In the blood
Melissa Kite
RED LETTER DAYS by Rory Knight Bruce Quiller Publishing, £20, pp. 176, ISBN 9781846890093 ✆ £16 (plus £2.45 p&p) 0870 429 6655 Anyone who has been stuffed down a foxhole at a young age to pull out a hound, and has come back out attached to a hound attached to a fox attached to a badger, deserves to be read.
Is it any wonder townies do not understand country folk you ask yourself as you read this wonderfully rich romp of a life story. Rory Knight Bruce bills his book as a hunting diary, but it feels much more than that. It is a vivid tribute to the personalities of the countryside and a love song to the land. It is also very funny. You know you are in for a good ride when chapter one concludes:
Quite why my mother decided to leave home when I was less than two years old, leaving me in the custody of Jackson the tractor man in a hedgerow down the back lane, I cannot say and have never asked.
ful at the time he does not say either, but they have left Knight Bruce ridiculously well furnished with anecdotes.
His idiosyncratic family rampage through life in a riot of upper-crust eccentricity that makes for a modern day Tristram Shandy. ‘I was conceived, so far as it is known, between the morning tea and breakfast at the Berkeley Hunt kennels on Boxing Day, 1955’, he begins. After his mother takes off, there are a string of temporary carers, including his father’s kennel huntsman, and a series of stepfathers, including a Russian count. I think. I decided after a few chapters not to worry about the precise details, but to let them wash over me.
Surprisingly, given this background, Knight Bruce does not get on a horse until the age of 30, but turns out to be one of those infuriating latecomers who master the art in a week. Within days he manages a full day’s hunting and within months is surveying the wanted adds for ‘joint master’ jobs.
I wish I could profess to such bravery, but after 30 years of riding I am still a nervous hunter who sneaks off with the children when the master calls out ‘anyone who doesn’t want to jump go with Mrs Worsley!’ In truth, I only hunt because the Labour Party told me not to. I must declare an interest at this point. Knight Bruce says in his introduction that hunting has been his war and I know how he feels. There was a time when I wrote little else but articles about the ban. But I always found it difficult to convey just why the sport matters so much. In capturing not only the pursuit itself but the eclectic characters who thrive on it, Knight Bruce illustrates perfectly why hunting is such a noble cause and one which inspired us ‘happy hackers’ to take it up when we’d much rather be pootling.
As he explains, venery, or the art of hunting, is a singular thing. There is only one way to learn it and that is to go hunting. There is nothing like the feeling of a horse bolting. Why else would you decide, at 25 miles an hour, to ‘bale out’ — throw yourself off voluntarily to end the terror. And it is a strange thing for a rider to learn the principal skill involved, that of not interfering. ‘Any horse of reasonable intelli gence and ability will know its job ... leave the horse alone.’ I learned much from this book, but most of all I will treasure Knight Bruce’s description of riding with one stirrup leather longer than the other as ‘the Italian way’. I do this too and am heartened to hear it has something to do with my Latin heritage. The next time my instructor orders me to shorten my stirrups I shall assume a superior air and repeat Knight Bruce’s mantra — ride long, live long!
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