Country life
Was he there?
Leanda de Lisle
Ramblers and hunters will never be Monet behaving badly . . . enthusiastic supporters of each other's causes. Mr Duke may be looking to the suburbs for the new members he needs to justify his £200,000 a year pay package, but he won't find them unless he turns the Alliance against people who created it. As many of his financial backers found with the failed Countryside Movement, a so- called broad-based organisation appeals to no one. If they want to save their money and their pheasant shooting, they need to learn to have a little respect for the kind of country people I saw down at the Game Show in the grounds of Broughton Hall, in Yorkshire the other Sunday.
You will know the house if you have ever seen Annie Tempest's 'Tottering by Gently' cartoons. It provides the backdrop for her record of a way of life that is changing but not dying. Behind its Classical façade, the weekend party of composers and archi- tects, film producers and entrepreneurs reflected a network of interests that was very much part of the Cool Britannia Tony Blair wants a part of. However, its recusant chapel remains a reminder of the 300 years of religious persecution the family endured during its 900-year history. They know a thing or two about survival, but they weren't giving any lectures. Instead, down at the show I found Annie's sister, Bridget, selling her copperplate engravings of wild animals to raise money for the local hunt.
Peter and I bought a hare that we thought very Diireresque, before setting off again stall-surfing over great waves of waterproof clothing. I alighted upon a man selling jars of moorland honey the colour of burnt toffee. Heather honey is supposed to be the best there is, but Peter was anx- ious to show me a less appetising treat. A man was selling raptor vomit from a pretty little display table. 'They make a good talk- ing point,' he said of the rows of fur and bone pellets. 'They, er, they're, urn, very interesting,' I replied, trying not to shud- der. Nearby, eagle owls and other birds of prey waited patiently for the salesman's attentions. Each had been found injured and nursed back to health. Someone some- where was prepared to buy their vomit to help pay for this good work and I looked around to guess at who it might be.
It seemed a macho crowd. Sinewy, work- ing-class men were pushing for a look at a ferret race or a pair of shire horses pulling an old coal cart. Women walked working dogs, and I've never seen so many, or so many different breeds. There were great Irish wolfhounds and little Fell terriers, spaniels, labradors and retrievers. The chil- dren waited to be invited into the show- ring, as they were after each event, to pat the animals and stamp down any torn turf. Any of these people might have been in the market for raptor vomit, but I returned for the moorland honey instead. 'It's very strong,' I was warned, 'and a bit of an acquired taste.' Perhaps I should send Mr Duke a pot. It might teach him a thing or two about country life.
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