If music be the food of life: hounds, Harold Arlen and concerts at home

Winnie the Pooh would have found the fields of Alabama somewhat disconcerting. Peppering the fields like so many heffalump traps are armadillo holes, huge and deep and dangerous to galloping horses. Riders must keep one eye on the ground and one on the action, pointing with their whips at any looming pits; however, shouts of ‘ware hole!’ are discouraged, because it would get too darn noisy. Armadillos are odd-looking creatures, leftovers from prehistoric times, which deploy their armour by curling up into a ball if threatened and leap five feet in the air when startled. (They’re a pest in Alabama, due to their incessant digging, and are kept down by shooting. Perhaps it could be a new kind of right-and-left: shooting it once on the floor and once in the air?!) It would have been fun to have seen one indulging in airs above the ground, but I was quite happy just to avoid their holes.

The English invaders: Sarah Farnsworth, me, Mel Atkins and Fiona Watson

The tales of Southern hospitality and courtesy are not exaggerated. Four English girls, me, photographer Sarah Farnsworth and Devon & Somerset Staghounds followers Melanie Atkins and Fiona Watson, invaded the 48th Mooreland Hunt Week and were met with charm and generosity. Our hosts, HC Bright and Cary McWhorter, Southern gentleman and belle respectively, fed us proper barbecued pulled pork, drove us all over the place (HC only got stuck car following a couple of times…) and kept us entertained on and off the hunting field. I missed the afternoon’s snipe hunting, sadly, but Fiona apparently triumphed with a neatly bagged snipe… They kept up the story for some time, but think Mornington Crescent Alabama-style and you’ll understand!

Sarah and me at a proper Alabama steakhouse. Yum!

Sarah and I were collaborating on a piece for Untacked, the travel and lifestyle supplement of The Chronicle of the Horse, our first assignment stateside after work following Welsh woollies and Northumberland falcons in the UK for Horse & Hound and Country Life. She is one of the best photographers working today, with an uncanny ability to get to the heart of her subject and find that perfect shot. She’s also passionate about hunting, so we were both thrilled to follow the hounds of the Hillsboro, Mooreland, Live Oak (visiting from Florida) and Full Cry as they sought out the hard-running grey coyote of this rich agricultural area. Unfortunately, the coyotes weren’t aware of how many people had visited from across the US and UK to see them perform at the 48th Mooreland Hunt Week and the freezing, dry weather meant scent was patchy, but we had a cracking day on the Saturday when a combined pack of Mooreland and Live Oak hounds hunted one coyote for 2½ hours. She was a beautiful grey lady coyote (oddly enough, there’s no name like vixen for a female coyote) with a glossy coat and she led the pack round and round in circles. Coyote run like hares in ever-decreasing circles, but usually make a break for it after two or three. This one didn’t, but her guile and athleticism – she even darted away from under the noses of the lead hound once – kept her safely ahead of the pack. In the end, with temperatures rising, we gave her best. She’ll be there for another day.

The Hillsboro country in Tennessee

An inquisitive Hillsboro hound wonders what Sarah's doing

Huntsman Johnnie Gray with his Hillsboro hounds

 



The fields of northern Alabama are huge and flat, dusted with cotton-wool balls from the cotton harvest and crunchy with discarded corn husks. Bar the need to dodge armadillo holes, the riding is relatively easy, with few fences or ditches, steep hills or muddy ruts to contend with, but the openness means you can see coyote, hounds and horses strung out on the line for miles, the view unencumbered by valleys or hedges. It’s a hunter’s country, and the followers are as keen as anywhere, although I have yet to get used to the strict hierarchy of the flight system. The field is split into two, three or even four flights, with those who want to gallop and jump up front and those who want to watch from distance, ‘hilltoppers’, at the back. Within each flight, members with colours go first, and children are banished to the rear, which seems a shame. Small children on nippy ponies can be a hazard occasionally in the UK when they dart in front of you at a narrow place, but being allowed up with the action teaches them manners, bravery, self-sufficiency and, not least, about hunting. I spoke to a Virginia hunting lady a few weeks ago who told me that she had never seen hounds when hunting with her parents as a child and therefore found showing more interesting. It was only in her twenties, when she was invited hunting by a friend, that she realised how magical houndwork can be. She is now master of her own pack, but she is lucky. How many American children never realise the sheer delight of watching hounds work and hearing them speak on the line?

 

Rhodri Jones Evans in action,

photographed by Sarah Farnsworth

 

When you’re out hunting, tense and still at the edge of a covert with your horse’s ears pricked, you’re listening for one thing: hound music. It comes in myriad ways: a tentative voice speaks from deep in the undergrowth; several give tongue together in excitement; a deep-voiced Penn-Marydel in America or blanc-et-noir in France booms out; and finally, the whole pack speaks together in a thrilling crash of sound, their excitement spreading to horses and humans alike until the whole shebang is on the move, racing across whatever countryside lies ahead. Hound music is as stirring as Beethoven’s Ninth, as many-layered as Bach and as rousing as Rule Britannia – and has the same effect of making the heart swell. I know this all sounds like hyperbole, but hunters will understand: the hope of hearing that ancient sound is the reason we keep going back for more.

 

Huntsman Rhodri Jones Evans with his Mooreland hounds

 

Off the hunting field we had the rare treat of walking hounds out with Rhodri under a spectacular sunset, listening to him describe the breeding (a blend of English and American, with the two main lines being from Warwickshire Windfall and Iroquis Echo) and fending off curious noses. Hounds sometimes forget their own strength, but at least if there’s a sea of them all around there’s usually a few to prop you up on the other side if one leaps up too boisterously. The Hunt Week concluded with a Hunt Ball, with cocktails at a beautiful Southern mansion first, dancing up high at The Summit in Huntsville and finally blowing 'gone to ground' in the parking lot to summon a missing member of our party... Everything is emblazoned with the hunt logo, from vehicles to glasses and napkins, even the photos taken in the photobooth. I fear that if a hunt were to mark its hunt lorries thus in the UK, the anti-hunt thugs would soon make them reconsider their decision. Down here in the South, where everyone has a dozen loaded guns lying about the place, there is no fear of such reprisals!

 

Fun after hunting: the Mooreland Hunt Ball.

Happy HC surrounded by adoring girls...

 

Branded goodies from the ball. Hunts are open and proud down here:

hunt vehicles are emblazoned with the logos of their respective packs.

I fear such smart branding would bring mean-spirited reprisals in the UK 

Me, Adrian and Sarah...cunningly disguised

Returning to the sunshine of San Francisco as Alabama succumbed to the snow-blanket currently freezing everybody east of Nevada, I strolled downtown on a warm Sunday afternoon to the Eureka Theatre, currently home to the SFArtsED Players, and a very different kind of music. I had been invited by my friend Chad Jones, theatre critic, maker of the best Martinis this side of Casino Royale and executive director of this superb organisation. Essentially a musical-theatre troupe, the SFArtsED offers opportunities in the Arts for children from across the city’s public schools and such is the quality of the performances that one can hardly believe that the age range is only 9-14. The show this time was Sittin’on a Rainbow: the Music of Harold Arlen and it was a revelatory production, telling the story of a man whose name is little known, even though he penned some glorious songs: That Old Black Magic, Paper Moon and the music for that slightly familiar film The Wizard of Oz. the children were accomplished, funny and moving, especially Oliver Paddock as the Cowardly Lion and Inkza Angeles singing Push de Button. I left humming Somewhere over the Rainbow and thinking how important it is that children have these opportunities, to learn to perform with each other, work hard and concentrate, and become confident in public. I was lucky enough at the King’s School, Worcester, to have a state-of-the-art theatre and brilliant, enthusiastic drama teachers, but recession-driven cuts to arts education in American public schools mean that children rely on these kinds of non-profit organisations. Thank goodness such people as Chad, artistic director Emily Keeler and director Natalie Greene are there to fill a theatre-sized gap and bring all the camaraderie, triumph and emotion of performance to life.

 

That old rainbow magic: Harold Arlen 

Another brilliant teenager, counter-tenor Sam Siegel, capped my week with yet more soaring notes. He, together with soprano Roslyn Jones, tenor Todd Wedge and pianist Ava Soifer, gave an evening of glorious music as part of the 30th Jewish Music Festival. The organisers, led by Sam’s father Dan, filled our drawing room and dining room with chairs and laid out cheese and strawberries in the kitchen to satisfy 50-odd ticket holders from across the city and the East Bay. The set-up period yielded an unexpected bonus when Roslyn’s father contorted himself to clean the windows to improve the view of the Golden Gate Bridge, much appreciated! Our wood-panelled house proved to have splendid acoustics, and the performance was sublime. Rhoslyn has a wonderfully resonant voice with a huge range for a soprano, and a depth of tone that means she is never shrill, only sweet. She hails from Canada and has sung with the opera companies of Vancouver, Chicago, Arizona and San Francisco. I always love listening to tenors and Todd was no exception, especially in the moving tale of Abraham and Isaac by Benjamin Britten in which he stabbed Sam at the climax. Fortunately, it didn’t affect either Sam’s soaring voice or his charm and confidence! Todd was a member of Chanticleer for three years and is now head of the vocal music department at the SF School of the Arts, which Sam attends. At only 15, Sam has sung in South Africa, Russia, China, Spain and Brazil with the Pacific Boychoir, and now trains with both Todd and Rhoslyn. All three introduced their songs in engaging fashion and they finished with a joyful encore, Anything You Can Do, which made everyone smile. Having a concert in a private house is a very special event, intimate and informal, and I’m sure I speak for all the attendees when I say we felt privileged to be there.

Counter-tenor Sam Siegel and soprano Rhoslyn Jones

Tenor Todd Wedge

Soprano Rhoslyn Jones

A musical trio: Sam, Rhoslyn and Todd

 

I'm back on my side of the pond now for some more hound music, this time in the muddy green fields of Ireland. Hopefully, the rain and cold will produce some decent scent and the hounds of the North Galway and Premier Harriers will reach the highest notes of Rhoslyn's performance. There's nothing like music to please the soul, whether it comes from a hound in full cry or a soprano at full stretch.