he taught himself to crack a whip, a bran new white job from Swaine and Adeney, which he popped continuously until Albert could stand no more:"Excuse me, Sir, but could I have a look at that lovely new whip?" with great pride the young man handed it over. Albert took out his clasp knife, neatly severed the new white thong and handed the sad remains back to the young man - "There you are, Sir - crack that all you like."The late, great Captain Wallace would never allow a hound to be hit. If a hound did not respond to a verbal caution, he would take it by the jowls and staring into its eyes, he would growl at it. That was enough for most hounds as it certainly would have been for me. An old huntsman taught me a special long-range growl. I cannot reproduce on paper, but it stops most sinners in their tracks. A good firm "NO!" is also effective. The only time I used to give a hound a good 'sterning' and I mean a good one, was in the matter of sheep - better than a bullet later on. Knowing what I know now, I would probably use an electronic collar instead. You can usually pick out the young hound that is inclined to be a bit 'eyesy'. You must always give hounds the chance to do wrong and then nip the bud - a good electronic squirt will do the job without upsetting the old hounds. A lot of American packs use the collars to good effect with the White Tailed Deer. We talked about 'exercise' last time and that is the time to instil good order and discipline. I have worked with huntsman who went everywhere with hounds 'packed up' tightly behind them - this is both frustrating and boring for all concerned. All hounds learn is what the hocks of the hunt horse look like. There is a time for close order - on main roads, through villages and such like, but wherever possible - 'Trot on' is the order and hounds shook be allowed to rake on in front - that is where they will be out hunting - no fox is ever caught behind the huntsman's horse.There is a golden rule - if hounds speed up, slow down, or slip up a side turning and hide; they will soon come bouncing back to find you - if you are the sort of huntsman that hounds want to find. If you are not, then go and work in a chip shop. What about cross roads? You will find a well-handled pack there waiting for you. If not then see previous sentence. In a well run set up with a major road or village looming, the whipper-in will slip quietly up the side of the pack to get to their heads. With hounds and children it is best to think of it before they do.

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HORSE & HOUND - 19.6.03
The only person surprised that I was going to the Derby was I. People tend to assume that because I have spent a large part of my working life on and off and around horses, this must betoken that I am an experienced and dedicated Horse Person. Experienced, I put my hand up to - the hard won experience that comes from riding the sort of horses that no one else wants to ride and usually for very good reasons. My most useful experience with horses was learning how to fall off them. In fact learning how to fall had nothing to do with horses. I learned it whilst being wiped all over the walls of a gymnasium by a hulking brute called Staff Sergeant Thomas. He taught me to roll into a ball and roll like one - "otherwise someone will kick your f-k-g head in Poole!"How right he was and is. So - an experienced Horse Person - yes - dedicated - No. I tolerated horses and tried very hard to get interested in them, especially in racing - mainly because racing seemed to attract just the sort of totty that used to attract me. I was told that the key to getting interested in racing was to study breeding. To be absolutely honest, I had quite enough trouble with the Foxhound Kennel Stud Book, of which I memorised great chunks to no very good purpose. One more studbook was one too many - too much like log tables (historical mathematics). So why else should I get interested in racing? I nearly got sacked from Eton for running a book (I wasn't, but a good friend was and some little nerd peached on us) this made me feel no end of a swell. But I am no gambler. When I was 17 I went to the Cheltenham Spring Meeting with a 10 bob (50p) note in my pocket and went right through the card on an accumulator, finishing with a horse called Ennis Boy' at 12-1. I had never seen such a wedge of cash and I knew it was a one off gift. I decided to give up betting there and then. What about the thrill of the race, the thunder of hooves? I admit to getting excited over Cheltenham and the Grand National, but have learned that far and away the best place to watch racing is ON the telly and FROM the armchair and as for the 'Flat' - I would rather go and creosote the stables. So at long last we get to the question as to why, given all that I have told you, I went to Epsom? A simple two-word answer - 'Jazz and Champagne'. I have the honour of being a member of the 'Boisdale Jazz and Cigar Club' which is based on the eponymous (and truly excellent) restaurant in Ecclestone St. Each year our Patron and Clan Chief, the flame haired 'Younger of Clanranald', puts on an open topped bus, with the club Jazz Band up in the bows, a seemingly endless supply of fine wines and Champagne and as many cigars as most people can smoke in a day. The day started with smoked salmon bagels and Bloody Marys and flowed seamlessly through London's Finest Al Fresco Luncheon to more Champagne and cigars. Now you know why I go to Epsom. I know that there is racing as well, but I find that it impinges little on the pleasure of the day. 'Eclectic' is the word to describe the membership of the 'BJ&CC', but young and old, high and low, its members are a true 'Bloody Mary' of a crowd all intent on proving that 'The Sun has indeed got His Hat On' as the band thumped its was through the southern purlieus of the Great Wen and Champagne was issued by the bottle. We left early to get a good slot in the line of buses in the Londesborough Enclosure. Last year I slept through the Derby with a cigar in one hand and a bottle in the other - a little skill I am blessed with. This year I was determined to tramp the downs and get my fortune told. Old John came with me - he wanted to find some Gypsies, in spite of the fact that his dog had run off with his teeth that morning. We found plenty of gypsies in all their finery amid all the stench of burning onions, rancid fat and donkey- burgers. I did not get my fortune told. The Gypsy Rose Lees all use computers now, which I think is cheating. I did get a glimpse of the Derby, albeit somewhat hampered by the lady who screamed a chant of -"FallON! FallON!" using my back to beat time with her race card. Mrs Poole got a nice pull on the winner. She wanted to back an English horse, but made do with one owned by an Arab, ridden by an Irishman and trained by a Bajun. I suppose that exemplifies English racing. Never mind - my cup truly ran over and the Sun truly had his hat on.

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HORSE & HOUNDS - 24.7.03
'The Peterborough Royal Foxhound Show' - now there's a name to conjure with, especially as this year is the 125th show. For many years the hound show was a little island amongst the candy floss and massed combined harvesters of the mighty East of England show, with all its attendant hassle of huge traffic jams, baseball caps and other sticky things. The hound show is now detached and sits in solitary splendour on the otherwise empty show ground. In many ways this makes things a lot easier and more relaxed. It also cuts back on the Memsahibs committing mass retail therapy. There are still a modicum of stalls where you can order your new boots, breeches and red coats and second hand book stalls, where, if you are lucky, you may be able to find my long out of print books. But the main of the show is the Foxhound, the whole Foxhound and nothing but the Foxhound and some very beautiful hounds you will see, this being the Blue Riband of Foxhound Shows. You will also see all the Great, Good and Not So Good of the Foxhound World. There you will meet old friends, most of whom are now sadly fat and running to seed - points that you will not hesitate to bring to their attention. You will also meet a sprinkling of those whom you would rather not - meet, that is ("Never could stand the feller") especially if he is primping about with one of your ex-wives. I am at a disadvantage there as I have had the same wife for some 30 years. Everybody is dressed in their best - Garden party hats and dresses for the women. The dress code for men has relaxed somewhat. When I started going it was bowler hat, rolled umbrella, pinstripe suit, stiff collars and toecaps you could see your face in. I well remember a chum of mine getting a most almighty rollocking from the late Capt Wallace for sporting a pair of Gucci loafers - well, I ask you. But standards have slithered gently to soft collars and straw hats, for which I, for one, am most thankful. The scene round the ring is still colourful and the scene in the ring with all the hunt staff (God Bless them) in their liveries (no spurs) and all the shining hounds. The front rows of the stands are worth a look at - this is where the nobs sit. Specially to be noted are the benches round the President's Box, where you can see the Super Nobs. Of course the President for the Year is the biggest and shiniest Nob of all. In a lordly fashion he invites VIPs to share his box for the time allotted to them by the Great Mr Bird, under whose cheerful direction the whole show ticks like a Swiss watch. The Lord High President this year was my brother in law, but as he thoroughly disapproves of my bow ties, and me, you probably did not see in me in the box. Besides as we are both (in the words of the old sea shanty) - "round in the quarters and bluff in the bow" there would hardly be room. Doghounds in the morning, Bitchhounds in the afternoon and in between - LUNCH. There is a Vice Presidents' tent where caterers come and go and smoked salmonella is plat du jour. I missed the famous time when the VPs spent the pm being separately and severally stomach pumped at Peterborough General - a most moving occasion I understand. I have somewhere a splendid pic of the 9th Duke of Beaufort (a considerable trencherman) lunching in solitary splendour at a table set up in the show ring - linen, silver, two liveried footmen and a hovering butler with something nourishing wrapped in a napkin. 'The Old Showground' marched with a row of council houses. Some of the 'Very Grand' used to rent a back garden to take lunch in. In these demotic days I am privileged to attend the splendid picnic in the car park organised by the immensely glamorous Mrs Green. I do my bit by being driven up from London by Guardsman Dewhurst with the Champagne, which he pumps out with practised ease, making sure my glass is never empty. Well, at my age, you need a little comfort and a bit of a kip in the afternoon. This may mean missing some of the judging of the Bitches, but you can't have everything. I missed the famous occasion when a famous MFH leaned over the edge of the ring and laid out his kit, to the great delight of the 'Unentered Bitches', who gobbled up all the lobster that was surplus to requirements. Peterborough is still great fun and sometimes very funny. Put it in your diary for next year.

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HORSE & HOUND - 10.7.03
What do Masters of Foxhounds do in the summer? No, I mean apart from that! And the answer is many different things. Many masters are farmers as well and so their summer is well marked out. Some have businesses and spend the summer repairing the holes caused by a winter of hunting inspired neglect. I had an insurance broker once who was nigh to impossible to catch in the winter (this was before mobile comms). This man had been raised by Jesuits and was the master of the casuistry (was not Membership of Lloyds one of the great casuistries of all times?) He named all his horses - 'Business' (1,2& 3) so that his secretary could say, without the flicker of an eyelid, the Mr X was 'out on Business'. Some Masters just disappear for the summer and apart from occasional reported sightings in the bar at White's are seen no more until the opening meet. I think it was Dr Johnson who said something like - "A man can be no better employed than by keeping his friendships in good repair." This counts double when the friendships in question are those with the farmers over whose land he wishes to hunt. I say 'he' but of course there are many lady masters whose PR work is quite brilliant. I have been lucky to work with 4 - my wife and three, now sadly 'late' - Miss Daisy Carne-Williams who spent her summer cutting out crafty little 'bolt 'oles" for herself through the nastier bits of the Taunton Vale and tidying up the affections of the farmers at the same time; the late Anne, Countess of Feversham and the late Lady Carr Ellison. No man however churlish could resist the charms of these great ladies. I was privileged to hunt 5 different packs of Foxhounds. Right from the beginning I realised the importance of paying courtesy calls on farmers throughout the summer. I may have lacked charm, but the visits were counted unto me for righteousness. The numbers of farmers concerned varied from nigh on 1,000 in one case down to 110 in another. No one man can visit 1,000 different farms in the time available. You have to subtract silage time, hay time, harvest time and sheep sale time - times when no one wants visitors. In the larger set ups I would arrange a system of 'area managers' - mostly ladies. I was held in strategic reserve, being called in when the A.M detected a whiff of discontent, for when, as one farmer delicately put it - "I want to see the organ grinder, not the monkey."It is mistake to try to visit too many farmers in a day. I once managed 15 in one day and, as I explained to the Hunt Chairman, who came upon me being sick in a road side ditch on my way home, I had talked my way through several cups of tea and coffee, sweet sherry, whisky, cherry brandy, jam splits with cream, fruit cake, chocolate cake, parsnip wine and, Heaven help me, several glasses of home made cider. I spent a good part of my hunting career in the West Country, where a great number of farms still made their own cider. This would range from the lethally delicious to the gut wrenchingly awful. I quickly learned to follow the local advice of always carrying a wisp of nice soft hay (meadow hay is best) in my pocket. The cleansing properties of cider (especially young cider) should never be under estimated. A visit to Gilbert was especially to be dreaded. He always had a 'drop of good stuff' to be tried. The cider house was a dark lean to, where a row of barrels lurked and seethed. Gilbert would wipe the rat shit off a shelf with his sleeve and take down 2 cracked and filthy Coronation (George V) mugs, which got a cursory wipe with a general-purpose handkerchief. The cider itself was an opaque green, with hanging strands of 'something' in its murky depths. I used to close my eyes, think of Foxhunting and wonder how far down the road I would get before reaching desperately for the hay. It would be wrong to say that my visits were always occasions of unalloyed joy, but such is the natural courtesy of the English countryman that I was seldom received with worse than a certain reserved lack of enthusiasm. There was usually a good historical reason for this and I found that secret was to stick it out and lance the boil. There was one old man whose father had been sworn at by Lord X in 1933. I only remember one case of real hostility, when I was seized by the throat and slammed against a wall. We lanced that boil and when I left that hunt the man was on the Hunt Committee. So you see 'Summer Hunting' as it is called, is vitally important - justwatch out for the cider.

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HORSE & HOUND - AUGUST
It is bowler hats that cause the trouble. No, I think we had better elaborate on that - it is putting yourself in a situation where you have to wear a bowler hat that usually leads to trouble. When I first went to work in the City, it was bowler hat, stiff collar and rolled umbrella. When I was finally expelled from the City, I kicked the hat down Cornhill causing a taxi to swerve into the massive flank of an omnibus. I would love to write about the invigorating row that followed, but I had already gone to ground in the Bank underground station like a ferret down a drainpipe. Judging a fence at Badminton meant wearing a bowler hat and blowing a whistle at the Great British Public when a horse was coming. One day the GBP in the globular shape of a man with a multi pint belly rounded on me and said that he was not going to be whistled at by a 'toffee nosed twit in a bowler hat', so I threw my hat away and blew my whistle in his face. Who knows what might have happened had not one of the mounted stewards ridden between us - treading on the fat man with his off fore and on my hat with his near hind. Judging and Stewarding always seem to be bowler-hatted jobs. A friend of mine, recently retired from the Cornish Guards, was put on as trainee steward at a major horse show. The first step on the ladder was, by tradition, stewarding the Donkey classes and maintaining good order and discipline in the ring allotted to him. He was therefore rather peeved to see a fat man leaning on the ringside chatting to his oppos - nothing wrong with that you might think except that the man was leaning on the ring from the inside, where no fat man was supposed to be, chatting outwards as it were. My friend approached him politely, raised his hat and suggested that the man remove himself to the other side of the barrier. The man, to the great joy and approbation of his mates, suggested that my friend should b- off. No f- in a pot hat was telling him what to do. He'd had enough of that in the f- Army. He was going to lean where he f- well liked. This he did, displaying in the process a great deal (about quarter of an acre) of what is commonly called 'Builder's Bum'. No longer having the luxury of a Company Sergeant Major to tell to 'carry on' and arrest the blighter, my friend felt it best to make a strategic withdrawal, especially as, at that moment, the donkey stallions paraded into the ring. There was one particular Jack donkey that caught his attention. It was leading, rather than being lead by, a small plump woman with a tartan plaid, a large whip and bottle thick spectacles, whose control of the brute was negligible - it bucked, it kicked and when doing neither of those stood up on end, especially when confronted with the sight of the fat man, who was still in the ring facing wrong ways out. The tartan lady negotiated this obstacle once, but on the second round, the sight of the builder's bum and the large amount of bare flesh was too much for the donkey. With a triumphant bray, it broke loose and proceeded to mount the fat man. The fat man was not best suited by this unexpected assault on his rear echelon and fell to the ground bellowing for help. There was little he could do as the donkey had him firmly gripped between its forelegs. Nor was much help forthcoming as the oppos, safe behind the barrier had collapsed in a heap, helpless with laughter. The tartan lady immediately began to belabour her charge with her whip and shrill cries of - "Git orff, Rupert! Git orff!" The bellowing, screaming and flagellation deterred Rupert not one jot - if anything his priapic pulsation increased in vigour and at this moment of crisis, the fat man's over tight trousers split asunder. The tartan lady, tears streaming down her face, turned to my friend and cried: " Oh God! Oh God! Please do something! He always does this!" My friend began to beat Rupert about the head with his bowler hat and with the help of the St John's Ambulance team the donkey was eventually restrained and evicted from the ring, but not before it had snatched the bowler hat in its yellowing teeth and begun to munch it. The fat man's friends still shaking with laughter finally managed to drag him from the ring with little damage except to his pride and his trousers.
So now you see what I mean about Bowler Hats.
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HORSE & HOUND - 23.10.03
Every year since time out of memory and about this time of it, I have written a piece for some publication or other about the OPENING MEET. You might think that everything that can be said about the OM has been said, but that would presuppose that every OM is exactly the same - perhaps with the Smellwell Draghounds, they are, but we have not got there yet and, if we don't all sit about moaning about the Alliance and get up and DO SOMETHING, then we never will. A few years ago, I was telephoned by a reporter from the New York Times, no less, and asked to define the difference between Foxhunting and Draghunting? " Why me?" I asked " Well, you're on our files as a famous Foxhunter," - a prophet is not without honour save in his own country, I thought (that's a quotation by the way): " In demotic terms, it's the difference between fornication and masturbation." He squeaked: " You want me to print that?" " Absolutely." I have no idea, whether the NYT did, or H&H will, but back to the OM. I always dreaded the OM when I was hunting hounds and any huntsman who goes to an OM without a Gordian knot of nerves, will never be any good as a huntsman. Most huntsman enjoy what we must now call the "Autumn Hunting" - he and his hounds can get on with the business they are there for, hopefully with a little help and no hindrance. From the OM onwards, the huntsman is in show business. The punters have, hopefully, paid their subs and are entitled to look for a return on their investment in the form of sport and fun. Let us never forget that Foxhunting is meant to be FUN - a fact that some masters and/ or huntsman seem set on ignoring. There is an old and true saying that: " A huntsman is only as good as his last day" and if too many of them are bad, he is likely to be banished - "to spend more time with his family" - a thought so ghastly as to enthuse even the most lack - lustre performer. So every huntsman wants a good OM - to put a bottom in his market. A good OM is often difficult to achieve. November is a notoriously difficult hunting month. Fog may be all too prevalent in certain airts. I remember sitting for 3 hours at an OM in Yorkshire and calling off the day. As soon as we got hounds back to the kennels, the sun came out. Scenting conditions may be difficult. In the woods the leaf is falling. Freshly fallen leaves carry little scent. If it has been a dry Autumn, farmers will have been banging in winter corn as though there is no tomorrow, which may be sadly true for many struggling farmers and there will be a lot of stock still out. Freshly sown ground is bad for scent, as is a herd of daft heifers galloping amongst hounds and through electric fences. Either, or both, does nothing to increase agricultural morale - that most precious asset for good hunting. There has been a huge increase in shooting over the last 20 years. When I took over my last pack in 1982 there were only two shoots in the whole country - one belonged to my Joint Master and the other to the Hon Sec. Now, virtually every farm is shot over to some degree. There was an old Punch cartoon which depicted the huntsman coming out of a covert through a wicket which is being held open by the Keeper and asking: " Where have all the foxes gone?" " Pheasants ate 'em all." There has been an unfortunate increase in the numbers of vulpicidal pheasants. In recent years there has been a considerable increase in both canine and equine coughs. I remember being told on the night before the OM that every horse in the stables was coughing, which did wonders for my morale. I was very fortunate to escape the kennel cough throughout my 25 seasons carrying the horn. As I said every OM is different. This year certainly will be. We are all going to a meet of the South Durham Foxhounds and the Weardale Beagles at Trimdon. Trimdon is where Mr Bliar (sic) has his country house, in the bowels of his constituency. I have grave doubts about him putting in an appearance (doubts that I suspect are shared by Special Branch) but we hope that every true Field Sportsman, whatever his discipline, in the North East will come and demonstrate their feelings about this ghastly man and his rancid, corrupt government. The other difference is on my little farm. It occupies a small but tactical corner of the local hunting country. It has some easy peesy hunt jumps; a quick way through to the main road and the field in front of the house provides a natural grandstand for the car followers. All hunt followers have been welcome in the past, but not this year. I have written to the Hunt Chairman saying that no one will be allowed across my land unless they are fully paid up members of the Countryside Alliance - so there.
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HORSE & HOUND - 13.11.03
To Melton Mowbray for the 'Challenge Saumur', or, if your French is a bit rusty - the 'Saumur Challenge'. Two immediate questions to get out of the way - what is at Melton, outwith the pork pies? The answer to that is the - 'Defence Animal Centre' - DAC to its friends. This was the old 'Remount Depot' and is still the first stop after Ireland for the Household Cavalry 'Blacks' and the King's Troop Bays, but it is now also the training centre for the 'Dogs of War' - try burgling that. Question two - what is the Saumur Challenge? Saumur is the French Cavalry training centre and home of the famous 'Cadre Noir'. The Challenge is a four-sided contest between the French, Dutch, Belgian and British Armed forces. The teams each consist of three officers from the Volunteer or Reserve Forces of each country. It is a one-day event - cross country in the morning and show jumping after lunch. The horses are provided by the host country and the team managers draw lots for them. The stable staff is not devoid of humour and I have a strong suspicion that the horses made available for the draw tend to be selected from amongst the 'characters'. The Challenge circulates and I understand that 'plucky little Belgium' should have been the host country this year. It was unfortunate that the Belgian cavalry has had its horses taken away and given to the Police. Any suggestion that the horses might have been eaten would be received with the contempt it deserves. The Brits were the hosts for the second year running and this year they managed things better, with beautiful autumn weather - last year was a monsoon. The challenge happens on a Saturday, but just to remind the modern world that hunting was considered the best training for a cavalry officer, the Quorn laid on a special day on the Friday. Officers of all nations enjoyed a very busy and on-going day, in spite of tricky scenting conditions. I allowed myself a little twinge of pride in seeing Peter Collins making such a good job of hunting hounds. He started with me in the 70s as a small boy on a pony and used to go like the proverbial manure off a shovel. There was a very jolly dinner in the Officers' Mess on the Friday night. Saturday was crisp and sunny and I took a leisurely stroll round the cross country course, stopping to watch competitors over each obstacle and wonder how I would have tackled it - through the gate is the answer - in case you are wondering. The jump that caused the most grief was over a very small burn. One hapless Belgian was well and truly carted - very unpleasant - at one time it looked as though he might be taken through a proper old-fashioned 'bullfinch' and disappear into 'high Leicestershire'. All was well, but I was heard to wonder what the French for being carted was? Later in the day a very smart F.A.N.Y. came up and saluted me and said that the answer to my question was (in English) - "to lose your hands". I am happy to say that the Belgian lost nothing except a little pride. I reckoned that, on the cross country, it was easy to pick out the riders who had regularly and fairly hunted. Anyway, all was well, apart from a cracked rib. After lunch came the show jumping and there is nothing I can say about show jumping that I cannot say about watching paint dry. Then the teams fell in, in hollow square, for the prize giving and much playing of National Anthems and everybody saluting except for one lady Gunner. I hope that her CO will 'grip' her - in the purely military sense of course. The evening brought a splendid Mess Dinner with everybody in full fig with medals. I could not help noticing the young Frenchman who seemed to have a lot of gongs for a young man. He had been in the Foreign Legion. It was certainly a brave sight with all the different forms of mess dress. I thought the Dutch version (blue with lots of frogging - frogging was reputed to turn a sabre slash) would have made a rather good smoking jacket and, talking about smoking, the DAC mess is bran new and obviously designed by a man who specialised in the style of motor way service areas. You cannot smoke in it for fear of smoke alarms and, perhaps, a smidgeon of PC. Night drifted into morning. At breakfast I sat next to a young Frenchman, groaning over his untouched cornflakes: " Vous n'avez pas faim?" I asked. My pronunciation was faulty. " No sank you. I am not wanting a woman zis morning."

Who won? The French A Team came first with GB (B) second and GB (A) third. First individual was Maj. Rupert Foster of the QOY. My sincere thanks to the DAC and all concerned with the Saumur Challenge.

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HORSE & HOUND FOR 26.12.03
A very happy Boxing Day to you all - I hope it follows on a Happy Christmas. I did receive one nice present - I came fourth in the 'Queen's English Society's' prize for 'excellent' English - this will, no doubt, come as a shock to the editorial staff of Horse and Hound, which has to wade thigh deep (not, I hasten to add, that I have had the honour of examining any of the thighs concerned) through my purple prose. But, enough of this frivolity, let us turn to the serious business of the Boxing Day Meet. I used to hate and dread Boxing Day, when I hunted hounds. The thought of it used to ruin Christmas for me. I think that I was traumatised by my first Boxing Day, when the weather was foul and we only found one fox, which hounds were unable to hunt. They made up for this by hunting a Blackface sheep with considerable élan. My spirit sank very low that evening along with the contents of a bottle of whisky. I continued to hate Boxing Day for many seasons thereafter. One of the problems was that Boxing Day meets all seemed to happen in totally unsuitable places, as it might be the centres of towns, which had once been small market towns, but had now become major conurbations. The strain that these meets imposed on my nervous system, was hardly eased by a thimbleful of sweet sherry, dispensed by the Mayor - a fighting dram of whisky would have been more to the point. These occasions were always graced by a female reporter from the local paper, who was always amazed to learn that this was not the sole occasion during the year on which we went hunting and could not believe that I knew the names of all the hounds ("but they all look just the same to me.") This was not helped on one occasion when I replied to this question with - "Well, you know the names of all your children, don't you?" To which she answered - "But, I can't have children," and burst into tears; Oh dear; oh dear. There always seemed to be some awful drama on Boxing Day. One, I remember with especial horror. We used to draw a wooded hill on the outskirts of the town, which used to become totally ringed with people. No fox could penetrate the cordon, so we used to hunt in ever decreasing circles. On this particular day, the hapless fox solved the problem by disappearing down a rabbit hole in a field bank. I had inherited an Honorary Terrier Man - a gallant retired officer, who used to shake like the proverbial leaf, until he had ingested the first of his daily ration of two bottles of whisky. By the time we ran to ground he was well into the second bottle. Thus emboldened he ignored my instruction to 'leave it' and commenced excavation - this with about 300 interested spectators. This man's pride and joy was a little German automatic pistol that he had 'liberated'. I got a message that the 'fox was ready' and returned with hounds, just in time for the bang:" Oh F###!" said the Major. He had shot the terrier Bang!" Oh F###!" said the Major. He had shot himself in the foot. Several things then happened at once. The fox bolted between the Major's legs. The Major fell flat on his back. It was unfortunate that his finger was still on the trigger and the pistol was on auto. A withering burst of fire raked the surroundings. 300 people dived into the mud. Hounds went away with the fox and I went too - as far away as possible. Then there was a Boxing Day in Yorkshire. We found a fox in the local scrap yard (a sure find). Once again the area was ringed by a huge crowd of foot people. The wretched fox ran right through a farmhouse (in the front door and out the back, closely followed by hounds, who then coursed him through several chicken runs, to howls of encouragement from the crowd. The fox then got into a small covert, hounds hard at him and all mixed up with the crowd screaming with blood lust. I remember a very large woman brandishing an umbrella and a man waving what I still swear was a machete. Hounds killed the fox in the covert and amongst the crowd:" By!" said the umbrella lady - "That weer grand, that weer." Ah well. Only in the North have there been Boxing Days that I have enjoyed. There was the day we met on foot for snow and frost and hounds ran untouched for over 4 hours. We had to stop them in the dark. My best Boxing Day was in Northumberland - Hounds ran for a twisting 20 miles and finally caught their fox fair and square on a steep afforested cliff, just at the darkening. I enjoyed that Boxing Day.
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HORSE & HOUND - 4.12.03
'My Best Horse' is a somewhat deceitful title. I had several 'best horses' through the time (25 seasons) that I was hunting hounds. I hunted 5 different countries but whatever the country, you need the best and most suitable horse that money can buy. 'There's the rub' - I never had much money. To buy a good horse for little money means buying and riding horses with an 'IF' and I rode a lot of 'IFs' in my time and had some crashing falls as a result. A lot of my best horses were sold as pullers - they would have been hell to ride in the field, but, apart from the ones with a loose screw in the brain, once they were in front with nothing between them and hounds, they made good hunters. My first pack was the Dartmoor. This was a wide open galloping country and no place for a head case. You needed a 'thinking' horse when you got out on the 'stuggy' - Devon dialect for sticky. The crown of the Moor is one vast sponge, where the rivers rise. My best horse was 'Red Knight' - a dark chestnut bought for £150 in Exeter Market. He was a lovely huntsman's horse. He could really gallop and would jump a five bar gate, but when he came to the stuggy he would slide across the wet ground with little skittering steps, where lesser horses would start to plunge and would sink with all hands. I have known horses get so comprehensively 'stugged' that they had to be shot. Red Knight was also supposed to have a dodgy heart, but, bless him, he carried me over the Moor for three hard seasons. When I left I found him a good home with a local doctor, who hunted him quietly for several seasons. My next country was the Wilton - rolling chalk downland. It had been unfenced sheep walk, but had been ploughed up and fenced with barbed wire. A lot of horses will jump wire quite happily, if you have the heart for it. My heart was harder in those days. I had a big iron-grey gelding called Christopher. He was a sickened show jumper, but he loved hunting. He would pop a wire fence with his ears cocked. Asian Gold was an old one-eyed chaser. He had run, and finished, in two Nationals. I discovered his wire jumping skill by accident on the first day that I hunted him. I blew a fox away from the first cover, shoved the horn in its case and realised that I was being carted. Approaching 5 strands of shiny new barbed wire at 30 mph with no brakes is an interesting experience. My advice is to drop your hands, close your eyes and pray. An interested spectator said that the old horse stood back 20 feet and cleared the wire by six. The Taunton Vale is a country of small wet dairy farm and huge black fences. 'Tyrone' was my main man there. My brother in law had hunted the Cottesmore on him. He was a lovely quality horse with short back and short legs. He came with the reputation as 'a handful' - even in a double head and a standing martingale. My wife promptly took all the ironmongery off and put a rubber snaffle on him. He never pulled again and was a most beautiful armchair ride. Trendsetter 111 (he inevitably became 'Trendy') had 'retired' himself from Show Jumping, by carting his rider and jumping out of the ring. He was a big slashing, dark bay, blood horse. He was very bold - all you had to do was point him and pull the trigger. He had a huge jump in him and 'unseated rider' on more than one occasion. He became my number 1 'Vale Horse' at the Sinnington - the country where I had the best hunting in my career. He was a lovely kind horse, who came to a sad end when he broke a blood vessel. Keep the best till last, they say. My last hunter was certainly the best. Rowan Tree was a big, quality, blood heavy weight. He was bought for much fine gold from the famous Dr Connors, but not by me. I got him cheap because he scared the whisky out of the man who bought him. He could not bear to have another horse upsides of him, but, with nothing between him and the hounds he loved, you could ride him on the proverbial silk thread (well, a plain snaffle anyway) He was a Rolls Royce of a horse who carried me up and down the steep hills of the West Percy with consummate ease. The summer after I hung up my horn, he dropped dead in the field. He was my very last best hunter. I have not been on a horse since.

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