Hunting
Opening nerves
Charles Moore
In theory, the season of fox-hunting that begins officially this weekend could be the last. The Editor has asked me to follow it.
I say 'officially' because hunting has a preliminary season of cub-hunting, now known for reasons of euphemism as 'autumn hunting', which starts at the very end of August. The idea is to train the young hounds and to break up concentrations of foxes. Because the beat of the day takes off the scent, you have to get up at six in the morning to go cub-hunting (or go out at the end of the afternoon). There is little of the ceremony and dressing-up of the full thing, and you must not expect a run. In hunting proper, part of the huntsman's job is to show the field good sport. In the time of cub-hunting, there is no such duty, and huntsmen can ignore the riders altogether, which makes many of them very happy.
Cub-hunting is important, but, as Surtees says, it is 'like the noise and prattle of children, all very delightful to the parents, but very uninteresting to strangers', so I shall say no more about it.
At the opening meets that will be held everywhere except in poor. criminalised Scotland this Saturday, the prevailing mood will be nervousness. Will hounds be fit and ready? Will your horse behave? Will a child break an arm or a horse break a gate? Will a car crash into a rider, or vice versa? Will it rain too much or too little? Will you arrive at the meet without hat or gloves or whip or flask or courage? Will I remember how to tie my stock? Until now, we have been rehearsing. This Saturday it is the first performance of the play, and even though the show is put on chiefly for the benefit of the other actors, it is an anxious time.
Especially anxious for me, because I have the added difficulty — how should one write about hunting? Is it politics or anthropology, is it an adventure story or a comedy show? Are we dealing with the dark archetypes of primitive man in his struggle with nature or are we laughing heartlessly as a fat English grocer falls off in a bog? Is there a right tone of voice?
Take the huntsman, for instance, the professional who conducts — he can never wholly command — the hounds. What manner of man is he? Here is Beckford, the 18th-century author of the definitive Thoughts on Hunting. He estimates 'that it is not less difficult to find a perfect huntsman, than a good prime minister'. He must have qualities 'which would not disgrace more brilliant situations: — such as a clear head, nice observation, quick apprehension, undaunted courage, strength of constitution, activity of body, a good ear, and a good voice'. That won't do for the great philosopher Roger Scruton, though. In his volume On Hunting, he says that this same huntsman is 'the Green Knight, the forest's revenge, the wild thing on life's horizon, whom we glimpse in the Scheme MaIlerin of Schubert, and who secretly bays at the moon'.
Blimey. In our own southern hunt, which will henceforth be known in this column as the Vale of Tears (VT), Jack the huntsman fits Professor Scruton's description inexactly, although he can be a bit of a wild thing on life's horizon after a few pints. He is thick-set, with keen, small, blue eyes. I think of him more as a Jack-tar of the Napoleonic era, the sort of man who presents himself to the ship's captain and bawls, 'We've caught a couple of Frenchies, sir — spies. Shall I clap them in the 'old or make 'em walk the plank?'
Or there's Muffin, the VT's terrier man. You could call him the forest's revenge, I suppose. Certainly the antis are frightened of Muffin, He is strong and tattooed and almost spherical. He deals with the flesh of fallen stock, which is a good service that hunts provide for farmers. Washing is not Muffin's big thing. One day out mink-hunting, which is hot because it takes place in high summer, a friend ventured to tell him that he really was very smelly that day. Muffin acknowledged this: 'I got a horse's head, see, for the hounds. And I thought the antis might steal it, so I slept with it under my pillow.' On another occasion, it was the wedding day of Muffin's brother, Ferret. Muffin had spent much of the day wading through ditches up to his neck in search of mink. At last, he announced that he was off to the reception, 'Aren't you going home to change?' his companions asked him. `Oh no. I've dried out by now.'
One of the chief excitements about hunting is that you don't know what will happen next. You can encounter farce or boredom or beauty or death without warning. 'On, on, on' twangs the horn, and you cannot tell where it will lead. That's what I shall try to write about.
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