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HORSE & HOUND - OCTOBER

‘Write something fresh and new about the Opening Meet,’ they said. Heaven preserve their innocence - all those lovely young gels who now direct the destiny of this venerable magazine, I wrote my first piece for Horse and Hound in 1973 and I have written an article for just about every Opening Meet since. It is certainly true that every Opening Meet comes fresh and new and always will, but Opening Meets tend to be bound by certain traditions, which make them hard to change – rather like Horse & Hound itself.

Take the venue as an instance of tradition. There will be a certain house, pub, or crossroads, that tradition has marked down as ‘The Opening Meet.’ It is sometimes unfortunate that conditions change faster than traditions. Tradition decrees that the Blankshire shall hold its OM at the Three Jolly Knackermen public house. Sadly the 3JK, like the Blankshire, is no longer what it was. Miss Enid, whom I know that many of you remember fondly, has long been gathered. The grand old pub is now part of a ‘Chain’. The pub is now ‘family friendly’ and serves freshly microwaved good will. The Manager is not keen to have the Meet at all, but has had a memo from his Line Manager reminding him of the importance of ‘good communications with the local community’ even if he does regard them as blood soaked yokels with all those dirty boots and ‘accents’ (the Manager comes from Rickmansworth). The use of the village green by the Hunt has become a ‘little local problem’ – The Parish Council is now not PC in name only - it has been taken over by retired schoolteachers and born tired civil servants. The Council would like to mow the Green and keep all horses and livestock off it – unfortunately (for the PC) the Green is still part of the ancient common. This means that the grass belongs to the holders of Common Rights, which in this case means Old Tom and Percy Varco. They have told the PC that the sod is theirs and they can keep the PC mowers off their sod – I hope I have got all those sods right.

The 3JK used to lie in the ‘cream of the Vale’. The cream has been skimmed a bit by the M1000 and the M27.5 interchange. The Vale itself has mostly been connurbated and what is left grows executive homes with a pony paddock. The executives tend to be underwhelmed by hounds through the garden.

Then of course there is the famous ‘Skinner’s Gorse’ – a historically famous fox covert and the start of the great ‘Skinner’s Gorse Run’. There are still plenty of foxes in the covert – they batten on the food discarded by visitors – the place now being a ‘Rural Amenity Centre’. It boasts every amenity except hunting.

Now with all these problems confronting the Mastership, you might think that it would be sensible to move the OM to a slightly more PC (Peasant Compatible) venue. The Mastership did (very gently) make this suggestion at a Hunt Committee meeting. The sky fell on the Mastership. Change the OM! Great Heavens, it’s tradition! I mean you might as well say that the Foxhound Kennel Studbook is not Holy Writ!

All these threads run through the Master’s head as he sits at his breakfast table, gloomily dipping his ‘soldiers’ in his boiled egg. Also in head are the threads about lame horses, broken lorries, the burgeoning row between ‘the Stables’ and ‘the Kennels’ and the fact that he has left his wife somewhere and cannot quite remember where – this is a nuisance, as she has the car keys. The only golden thread in his mind is that if he survives the OM itself, he can always retreat to the haven of the Muggleton Estate and make some sort of day out of it. The telephone rings. It is Lord Muggleton himself:

‘Terribly sorry – very short notice – nephew coming to stay – thought they might have a little walk round – don’t want to be a nuisance, but if the hunt could just stay away until after 3 pm – super! Thanks so much – knows the Master understands.’

The understanding Master buries his face in his hands. A slow tear drops into his congealing egg.

None but a huntsman knows a huntsman’s cares – an old but true saying. No matter how many OMs you suffer, the tangled knot of nerves in the stomach grows no less. It stays with you all through the meet, whilst the Hon Sec takes forever to collect the cap, the frothing ‘Pointer’ (his horse is a bit over excited too) insists on riding amongst your hounds, to make sure that he is noticed – he usually is – alas! Poor old Cobweb…

The nerves only unravel at that magic moment when you pull your horn from its case to blow away hounds on the first fox of a new season – always supposing you don’t drop your horn and the local lurcher club has not already terminally compromised the welfare of the fox.

Happy Hunting.

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