'An animal being torn apart turned my stomach'
We started off with a lawn meet at Lord and Lady A's house. This august couple in their 70s were of the remarkable tough breed only the Irish gentry can produce.
Although slightly off centre of their prime years, they still rode to hounds, maintained (to a degree) their somewhat dwindling estate, and as Lord A himself loved to say, "drank like fishes, smoked like chimneys, and swore like troopers". I think the latter applied to himself, Lady A was dignified, gentle and so kind she didn't even mind her beautiful old home being over run with the children in their muddy riding boots.
As the others were all inside having a "stirrup cup" I sat on the old granite front steps, taking in the green, sun-tickled grass, the scent of the roses and ivy that lined the trailing pathways, and the screaming voices of the children who were now invading the front lawn. They were trying to climb the statues in their boots, riding whips sailing in the wind in a parody of swordfights and buccaneers. It brought back fond memories of when I'd first come here, as a small child, and my slippery boots failing to gain foothold on the self same statues.
As we mounted up, some of the children were in a state of high excitement. Today they were going to be "blooded". This is the traditional initiation ceremony, and involves having the blood from the brush (tail) of the fox put on the cheeks. I didn't like the idea then, and I certainly don't like it now. Children should be kept away from the kill and blood until they're old enough to decide for themselves if they want to watch, or take part, in blood sporting.
It was a fantastic day for a hunt. We galloped across glistening fields, the sun on our backs, but the lightly frosted air a welcome coolant to our gasping lungs. Skill was everything and a fall could portend mortal damage. As the ground was hard, there was no gap for wandering attention, a slip in the ice has rendered many a rider unable to ever ride again.
Eventually we were forced to take a break.
So far we'd gotten two good chases, but the hounds had again lost the scent. No one minded, we were tired after almost steady riding for two hours, and the break was badly needed.
I don't know if it was the same fox, but we did know there was a dog fox around the area for some time now, who was managing to kill a larger number of lambs than we'd heard of in a long time. Lord A's groundsman, Tom, wanted to shoot him, but this is regarded as one of the worst possible ways to get a fox.
If wounded, the death can be slow and painful with starvation and loss of blood leaving them vulnerable to scavenger attack.
Some of the lads sipped Jack Daniels whiskey from their hip flasks, others smoked, and all were relaxed and content. As I surveyed the scene, I felt pride for the hunting fraternity. The strict dress code meant everyone was splendidly turned out.
All wore the common "uniform" of cream jodhpurs, white shirt, white stock and hunting pin, and black well-polished riding boots. The only difference was the master of fox hounds (MFH), and "whipper in" wore hunting pinks (actually scarlet jackets), and the rest of us wore black.
The horses and riders framed by the backdrop of the forest looked almost picturesque. I always loved the smell of freshly polished leather mixed with horse sweat.
Of course, looks and smells are one thing; hearing is always a little more realistic.
The romance was slightly marred by the expletives of the MFH and "whipper in" as they urged the frantic hounds to keep searching. As some of the stragglers cantered up laughing and shouting, they got yelled at to "shut the f*** up"; silence was essential not to disturb the fox too early.
Suddenly a shout went up from among the trees, the fox broke cover, the staccaco notes of "tally ho" was sounded, heartbeats rose, adrenaline coursed through the hounds, horses and riders, and we were off again.
The chase was the only part I actually loved! We galloped in pursuit of the baying hounds, the thunder of hooves almost deafening. The hunting horn repeated its call, the concentration of the riders intense as we urged the horses on.
My family, the Horsmans have lived in the same area of East Galway since 1711, and practically since its formation always hunted with the East Galway Hunt. My grandfather had been known as one of the most fearless MFHs of his time. My father was his only son not to take to the equestrian lifestyle (something to do with a bad fall from a pony when he was very young). I think I inherited part of his genetic ability, but all of his fear. I prefer to attend "drag meets" where there is still the thrill of the hunt, without chasing a fox. (A sack with the scent of a fox is dragged along the ground before the hounds).
The East Galway hunts are reputed to be the best in Ireland. The land is ideal, and most of the farmers very amenable to hunting, because of the large amount of land and large number of foxes.
I was totally devoid of the equestrian glue practically all of my cousins seemed to possess in the seat of their jodhpurs. While I could manage a canter and gallop no problem, jumps were out unless they were less than three foot. This meant I "gated it" -- took the nearest gate and then galloped like bejayus to catch up.
By the time I caught up on this particular day, I could hear the long mournful notes of "gone to ground". The fox had found a hiding place and the fox terriers were in the covert trying to flush her out.
I could never watch the kill. I know it's the most humane way to kill a fox, but there was something about watching the animal being thrown to the hounds and torn apart that turned my stomach.
I know this article will most likely inflame the "anti-bloods", and I can understand why, but while the hunting fraternity has always respected everyone's point of view on the issue with dignity and understanding, most "anti-bloods" I know go hysterical at the very mention of fox hunting.
- Florence Horsman Hogan
