Drinking and hunting
Up and downing it
R.W.F. Poole
DRINKING and hunting go together. The first reason for this is that hunting is a social and hospitable business. The second reason is medicinal — it helps to keep the cold out. Northumberland, where I hang my bonnet and 'horn-heid' stick, is both cold and hospitable. It is reputed to have the highest per capita whisky consumption in England. Whisky is the great social currency. Call at any house, be it a St Pancras Station lookalike or a humble shepherd's cottage, and the first words you will hear are likely to be, 'You'll take a dram, now.' This is a statement, not a question.
Allow me to illustrate: some years ago, when I was still hunting hounds, we were out early one August morning. Hounds were hunting nicely along a steep hillside. I was on the valley road on my quadricycle, keeping watch and ward. It was 6.30 a.m. when I pulled into the yard of an isolated steading and sat there watching and warding. The door of the cottage opened and out came the herd, rubbing his eyes and scratching his Y-fronts. He did not speak, just marched up to me and thrust into my hand a half-pint glass of neat whisky. Still without a word, he turned and marched back, presumably, to bed. He had performed his social duty and I must now
perform mine by draining the glass, which I did.
It follows from this that if you attend a 'House Meet' (most of our lawns are too small for a 'Fawners), there will be serried ranks of the Famous Grouse on the kitchen table, but you may also be offered a 'Percy Special'. The Percy Special is peculiar to the Borders and is popularly supposed to be the invention of the 10th Duke of Northumberland. It is, indeed, a fitting monument to that late, great roan, who was the .King of Northumberland' and was revered as such. It is an ideal drink to proof you against the climatic vagaries of the region. It is whisky and cherry brandy
the Duke is said to have insisted on Cherry Heering, and the mixture should be 50:50. It is a lovely, soothing, rounded drink, and the first one slips down like mother's milk, as does the second. So innocent and enticing is the drink that you may find yourself tempted by a third — prenez garde! It is three and three plus where you are standing into danger. The Percy Special carries a delayed action fuse which is liable to ignite after about half an hour. You are riding along without a care in the world and suddenly — whoomph! you are pissed. I know of no other regional drink associated particularly with hunting, unless it be Mazzawattee Tea in Cornwall. A farmer, whose wife was a pillar of the local Ebenezer chapel and for whom spirituous liquor meant a swift descent to spiritual damnation, supposedly invented this. For the refreshment of himself and his friends, Mr Varco would carry a bottle of cold tea. Mazzawattee Tea used to be a favourite brand for the pot that stewed on the kitchen range all week with regular additions of tea and water (it was made fresh each Sunday), and that was what was supposedly in his bottle. In fact, it was gin and cider. This is not at all a bad drink, always provided that your head and bladder can cope with it.
Port is much favoured by hunting people in the South and Midlands, and it is certainly a good sustaining morning drink. My old grandfather was a master of hounds and he had a glorious specific for flu. He would mix half a bottle of port with half a bottle of brandy. He would then hang his umbrella on the wardrobe, retire to bed and drink until he saw two umbrellas. He would then go to sleep and be right as rain the next morning. It does work. I have tried it. It is good for hunting, too. Out on the weather-blasted Border Hills we all carry flasks and pass them round at quiet moments. As everybody seems to carry something different, our insides must be subjected to some pretty peculiar mixtures: it might be sloe gin, peach schnapps, raspberry whisky (rather good, actually), whisky mac, whisky and Drambuie (ugh!), lemon vodka... . If you want to know what is in mine at the moment, it is vodka and bilberry wine (half and half) — very comforting.
After hunting you will usually be asked in somewhere 'to get your soup'. I have a sad tale that hangs thereby. I had 'got my soup' in the Three Jolly Knackermen. I was under a three-line whip to present myself besuited, clean, dry and only lightly oiled for the Old Squire's Drinks Spotty at 1930 hours. At 1900 hours I was still in the pub, singing 'The Dosing of the Hoggs' (a fine Northumbrian dirge), and had 14 (yes, 14) glasses of whisky lined up on the table. This happens to me — I don't know why — and there is a photograph that hangs in the pub to prove it. My driver got twitchy and explained the situation. They poured the whole lot into a pint pot and gave me a straw: 'Get it doon ye, man.'
They left me on the Hall doorstep, hori zontal, speechless and still crusted from the bog I had fallen in during the day. James the butler never twitched, He said how pleased Sir Ranulph would be to see me and guided me across the hall to the drawing-room, where the quality was gathered. I stood, swaying slightly and shedding bog mould into the carpet. Sir Ranulph never flinched: 'My dear old boy, how good to see you. You look as though you need a drink — but just promise me you won't sing "The Dosing of the Hoggs"."
I said, `Glugr, took a swig of champagne and fell face down into the wonderful cleavage of the wife of the CO of the Household Cavalry mounted regiment.
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