Country life
Rallying the troops
Leanda de Lisle
The British Field Sports Society offered me a VIP pass for the Countryside Rally last week and I cheekily asked whether my husband could have one too, as I was going with him rather than the other way round. Surprisingly, they didn't bring out the `What if everyone asked?' chestnut and Peter got the gold card, while I got a press pass and we both had access to the main tent. 'The antis will think I'm a neutral hack and aim all their rotten eggs at you,' I teased, but Peter, who had dressed for a picnic, exclaimed, 'Oh, I do hope there's a fight.'
The atmosphere in the press and VIP tent was not unlike a drinks party. There were models and film stars waiting to be questioned, but they had nothing new to add to the field sports debate. It was the fact they supported the rally that was inter- esting. A circus lady posing for the cameras added an unintentionally macabre element, for behind her the hunt servants looked like exhibits at a freak show. Watching Peter talking to them about the local breeds of hounds they had brought remind- ed me that there was that other world the countryside — where it was sound crews with outsize microphones which looked strange.
The crowd cheered as the core marchers arrived at the stage. They sounded joyful from where we stood, but I felt tears prick my eyes and I discovered later that people outside the tent were weeping, too: tears of frustration, tears of regret, tears of pity and tears of rage. I asked a Master of Fox Hounds from Georgia, in the United States, what kind of problems they have with antis. In America, there is no imagi- nary class war between town and country, and the vast, open spaces have not been suburbanised. He couldn't believe it when I told him that the majority of people in this country are against fox-hunting. His main worry was that 'in California they've banned bear-hunting with hounds', and it was with difficulty that I searched for a suitable response.
`Er, wouldn't a bear at bay give a hound a fair old clout?' I asked. 'They go up trees,' he responded. Appalled by the vision this conjured up, I pointed out that `Bears aren't vermin, surely?' No,' he admitted, 'but they'll steal your apples.' I repeated this story to my friends in the crowd under the Leicestershire balloon and I could see them all thinking of their ted- dies. Rather ironic, you might think, when so many complain about townies seeing animals as sweet furry creatures. But, despite what Mike Foster MP might say, it wasn't a hundred thousand animal-haters who descended on London. Most of them live and work with animals. Like Red Indi- ans, they were making a stand against a culture that would sweep theirs away and their way of life is unique to these islands.
The good behaviour of the crowd made the prospect of them being criminalised by Mike Foster's bill seem all the more bizarre, but there was a simmering anger, and the Welsh, in particular, sounded as though they were carving their bows and arrows at home. It was striking to see the Welsh Nationalist MP Cynog Davis rub- bing shoulders with the mass of Conserva- tive MPs. I spoke to Norman Tebbit and felt like a rabbit caught in a cobra's gaze, waiting for him to strike at my fluffy ques- tions with some sharp observation. It never came as we were nearly mown down by William Hague and the camera crews that surrounded him.
Lord Tebbit has a dangerous intellect, but he's so thin and frail that I wanted to throw my arms around him to protect him. I was unaccountably furious to see this fad- ing political star so brutally ignored. His expression registered acceptance. In con- trast, country people have set their faces against the tide of events. They are not ready to become a part of history. On the drive home I waved my pass at the coaches that drew alongside us. The occupants gave me the thumbs up. Sadness has not yet given way to the lethargy of despair, and they looked ready to fight, if needs be, another day.
Put them back! Can't you see they don't match the carpet.'
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