Country life
Injury count
Leanda de Lisle
What exactly is the Puppy Walkers Ball?' I asked Peter when he told me to put the event in my diary. `It's a party given by the hunt to thank those who walk the pup- pies,' he replied. `You know, the people who take them home and look after them until they are ready to join the pack.' I did. Who would be going? `The young,' he told me. It sounded as if the hunt was thanking one group with a knees-up for another. I arrived at the party's Drayton Manor Park venue confused, but curious.
A beautiful girl immediately came up and asked Peter if he would say grace before we sat down to dinner. She appeared to be an organiser, but while there were plenty of guests her age, which I would put at about 20, there were groups of not so young too, for example, the girl's father, an engineer. He told me he had taken up hunting only seven years before — a brave thing to do. Three people had been hospitalised after the previous Satur- day's hunting and it was apparent that this was regarded as a sign of a good day: over 70 fences jumped, poor old sausage-face breaking this and unlucky someone else smashing that. It had been fantastic, every- one agreed.
However, while my new friend had clear- ly revelled in this day of disablement and glory I discovered that he had at least one fear. Two years ago he took up the key- board and he confessed that he sometimes whispers the prayer, `Not my fingers, not my fingers,' as he jumps a particularly dan- gerous hedge. Dinner, at least, would prove a relatively safe experience for us both. I sat down at an oldies' table and struggled to muster an opinion on whether we were in Atherstone country or South Staffs. Which ever it was, there wasn't any hunting at Drayton Manor Park now. Urbanisation has killed more hunting than Tony Blair may ever manage.
In what remains of the country, individu- als pose other problems, One hunt, I was told, had had to deal with a very difficult old farmer. He drove the field masters bananas with his complaints about their activities until a hunting GP consoled them with the words, `Don't worry, he'll be dead soon.' Shades of Harold Shipman, I thought to myself . . . completely unfairly of course.
By the time we reached pudding we were back onto recent injuries again. I was glad the engineer wasn't around to hear a lady MFH telling us how she had kept her glove on as it filled with blood from a damaged finger because it was the only effective ban- dage she had to hand (so to speak). `I assumed it was just a little hole, but when I got home and took the glove off . . . ' she continued — but I won't. Suffice it to say that the description that followed put me off the last of my mini eclairs and sent me spinning in the direction of the bar.
`What to have, what to have?' I pondered looking at the range of luminous green, yellow and pink liquids being consumed all around me. I plumped for a bilious Bacardi Breuer hoping it would resemble the rum cocktails I've enjoyed in Barbados. In the event it reminded me of the gin and bitter lemon that had made me sick as a teenag- er. I've never touched bitter lemon since, but here 1 was, drinking a kind of extra sticky bitter lemon without the teeniest taste of alcohol to cheer me up. Perhaps it was just as well. Along the bar a man was saying to his companion, `But you're a mar- ried woman!', to which she replied, waving her vibrant drink, `Yes, but I feel frisky tonight.' I hope she worked it off on the dance floor.
Those over-25s who intended to bop till they dropped had taken the precaution of plaiting their horses before they came out so that they might stay in bed a little bit longer before the next day's hunt. But some would surely still be exhausted. As the Likely Lads band struck up the Rolling Stones's 'I Can't Get No Satisfaction' one of the hunt staff was spotted dancing with three women at once. Peter and I consid- ered joining them, but thought better of it and went to see the tombola instead. Gen- erous blacksmiths had donated seven sepa- rate offers to shoe a horse. There was also a bottle of whisky, a box of chocolates, a horse brush and several other goodies on display.
We bought a mountain of tickets and came away triumphant with a boys band CD which we were assured was `brilliant' by several of those around us. I look for- ward to listening to it on the way to our next social outing — the hunt masters ver- sus earth stoppers skittles night. Another day, another revelation.
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