A carpet of wet leaves were saturating my bare feet while squelching their disapproval as I ran through the dense copse of tree’s. Sunlight was penetrating the bows of branches that had now shed their autumn presentation. My mouth felt parched from running and the sun appeared overly bright even for an undressed canopy. I raised my arm to shield my eyes and continued to run. Continue reading “The Wrong Knickers”
Even with 120 hooves splashing with thunderous gusto along the rutted muddy farm track I could still distinguish that 4 of them were gaining on us from behind. This isn’t normally a concern but my ears informed me that this horse was becoming dangerously close to the rear of my horse. I took a swift look behind and saw it was George on his strapping great piebald cob. He met my swift gaze with a look of apologetic dread as he pulled frantically on the reins. Continue reading “Confessions of a Hunter: Part 4”
The Rogue River
Of the many rivers that snake their way through the English countryside on their journey to the sea, this river was a rogue. A rebel amongst the well behaved picturesque rivers we all love to sit by and have a picnic. This river stuck two fingers up to the likes of Constable and Monet. Dare I say, this river would spit on your cucumber sandwich and whisper to the wasps that you will be having a Victoria sponge for dessert. The grassy verges were harassed and bullied until they upped roots and moved to a better neighbourhood. It pulled down the beautiful Willow which now lay fallen, spanning the river like a macabre bridge. The torrent of water proudly displayed other fallen vegetation within its clay-brown swirling tentacles.
This day the Rogue River was about to capture a new kind of prey.
James sat on his high horse looking down at me from his 17.2 Warmblood. The horse was a beautiful chestnut with cannon bones the size of tree trunks, and his mane was plaited to perfection. I doubted James had completed the exceptional presentation of this horse. People like James didn’t appreciate fiddling with plaiting bands or having remnants of clipped hair down their pants.
My neck was becoming stiff while looking up at him from my 14.2 pony but I continued to smile and feign enthusiasm which may have wavered slightly as he loudly announced that his new horse had cost him £12 grand. But apparently he was of good stock and out of Fanfaron Sac De Vent, at least that’s what I thought he said. Somewhat conveniently I then spotted Rupert who had his hip flask out and I was trying to catch his eye. A nip of whiskey right now would be just the ticket. James could tell I was becoming distracted and thankfully rode off to impress someone else.
The time came to end discussions and to tuck away hip flasks as it had just been announced there was no way around this river, we would have to cross it. The entire field went quiet, even the hounds seemed to understand and probably for the first time in their entire lives… stopped barking.
The bravest riders went first, which unfortunately made things worse for everyone that hung back. It became obvious the water was deeper than expected, and the horses became agitated as the cold water lapped at their bellies. The first two horses struggled up the muddy bank, legs were splaying, slipping and again trying to get a grip. It looked awkward and horribly unseating and we all cringed at the near falls of both horse and rider. The bank became wetter and further churned up as more horses flailed and soaked the ground.
I admit I pushed in, I was going to cross this river right now, rather than wait for it to be a dead certain we’d both fall at the steep muddy bank on the opposite side. Disastrously, everyone else had the same idea! The next few minutes were mayhem, I found myself stuck in the middle, and the deepest part of the river. Horses were clambering up the other side so there was no room for me to move forward. By now horses were falling, and of course unseating their riders. Hunters found themselves on hands and knees crawling up the bank caked head to foot in mud.
I stayed put in the middle of the river with water filling my boots, fortunately my pony remained calm. I caught glimpses of her wide eyes as she looks left and right at the spectacle before her. She seemed to be assessing the situation, in my heart I knew she was. James charged past us both. His stirrup iron would leave a bruise on my upper leg for the next 5 weeks, but at least it didn’t get my horse.
His plan was to rush the bank in the hope his horse would jump up higher onto sure footing, but I already knew his plan was flawed. I may have even told him if he’d just pulled up beside me, instead of tearing my thigh muscle in half. The bank and the area beyond was a quagmire, there was no sure footing for man or beast.
Both horse and rider fell in spectacular fashion. The horse lost his footing and flipped sideways into the water, and James was thrown a good 3 feet into the river. Probably due to being somewhat dazed and bewildered that the son of Fanfaron Sac De Vent was unable to jump clear, James was unable to gain his footing so was swept violently along in the current.
His hat. That image will remain as sharp in my memory as the day it happened. The Rogue River had captured James in its tentacle-like grasp, and took him on a white water ride toward The Macabre Bridge. He made some attempt to grab the decaying bark but to no avail. We all lost sight of James as he was dragged by the current under the fallen willow…but his hat remained, dancing about like a black buoy on a choppy ocean.
It was now my turn, I wasn’t keen but we couldn’t stand in a river for the rest of our lives.
No reins, no leg just a handful of mane to stabilise myself I let my pony find her own way, and she did. Once on level ground I spotted the horse that belonged to James trotting about waving his head and snorting to shouts of ‘loose horse!’ We cantered to his horse and cut him off and I was able to grab his reins. The 3 of us returned to the soaking wet, muddy throng just in time to see James clambering out of the river some distance away. A little cheer went up amongst a smattering of giggles.
I handed the reins to James who seemed surprised my little pony and I had made it up the bank, and indeed caught his horse without incident.
Yes, I replied ‘Not a bad little horse considering she only cost £250’
The earliest records of the now almost extinct sport of Hedge Dwelling can be dated as far back as 1540. It is widely believed the sport coincided with the sport of fox hunting that had been growing in popularity in Norfolk since 1534. Traditionally hunting on horseback mainly focused on tracking deer but due to the decrease in deer populations open land was subsequently enclosed for protection purposes. This proved something of a hindrance to the hunters that ideally needed vast areas of open land to track deer successfully. Subsequently hunters began focusing their attention on hunting fox and hare. However this sport relied on flushing out small prey from hedge-rows which unfortunately hindered the hounds that had difficulty penetrating the dense foliage, due to the thorny and abrasive nature of the plants.
Records show around this time the sport of Hedge Dwelling rapidly grew in popularity as people were needed to flush out the prey that would go to ground in almost impenetrable undergrowth. Traditional attire of the Hedge Dweller consisted of a hat made of a hard substance which researchers theorise could have been made of whale bone, a thick tightly woven woollen jacket which was both water-proof and could protect a person from thorns, knee high leather boots and leather gloves. A stick with a deer antler handle was often carried to knock away thicker branches.
As said previously this sport is almost extinct, but I myself had the privilege of partaking in this ancient past time very recently. It is an early start for most people that hunt as there is much to do, which ultimately culminates in both horse and person attending the meet with the strictest punctuality and with a good standard of presentation. With this in mind the responsible hunter would expect to retire to bed at 9 pm in order to be at the stables at 6 a.m. For reasons that escape me, although I have a vague recollection that whiskey may have been involved, I ‘retired’ to bed at 3 a.m. Therefore I was feeling somewhat bewildered that I was being prodded just 2 hours later by someone insisting one should adorn a pair of jodhpurs and to stick ‘that mess’ under a hair net.
My trusted steed was on true form as usual and is at best a handful even for someone that is compos mentis. However a thoroughbred intoxicated by whiskey fumes is a thing of nightmares for the rider that is non-compos mentis. As the previous night’s mascara was migrating down my cheeks and the hair-net struggling to do its job it appeared my reputation with this particular hunt was also about to unravel. Fortunately I was somewhat relieved to notice the hedge-rows consisted of a particularly dense and thorny variety of plant. Remembering the ancient sport of Hedge Dweller I was quick to grab the opportunity to redeem myself and volunteered to take my sturdy stick with the antler handle and be Chief Hedge Dweller for the day. I had planned to ask the Master permission but unfortunately he was not to be seen, nor the hounds or indeed, anyone else. I had unwittingly galloped off in another direction entirely away from the rest of the field during a lapse of consciousness. I put this partial black-out down to a dodgy prawn from last night’s malaba curry.
My horse took her semi-conscious rider back to the lorry to which she quite happily loaded herself, and enjoyed the full hay net that had been tied up there. Fortunately there was a troublesome hedge-row quite close by that was crying out for the services of a Hedge Dweller and I was keen to carry out my duty post haste. By happy chance the traditional attire of this ancient sport was almost exactly the same attire worn by hunts in modern times, so I was well protected.
After a length of time being Chief Hedge Dweller I realised I was been prodded for the second time in just a few short hours. My friendly lorry driver had returned from following the hunt on foot, and felt a little baffled to find a horse on his lorry but no client in sight. According to him the sound of gentle snores were emanating from a nearby hedge and on investigating…found me. I vehemently dispute his recollection that I was asleep! No, I stand by the fact that I was an asset to the hunt this day by volunteering to flush out prey from the under-growth and felt proud to be upholding the ancient tradition of Hedge Dwelling.
It is widely accepted Homo Sapiens are the dominant species of Modern Human although approximately 150 000 years ago the genus Homo Ferrum evolved and diverged from other hominids in Africa. While not as successfully abundant in numbers as Homo Sapiens they subsequently spread globally. While the two species are similar in appearance and both have 23 pairs of chromosomes, DNA sampling can be used to identify homo type. This is generally unnecessary as characteristic traits of Homo Ferrum are easily identifiable by the time the child reaches the age of 5. Characteristics include lethargy, procrastination and an inhibited sense of smell. Physical differences include stronger back muscles and biceps than that of their closest living relative of Homo Sapiens. Because of these traits Homo Ferrum often choose careers as black smiths and farriers. Both species have lived peacefully together for many millennia as Homo Sapiens have adapted to accommodate the physical and behavioural differences of the Homo Ferrum. This is particularly apparent in the relationship between equestrians and farriers.
The equestrian will know that if the farrier is booked to shoe their horse at 10 a.m they must wait until the farrier is unpacking the tools and filling the bucket with water before deciding to retrieve their horse from the field. The 20 minute walk to the field and back accommodates the farrier’s need to procrastinate. Fortunately it has been raining all night which is an added blessing because now the horse owner needs to spend a further 10 minutes cleaning the horse’s legs off. The farrier reciprocates this kind understanding of his species by feigning impatience, which simultaneously gives him the chance to be lethargic by sitting on the back of his van tapping his foot.
By 10.30 am the farrier has now been on the yard for a good half an hour and finally the horse is brought to him and tied up. He is now ready to start work but gleefully notices the hooves are covered in hoof oil which he knows will buy him another 5 minutes of procrastination while the owner wipes it off. The owner feels quite smug in that she was considerate enough to remember the oil this time. However both species finally realise with trepidation there is nothing more to do than actually start removing the horse’s shoes.
The owner settles herself down on the back of the farriers van and begins to recount her life over the past 6 weeks. She knows the farrier will be greatly interested in how things went at the West Wycombe Sponsored Ride and how her friend Jane fell off because her seat is so crap and her pony is so badly schooled. It’s at this point the owner remembers Jane’s pony lost a shoe during the ride but assures the farrier that he can magically find the time to get this horse shod also. The owner quickly moves the subject on because she is keen to educate the farrier on the shoeing techniques she read on the internet last night. He seems impressed with her extensive knowledge although he doesn’t say much, it’s because he’s listening intently. The farrier has removed all the shoes and is rasping a back hoof, it’s at this moment the horse lifts his tail and deposits 28 lbs of manure between his legs. This is fine as the owner already knows Homo Ferrum has an inhibited sense of smell and he’s quite comfortable having an enormous pile of shit 12 inches away from his face, so she leaves it there.
The owner realises her time is running short and will be late for work unless she leaves the yard 11.30 am sharp. Due to the very relaxed disposition of the farrier she knows it is perfectly acceptable for him to put the horse back out in the field for her, and anyway he may as well as Janes pony needs bringing in. With a wave and a smile the owner skips off the yard shouting something about forgetting her purse but she’ll pay next time…oh and so will Jane! Miraculously hoof filings, discarded nails and enormous piles of poop would have completely disappeared by the time the owner appears back on the yard the next day. This is known as the Lackadaisical Phenomena that only occurs to the most recently discovered species of Homo Inconsideratus.
The blood curdling screams tore through the air like a hot poker being driven into fresh snow and exceeded the sound level of a glacier calving off the Antarctic Peninsula. If those screams had been heard at 2 a.m on a housing estate in Milton Keynes the police would have been called, an ambulance…heck, it would have warranted an armed response. But there was no reaction from the 30 something people that were in close proximity to this woman. Was she on fire, or was she witnessing the skies ripping open to reveal Jesus and the 4 horseman of the Apocalypse?
No she was experiencing a downhill, 30 mph flat-out gallop with the The Kimblewick Hunt. This screaming woman was behind me, as nearly everybody was considering I was riding the fastest pony ever to exist in the entire history of the planet. My 3 ring gag was about as much use as a sandbag used to hold back a tsunami. Even years later I am on occasion still jolted awake by the sound of the Master shouting “If you can’t control that horse you will go home!”
I do not turn my head to the sound of the terrified screams because things are going well for me. At least I tell myself that if my hearing is still intact I am therefore still alive. I daren’t move a muscle because in these situations ‘that image’ always pops into the equestrians head. Yes, you are in the midst of a flat out gallop and you imagine the horse tripping. It becomes apparent my nightmare pony has a plan to keep us both alive, for at the bottom of the hill is an open gate. If this had been a Sunday afternoon stroll with the labrador, this innocent looking gate would have proved no threat what so ever. But unless the laws of physics could be miraculously re-written in the next 20 seconds, 30 horses passing through this gate would be the equivalent of a speeding elephant trying to successfully negotiate a cat-flap. As we both passed last year’s winner of point to point (easily) while simultaneously committing the cardinal sin of passing the Master, we both pass through that opening unscathed. Well nearly, my ears stung quite considerably at someone shouting, but I hastily reassured myself that the person ‘who should go home’ wasn’t me.
We pull up and look back, and its carnage. Knee caps have been removed and indeed it’s now apparent it’s the Master himself that needs to go home. Well technically he needs a hospital and 6 months bed rest. He’s not alone either as I spot various people that have been ungraciously torn from their horse by every hunter’s worst nightmare…the fence post. There are even stirrup leathers and irons now adorning both posts. Hunters are sensible people and we always know how to react in such harrowing situations, yes we break out the whiskey and fags.
Theresa May has recently declared she would like to lift the ban on hunting and that she will renew the Tory pledge to hold a free vote on overturning the ban. This will undoubtedly upset various animal rights groups. Admittedly politics isn’t my cup of tea and I am happily perched on the fence over this, and can actually see reason in both arguments regarding ‘for and against’ hunting. I have seen a hare killed once by the hounds and the entire event of this animal departing our gracious planet lasted approximately 2 seconds. From half a mile away it resembled a hurricane of hounds dancing in a dust-bowl, and then it was over. The animals ate the hare and it would have barely been a mouthful each. The articles I have read depicting hunts chasing a terrified fox relentlessly for 3 hours was something I have never experienced.
Animal right activists may even gain a little comfort in knowing what the average hunter experiences out in the field. A small number of riders leave after the opening meet, more leave after the first hour. Add to that those that retire early when losing a shoe, and those riders that get lost or left behind. I can assure you 4 people will fall at the first hedge, another 3 will be wiped out by a fence post, and another 6 will be terrified at that downhill gallop.
Talking of which, what did happen to the screaming woman? After the whiskey and fags, and mopping up of various ungraciously dismounted folk, and bagging up an assortment of knee-caps she was last seen walking up a country lane toward the direction of her horse-box. Was she ever seen out hunting again? No.