There is a classic hunting print entitled Returning Home by Moonlight by James
Pollard that's one of the most evocative scenes I know. It speaks of a long
day in the saddle, a thrilling chase, fears faced and conquered, the
camaraderie of those who have crossed difficult country and lasted til the end,
horses, hounds and humans alike tired but happy, thinking of good food and soft
beds to come. Hounds drink deep from a silvered stream as riders, reins loose,
relive the day just gone and the moonlight floods the hills beyond. I have
always rued the days that I have to go home before hounds and the ones when we
have to finish before dark because of lack of country or, worse, the aggressive
actions of saboteurs. There is no better feeling than to be hacking home in
gathering darkness, horses’ hooves striking sparks from the road and the stars
of Orion the Hunter emerging overhead.
Returning Home by Moonlight by James Pollard,
available as a print from www.art.com
I have experienced that deep satisfaction a
few times – memorably with the Beaufort, returning to the kennels in the shadow
of Badminton House after a two-horse (and two-fall) day, and with the Cleveland
for Horse & Hound (published February 5, 2009), when we had to
jump a log on a tiny path on the lip of a deep gully in the dark to get home. This
Christmas, I was lucky enough to feel it again, twice, with the Carmarthenshire
Hunt in South Wales, an historic and thriving pack that celebrated its 125th
anniversary last year. Its story is told by Edwin Atkinson in The Carmarthenshire Hunt: A History (£9.95 from edwin.atkinson@btinternet.com, all proceeds to the hunt). A last-minute commission from Horse & Hound sent me whizzing from London to Gloucestershire and
onwards to Carmarthenshire just three days after landing from San Francisco. A
5.30am start, 7½ hours in the saddle and a 1.30am finish after a very late
supper is definitely the best way to get over jetlag. It was a wonderful day,
and one that presented me with far too much material for one hunt report, but I
squeezed as much in as possible– buy Horse
& Hound on January 29th to read the result!
Me aboard the fantastic Bob. Good stirrup cups in Llanboidy!
This picture was taken by Christopher Harte for the local paper.
It was an odd feeling being subject, rather than the reporter...
I
couldn’t have asked for a better start to Christmas, and it continued in
splendid fashion with a day following the North Cotswold on a quad bike. Four
legs is definitely preferable to four wheels – ever since I was in a golf buggy
aged 12 when it tipped over coming down a hill in Rock, Cornwall, I have been
nervous of those off-road monsters that intrepid terrierman take up and down
seemingly impossible hills. I remember a day's stalking in the back of an Argocat in Scotland eliciting a few squeaks that caused great hilarity among my seasoned companions... The thing is, mechanical horses don’t have a ‘fifth leg’, and
although devotees say that horses are stupid and quads are easier to control,
the sentient ones will at least try to stay upright, most of the time. But there were
compensations on this occasion – I was with acclaimed photographer Sarah Farnsworth and
she ensured that Darren, at the controls, curbed his more adventurous
instincts.
Me and Sarah with our trusty steed
This brilliant vehicle will go almost anywhere, I was assured,
as we roared and bounced along our remote Scottish glen...
Back in the Cotswolds: speed!
Handsome rare-breed White Park cattle, with, in the distance,
huntsman and hounds on the left and the field on the right. Honest!
The noble eagle of the North Cotswold
Being a local gamekeeper, Darren has dispensation to follow as he wishes
and knows the land better than most, so we had a cracking day blasting along
lanes and tracks at seemingly impossible speeds. I did long for a horse when we
had to find a gate instead of popping an inviting rail, but the excellent picnic
of pork pies and Stilton soup made up for it. There was only one scary moment, when we took a steep, rutted track, feet deep in mud, at speed and ended up bucking into the flanking thorn bushes. Sarah and I made swift exits and let Darren go up by himself; we worked off the pies by clambering up under our own steam. Back in touch, we were treated to some magnificent views of this fine pack of modern English hounds, headed by the esteemed Nigel
Peel MFH, the old turf
and winter stubble lit by pure golden sunlight. I even saw old Charlie (ignored, of course), a fine, dark-red beauty making his stealthy way through the trees.
The professional at work
Sarah's pictures will no doubt be slightly better than mine,
but this is Nigel Peel and hounds. Evocative, methinks
Hounds, huntsman and field on winter stubble. Bliss to be on
proper old Cotswold estates where stubble is kept for the winter,
rather than ploughed up immediately after harvest
The North Cotswold defines a 'level pack'
The obligatory hunting selfie!
Back home, an extremely giggly evening
ensued playing a new board game that my sister discovered, called Eurobabble, by Pants on Fire, which involves having to answer questions and interpret mimes and actions in
six languages, French, German, Swedish, Dutch, Italian and Spanish. It would
probably cause all sorts of offence among the kind of people who get offended,
with its opportunities to reinforce national stereotypes (a staccato voice and
sharp movements quickly became shorthand for German; a shrug and puff on a
cigarette meant French), but until you’ve heard my dignified father try to say ‘season of
mists and mellow fruitfulness, close bosom friend of the maturing sun’ in a
Swedish accent, you haven’t lived. Calming down a bit, we strolled down the
road to Midnight Mass at our local church, Pip and Jim. Favourite carols and
the vicar’s story of his trip to Bethlehem, where a genuine no-room-at-the-inn
scenario led to him staying in the same suite used by the Pope, ensured our souls were well and truly infused with the spirit of Christmas.
Christmas!
Christmas Day supper - yes, somehow we did need more food...
New Year’s Eve is often a source of mixed
feelings, and although I’ve had the odd cracker (opening Champagne with a
sword in the wilds of Wales springs to mind), I’ve also had some dire nights.
Being forced to watch the frankly horrible black ‘comedy’ Fargo was the worst! But this year will go down as one of the most
memorable: dinner in the Elizabethan Great Hall at Apethorpe Palace. Although the
house lacks such modern-day necessities as plumbing, electricity, heating and so
on, the enormous fire and a feast worthy of Queenie herself, not to mention
excellent company, made for a toasty-warm night. It was the first private
dinner to be held at Apethorpe since before the Second World War and will no
doubt be the first of many splendid occasions under the aegis of Apethorpe’s
new owners, Baron Pfetten and his family. Indeed, a tradition of huge afternoon
teas has already been begun: only that day, 100-odd members of the
Woodland Pytchley, of which the Baron is joint-master, crammed into the hall to
celebrate the building’s renewed position at the centre of sporting life. It followed a similar welcome to the local villagers, for whom little has changed in
this corner of Northamptonshire since Mary, Queen of
Scots, was executed at nearby Fotheringhay. Rumour has it that her death
warrant was signed on the very spot where we tucked into quail eggs and fondue,
but, fortunately, the biggest danger for us was drinking too much to avoid
rogue fireworks. In the moonlight at midnight, the house seemed to look down
with pleasure that its halls are once again ringing with life. In the morning, cobwebs were blown away by an outing with the
Woodland Pytchley. Just the way to start 2015, with good company and a fun
hour over well-built fences making up for a disappointingly early finish at 2.30pm. After all, even
with artificial trails, no one can guarantee a good scenting day. I definitely look forward to returning, hopefully on the same handsome coloured, Henrietta, who proved she had terrific spring even from a standstill! No time spent behind hounds is time wasted, as wiser men than me have said, and I
could feel assured that James I, one of the more illustrious hunting guests of
17th-century Apethorpe, would have approved of my eschewing a lie in
for a spin around the fields.
Jean-Christophe with the hunting frieze in the King's Bedchamber,
where James I spent many of his hunting excursions
Jacobean and Georgian architecture meet in the main courtyard
Hmm... will this keep us going, I wonder?
Dinner takes shape!
A feast fit for kings, queens, princes and barons,
and ordinary English girls
Nadia, Jean-Christophe and me, wrapped up warm!
The friendliness and enthusiasm of the
Carmarthenshire is second to none, so much so that I snatched a second
opportunity to visit on my last weekend at home. It was definitely greedy, but
definitely worth it, as I got to ride the brilliant Bob again and saw a
beautiful patch of country. (Bob is for sale, together with several others at his owner Bobby Thomas's yard, so contact me if you're interested!) We met on the beach below the ruined castle in
Llansteffan, just round the coast from Dylan Thomas’s home in Laugharne. The
sun shone, the water sparkled and the winds that had threatened to blow me off
the Severn Bridge lessened enough to allow conversation. After a spin on the
sand, we clattered through the village and turned off up an old drover’s track
between the fields. We stayed on such tracks for much of the morning,
centuries-old paths between ancient hedge-topped banks that once formed the
main routes to market for local farmers. Most had been lost to time and
brambles before the hunt started opening them up, with the goodwill of the
landowners and to the benefit of hunt followers, dog walkers and riders alike.
Hunts across the UK devote their spare moments and energy to looking after the
countryside in similar ways – yet another way in which hunting is good for the
land.
Looking up to Llansteffan castle from the damp beachside carp park
Me and Bob catch up. What a way to warm up!
With thanks to Jacqui Kedward of Hafod Farm Stables
Happy horses, happy humans
With thanks to Jacqui Kedward
Happy times!
The Carmarthenshire hounds, a mixture of English and Welsh.
Photographed by Christopher Harte
at the Llanboidy meet on December 20th
Enough of the lecture – hunts like the
Carmarthenshire don’t spend their time musing on the illogicality and ignorance of the world, but
crack on and enjoy life. The young huntsman Owain Fisher, who is doing a
cracking job with a pack comprised mainly of drafts from the Cotswold Vale and
Albrighton Woodland, is in his first season, and recently added to his honour roll with a win
in the hornblowing competition at the Pembrokeshire Hunt Ball. Outside, we
seldom stopped moving (except for a gossip and a swig of the hip flask), but
were treated to some glorious views of hounds on the trail. When the
trail-layers had evidently got tired, we repaired to the woods where Bobby Thomas and Mark Davis had put up long lines of jumps, just the ticket to get the adrenaline
going. We stopped when it was decided that even if the horses could see the
fences, we couldn’t, so we slithered down a bank into the lane and trotted on to
catch up with hounds. A last excursion onto the sands and a session of
sandwiches and Port put the seal on a perfect day, only heightened by Ian Hislop discussing irony on Radio 4 in the car and a glass of wine by the fire.
Looking out now on the sunlit Bay, a week later, such simple rural pleasures seem a long way away. The weather this past week in San Francisco has been more grey and gloomy than usual, oppressively so, with pollution adding to the fog, but all that cleared today for my favourite walk down to the wave organ, where the wind whipped the waves into white horses and white sails dotted the blue. This year looks set to be full of excitement, with trips planned to Alabama, Ireland and the Caribbean. The old bucket list will get some thrashing, and there might even be time for some work. It’s not so bad being back in California!
Dogs always know the most comfortable place!
Looking out now on the sunlit Bay, a week later, such simple rural pleasures seem a long way away. The weather this past week in San Francisco has been more grey and gloomy than usual, oppressively so, with pollution adding to the fog, but all that cleared today for my favourite walk down to the wave organ, where the wind whipped the waves into white horses and white sails dotted the blue. This year looks set to be full of excitement, with trips planned to Alabama, Ireland and the Caribbean. The old bucket list will get some thrashing, and there might even be time for some work. It’s not so bad being back in California!
San Francisco!
Atmospheric? Perhaps
Ah yes, there's the reason I love this place
Karl the Fog looking particularly beautiful
