A view worth living for
The tragedy placed a further importance on the oft-quoted and even clichéd exhortation to make the most of life, and to do things before it's too late. I therefore publish the shamefully late account of my Alabama/Florida/Georgia/Kentucky hunting, and dedicate it to a wonderful friend, mother and rider, Georgia Storm.
Georgia out hunting with me at the Tejon two years ago
The embarrassingly long time between recording the first half of my eastern-US hunting adventure and the second was princiapally swallowed up by working on the next ‘bookazine’, devoted to dogs, which is full of such delights as talking poodles, how to train sheepdogs, beautiful whippets and irrepressible terriers. We have now nearly finished the third, entitled High Society. I hope they are as fun to read as they have been to edit - look out for it in WHSmith, Waitrose and Morrisons, as well as good newsagents. At least, if the distribution, hitherto poor, has improved!
Who could resist those eyes?
After chivvying foxes around Virginia and Maryland, I flew south from Philadelphia to the wild, woolly coyote country of eastern
Alabama, where my phone refused to work and ‘towns’ are no more than hamlets.
It is absolutely beautiful, unspoilt by urban development and simply
made for hunting. Landing at the terrifyingly huge Atlanta airport, I trekked
several miles to the hire car, then sped south-west as the sun set, following
the instructions sent to me by Mason Lampton, master of the Midland hounds. It
being dark by the time I reached the village of Fitzpatrick, I missed first the
turn and then the lake that heralded the drive, so spent rather more time
driving along deserted woodland lanes than was comfortable. Taking a
chance and following another car up a long track, I asked the driver with
trepidation if we were at High Log Lodge. Thankfully, he confirmed we were, and
set the seal on my pleasure by saying, on hearing my name: ‘Ah yes, didn’t I
read an article of yours in the Chronicle?’ My first taste of fame!
My sort of setting: lonely High Log Lodge
A dinner that defined the word convivial!
Me and my handsome host, Mason Lampton Sr
Entering the lodge, we were met by a blaze
of light and chatter, and an immediate G&T. A proper Southern welcome! Mason and
his wife, Mary Lu, were hosting members of the Midland Foxhounds on one of
their weekly jaunts to the far end of their hunt country, 70 miles from the
kennels in Columbus, Georgia. This pack was founded by the legendary (on this occasion, that word is not hyperbole) Benjamin Hardaway III, Mary Lu's father. At 96, he is still following hounds, now in a Jeep emblazoned with the words Silver Fox. After hearing the music of the hounds as a child, he knew what he wanted to do with his life, and has dedicated himself to hunting ever since. There is a wonderful line in his riveting autobiography, Never Outfoxed, when his wife said that if there were six biscuits left in the house, he would give half of them to his hounds before his wife and children. Mr Hardaway remarked that he was pleased she understood! He
discovered this country in rural Alabama as a young man and began bringing his
hounds here. Several decades on, and little has changed, the dairy farms as
welcoming as ever and the woods as open, criss-crossed with coops and trails.
It’s relatively flat country, gently rolling with few hills, and wonderfully
open.
Setting off on the endless grassland
That first night in High Log Lodge, we feasted on the most succulent beef I
have had in America and drank delicious wine, but to my surprise, left the
comfort of the lodge behind for a trailer and beer. I soon understood why: this
was Grace’s, the local nightclub, the ceiling of which is covered with
signatures of hunting visitors from all over the world. I spotted the David Davies from
Wales and the Santa Ynez from California, and it wasn’t long before ‘Octavia
from H&H’ had joined them. I felt initiated into an exclusive club and we
the party began.
An exhortation with which we can all agree
Karoke! Ken George, huntsman and DJ extraordinaire
Deer-hunting season meant the proposed
early start was pushed back, great news for those of us who had partied at
Grace’s, but meaning there was concern about the effects of the hot bright sunshine. Such mundane
worries are not for these hounds though, and we had a terrific day amid
savannah-like grassland, wide arable fields and copses of trees perfect for
sheltering coyotes. In the honoured position of huntsman Mason’s pocket, riding Mary
Lu’s wonderful Firewood, I had a fantastic view of the whole thing. We found in
a dense covert of pine trees and the coyote went away back the way we had come,
giving us a splendid view of him beyond a lake. Another trail led off to the
left but some skilful work by Mason put the whole pack on the first line and
they poured up the hill, past a creek and to the shores of a small lake.
Countess led the swim to his hiding place in a straggly bush in the middle and, after a
swift, fierce fight, it was all over. Coyotes are vicious and strong, so it was
a difficult kill and testament to the determination of Hardaway hounds. I
confess to a few tears in my eyes – I have only ever seen a kill once before,
in the old pre-ban days in England, and even though a successful conclusion is
a good thing, ridding the world of a pest in the most natural way, every hunter
spares a thought for the vanquished quarry.
Countess on a mission
Coyotes don't give up easily, but it was quick in the end.
You can just make out its snarl amid the branches
The rest of the pack joins in!
Moments later, the field arrived, in time to watch Ken George’s heroic retrieval of the carcass. The water was a tad deeper than expected, and there was a moment when we thought the excited hounds were going to swamp him, but he struggled back to the bank to display the vanquished coyote to Mr Hardaway, quickly on the scene in his Jeep. I was honoured to be presented with the brush – suitably mounted, it will hang in my home forever as a reminder of these wonderful hounds.
Heroic huntsman Ken George
A good job well done!
Mr Hardaway, the Silver Fox, arrives to admire his pack
Happy - and hot - followers!
The day wasn’t over yet – we still had time
for a flat-out gallop of several miles until the new coyote crossed a road and
we gave it best near an imaginatively designed home created from two old grain
silos. After a long, gentle hack back across the kaolin clay (being the kind
used in pottery, it’s sometimes necessary to turn the hose on saddles caked in
the stuff), we sat down in the shade of trees beside a sapphire lake to feast
on macaroni cheese and ham, oh, and whisky!
Full cry!
Me and Mary Lu's Firewood, who gave me one of the best rides
of the whole trip. His previous life as an eventer was
evident in his biddability
Another enormous feast and karaoke at
Grace’s later, we were at Sablecoat Farm for a spin
around the woods that started slowly but warmed up to a rollercoaster ride
along forest tracks in pursuit of at least two coyotes. Each time we galloped
in one direction, it would have turned back, sending us round and round in an
attempt to keep up. Eventually, gathering one half of the pack up, Mason led us
back towards the meet, whereupon we heard the rest of the pack giving tongue with
vigour. Impressively, our eight couple stayed glued to Mason’s heels – evidence of the
golden thread between huntsman and hounds. Meanwhile, the rest of
the pack, beautiful July bitch Rampage right in the centre, had killed again,
making a rare tally for a hot weekend. Mason Jr and three mounted children
(Whit and Lulie stayed on the ground) were there first, so Henry, 10, was
presented with the brush, to his uncontrollable glee. His sisters, twins Kate
and Eliza, 7, weren’t too keen on being ambushed by him! What a weekend.
The Lampton family, two Masons, Mary Lu and assorted children
Puddles to splash through and woodland tracks to bounce along
Henry was delighted with the brush!
Hacking home under a sky more typical of July than November
Me on the bouncy Texas, who did not want to stand still for a picture
Midland babes!
Up at the kennels, two hours away in
Columbus, Georgia, the following morning, Mason, Ken and I walked out hounds
under a deep blue sky: the most idyllic way to spend one’s time without
actually hunting. A hugely varied collection of hounds, July, modern and old
English, American and cross-bred, they were united by continually waving sterns
and clear devotion to both their huntsmen. This is a very happy pack, and I
can’t wait to come back.
The look of love
Attention is all on Ken
A very happy pack!
Next stop was just over the Georgia border
in Florida, after a long and beautiful drive through an endless agricultural
landscape, full of sights I had never seen before: neat rows of spreading pecan trees and rolls of freshly harvested cotton bursting out of their wrappings. My destination was the home of the famous Live Oak hounds, famous both for their prowess on the flags and in the field. Founder and former huntsman Marty Wood and his wife, Daphne, are equally impressive: having learnt the secrets of hunting from Benjamin Hardaway III and Capt Ronnie Wallace (aka God), no less, they are now world-renowned hound-show judges. The smart kennels, designed by Marty, are stuffed full of hound-show champions, several of which hunted with us on a bright, frosty morning when the pine plantations were strung with gossamer like fairy lights. The rising sun quickly got hot, not a good recipe for scent, but this is a premier pack and we had a screamer across cotton and peanut fields and the long straight dirt roads that offer the perfect surface for a flat-out gallop. Apparently, the local authority wanted to pave them, but local residents (of which there are few) refused. My guide was Piper Parrish, the kind of first whip huntsmen dream of, who explained the difference between buck and hind deer prints and knew when hounds were on a bobcat purely from their voices. A fine red coyote gave us the run, though, and we would have had another if it hadn't been for the second one displaying the usual evil genius of his kind in heading straight for where a neighbouring plantation owner was quail shooting. But it had been a superb morning, not least for the brilliant and beautiful Lefty (Left and Right), who lived up to his reputation. He was a favourite of former Live Oak whip Michelle, who, now at Piedmont, had supplied Stormy for me up there, and, having been bred for racing, decided that hunting was much more his thing.
This being the Deep South, this wasn't the end of the hunting: doves were next up later that day. Before you squeak, these aren't pretty white things, but closer to the pigeons that swarm in Trafalgar Square. They are tiny, and take some shooting! Not being an experienced gun, I sat with my hearing aids turned off in the late-afternoon sunshine and thought how well the hounds had done that morning: scent was so poor that the gundogs were literally running over freshly shot birds.
Moving off on a frosty morning
Piper (left) in full and fascinating flow
Photograph courtesy of Lyn StClair
Dawn in the pine plantations through Lefty's beautiful ears
Hacking home at the heels of huntsman Dale Barnett
Photograph courtesy of Lyn StClair
On the famous dirt roads/gallop tracks
Photograph courtesy of Lyn StClair
Following in style: Ken and Diana Linthacum
with their pristine turnout
This being the Deep South, this wasn't the end of the hunting: doves were next up later that day. Before you squeak, these aren't pretty white things, but closer to the pigeons that swarm in Trafalgar Square. They are tiny, and take some shooting! Not being an experienced gun, I sat with my hearing aids turned off in the late-afternoon sunshine and thought how well the hounds had done that morning: scent was so poor that the gundogs were literally running over freshly shot birds.
Young Bramble ready to retrieve
Waiting for the next flight
Florida/Georgia farmland
The moss-draped live oaks that add a touch of grandeur to the landscape
Sunset
The next morning, we went back in time. The night I arrived, we had feasted on quail with wild rice and local pecans, and on a clear, cool day we went out with dogs and guns to restock the freezer. But this was no ordinary shoot: the dogs travelled by mule wagon and we rode Tennessee Walking horses. Apart from the rubber wheels on the wagon, nothing had changed for 200/300 years. The bird plantations with their widely spaced pine trees and dense cover of grasses and bushes are preserved for the wildlife, with the birds we were aiming for as wild as they get. This is sporting conservation at its finest, where the countryside is managed for the benefit of deer, ducks, quail, coyote, bobcats and a dozen other species because the joy of the chase and the taste of the meat are worth working for. There's nothing better than hunting in a landscape entirely suited to the purpose, where the wildlife is abundant and there isn't a road or a house for miles. And when you finish the day with a fantastic meal, nothing could be better!
1715/1815/1915/2015 - this mule wagon may have been
newly built, but it would have been familiar
to centuries of Southern sportsmen
What a view!
The pointers travelling in style
These beautiful gaited horses have a four-beat running walk that
is sublimely smooth, perfect for long days in the saddle.
Think there might be some quail in here!
A noble pair
I took the opportunity to ride on board the wagon, and watched
as the guns dismounted and stood ready for the birds.
They fly in coveys of a dozen or so and are tiny and swift,
and very difficult to shoot: good shots only need apply
Marty with a downed bird: cooked in hot butter, it will make a fine meal
Me aboard Marty's lovely Zulu,
with Marty and Daphne at the end of a blissful morning
I was extremely sad to leave the delights of this magical place, with its delicious food, cracking sport and ever-welcoming people, but I had one more stop on my hunting tour. The Woodford Hounds of Kentucky hunt mere miles from the Thorougbred paradise of railed paddocks full of racing's equine stars, yet when we mounted up in lashing rain on the edge of heathland, it felt rather more like Exmoor than the land of bluegrass. The weather meant there were only three of us in the field, stalwart Diana Swain, 12-year-old Claire Goff and Michelle Primm, who brought the coloured powerhouse Milk Punch for me to ride. Huntsman Glen Westmorland, hailing from Yorkshire, was undaunted, and we were rewarded with a fast spin across the heath, until the coyote disappeared into a limestone ravine. Turning back to draw a field of head-high grasses, the hounds gave tongue in earnest, but for an unexpected reason. A raccoon was treed above them, clinging onto a swaying branch and laughing down at them as they went bonkers below. Raccoons are pests, in San Francisco as much as here, carrying disease and rivalling London's urban foxes in their ability to strew rubbish, so we weren't exactly distraught when the inevitable happened.
Michelle and Claire, ready for the wettest day Kentucky had seen in a while!
That dot on the tiny thin branch is the doomed raccoon.
Look carefully and you might spot an eager hound below
A last run petered out when the coyote - evil genius again - went in the one direction we couldn't, but it was definitely worth braving the rain. Something tells me I'll be back in these parts again!
Where are we again? Exmoor? Ireland?
One day, I will see the beauties of Kentucky's Thoroughbred
paradise in sunshine
Since then, I have had fun day above the flooded Severn plain with the Cotswold Vale for Horse & Hound, a cracking weekend in Ireland, where we jumped about 60 stone walls with the Clare and the biggest double bank ever with the Duhallow, and I'm now looking forward to visits to the Red Rock in Nevada and Big Sky Hounds in Montana. For foxhunters, the sport is a passion that sets one's pulse racing and fills one's heart, and there is nothing better on God's green earth.
We did this!
What one might call a decent bank
We survived!
Me with the fabulous Doll, already booked for next year!
