Hunting

In the pink for St Hubert

James Knox

Ithought I'd wear my rat-catcher and Monsignor Gilbey's butcher boots.'

'I hardly think that's suitable for a saint's day. No, it really has to be red coat and mahogany tops,' replied my father.

'But you don't appreciate we will be in

woods all day. Top hats are quite unsuit- able.' We both fell silent at the awful prospect of resorting to the unmention- able: hat guards. 'Well, perhaps I could wear my velvet cap. Surely the French won't realise it's not correct.'

This heated discussion arose from an invitation to hunt with one of the many packs of stag hounds in France on St Hubert's Day, the start of the season. Our host was the Rallye Combreux, a private pack of the Rochefoucauld family, who hunt in the forest of Orleans.

In the end we decided to dress up as though for our own opening meet. We needed a suitcase each, just for our red coats and white breeches, a suitcase for our boots and whips, two hat-boxes and a rather pansy face-case for garters, stocks, studs, various bejewelled pins, boot-pulls and spurs, apart from our ordinary lug- gage. I pushed this mountain through 'nothing to declare' at Roissy, dreading trying to explain to a curious customs official the purpose of the whips.

The next day in the ice-cold chapel I felt we were justified in deciding to dress up.

Before us in the first four pews sat the Duke and his family, in brilliant blue outfits of 18th-century design, including tricorn hats for the women, and on the altar steps were ten horn-blowers dressed in scarlet uniforms. A motley, but respect- ful, crowd of villagers stood behind. The congregation took Communion to the sound of the curled hunting horns and afterwards we formed a dignified proces- sion to the mairie where the hounds waited patiently to be blessed by the priest. Unfortunately the left-wing Bishop of Orleans had recently banned this impor- tant little ceremony.

We moved to the meet, which was at a crossroads in the forest. Coming face to face with our mounts was rather like discovering too late that the invitation to a party was in fact jeans and t-shirt rather than white tie and tails: they were lean, bow-backed trotters, and I wondered if they could bear the weight of all our magnificence.

Our introduction was accompanied by a rather unseemly discussion with their own- er on the comparative cost of French and English hirelings. 'Forty thousand francs! But that's the cost of a hunt subscription with the Quorn,' exploded my father.

'Old francs', I said hurriedly, handing over a bundle of notes.

While this was going on, the Duke was standing at the crossroads receiving news from panting messengers, who had been out since dawn tracking deer. Spoor had been found close by and the decision was made to draw that section of the forest. It was not long before the hounds gave tongue; we were off.

The next eight hours were a mixture of pleasure and pain. Etiquette forbids dis- mounting at any time during a hunt, and these often continue all day. To make matters worse most of the pursuit is under- taken at the trot.

The technique of hunting in France has not changed since the 17th century. It still takes place only over huge tracts of forest, which if not privately owned are now let from the state, which understands the need to cull deer. Because so much ground is covered, a number of followers each car- ries a horn, and, spreading out through the forest, they play the elaborate and varied calls to alert both hhounds and followers to the direction of the hunted deer. One of the most picturesque sights in France is a glimpse of them in the long rides of the forest, with their horns encircling their blue liveries. They are actors in an archaic ritual, which, in theory, ends with the stag at bay in one of the many small lakes in the forest, where it meets its death with a sword through the heart, delivered by the master of the hunt.

FRENCli SPECIAL I wondered if we would witness such a death as we bounced in agony through the forest.

'Rumour has it,' I said to my father, 'that if they kill, you will be presented with the honours.'

'How extremely kind of the Duke.' 'There is only one thing, you will have to tip the huntsman.'

He felt in his pocket and produced a ten-franc note, all that was left after paying for the hirelings. 'I've- nothing smaller, I'm afraid.'

'That's not enough, you need 800 francs.'

'Old francs of course.'

'No, new.'

The awful truth sank in.

'You know, I really have so many trophies at home already, I don't think I could find wall space for another. Do explain to the Duke on my behalf.' We had drawn up with the rest of the field by a particularly dense piece of wood. Some minutes later news filtered out that the stag had been shot with a humane killer by a small lake.

The Duke appeared from the under- growth. A look of panic came into my father's eye. He decided to take his own line. 'Monsieur le Duc,' he boomed, `je suis &sole mais je pars maintenant. . .

'Non, non, monsieur le Colonel. . . Cornered, my father realised the game was up. He came back and scrumpled up his ten-franc note into a tiny ball, hoping the huntsman would mistake it for a larger denomination.

At last we were able to dismount, and the hounds were drawn off in preparation for la curee, the dramatic culmination to a successful day's sport. The flesh of the stag is covered by the pelt and head. On either side stand rows of horn-blowers, who play a haunting refrain, while the kennelman, holding the antlers, moves the head from side to side, imitating the movements of a stag at bay. At a given point in the music the pelt is drawn aside and the hounds allowed to eat their fill.

I explained this event to my father to try to distract him from the thought of the honours. At the same time we started to get very drunk very quickly on whisky and champagne, the only sustenance available, and the first we had had all day.

The minutes ticked by. My father looked disapprovingly at the hounds, which were being made to wait about in the cold, rather than return to the kennels. At last news came from the Duke. The stag had been killed on a pocket of land owned by a freeholder, who refused to release the carcass. La cur& and the honours cere- mony were abandoned. It was the first time I had ever seen my father show any sign of sympathy with an anti. The Duke went storming off to the police, as the freehold- er's behaviour contravened his legal right to kill stags. We, maudlin with drink, set off for our hunting box pondering that such a conclusion need never have happened before the unfortunate events of 1789.