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The music of the pack is it’s CRY! Autumn 2001
“If we’d been born where they were born. Taught what they were taught. We would believe what they believe”
Attributed to Abraham Lincoln
Touching wood, fingers crossed and not wishing to tempt providence in any way, but at last there is a glimmer of hope on the horizon to suggest that normal service might be resumed, not shortly but reasonably soon. Any hunting is better than no hunting and the Masters have taken every possible step to ensure that, once given the go-ahead – not only by DEFRA but far more importantly by our own farmers – we will be able to start up immediately.
William Wakeham has even taken this opportunity of enforced idleness to get married – he probably would never have found the time to do so otherwise – and WHSC sends its warmest congratulations to himself and Jo.
At last there are lots of positive things happening, not the least of which is the tremendous variety of activities, parties and entertainment’s listed on the back of Cry – and these are only for the next two months. Come to as many as you can and catch up on all that gossip lost through the absence of Cub Hunting.
The Hunt Chairman has particularly asked me to thank the many of you who have already sent in your subscriptions or donations for the season – whilst, naturally, nudging those who are a bit tardy putting pen to cheque. One of the great problems of financing a Hunt is that it costs virtually the same whether or not hunting takes place. We are going to lose significant income from the lack of Field Money and Visitors and with few donation rides the Hunt Supporters coffers are not being filled at their normal pace.
On the political front little has changed and the threat to our sport remains. The Government is doing little to help the countryside through this crisis; such has been their disdain for matters agricultural over the last few years that it transpires that the lower grade MAFF civil servants were being paid £3,000 a year less than the equivalent grade in the DoE. In the Queen’s Speech only one sentence was dedicated to change in the countryside: “My Government will enable a free vote to take place on the future of hunting with dogs.” On the side of the M6 near Penrith there is a large banner proclaiming:-
“BLAIR FIDDLES WHILE CUMBRIA BURNS”
I am afraid this edition of Cry is short of news and long on plagiarism, but with scarcely any Hunt Supporters ‘Do’s’, Pony Club activities, Donation Rides et al there is little to report on. Though having sorely missed all the fun, personally I only have to think how lucky we have been when compared to those in the foot and mouth areas to realise that our minor sacrifices are but nothing when compared to theirs.
PUPPY SHOW 14th JUNE 2001
Whilst taking every FMD precaution, we were able to hold the puppy show as normal, on 14th June. One of the compensations for the aforementioned precautions was that we had an “in house” affair so it really was our own puppy walkers and supporters looking at their own hounds.
This year’s judges were Mr Martin Letts (Joint Master and amateur huntsman of The College Valley and North Northumberland Hunt – and arguably the best hound judge in the Country) and Mr Ian Mckie (Joint Master and amateur huntsman of The Bicester with Whaddon Chase Hunt.)
A very large entry of 23 couple awaited our experts. A mixture of sires from home and away had been used. Our own stallion hounds came from our proven male line which goes back to North Warwickshire Worker ‘82. Both dogs used, Porter ‘97 and Painter ’95, were outstanding in their work and Painter ’95 is the full brother to the outstanding Paragon ’95.
Outside stallion hounds were from the Waterford and the Belvoir, two dogs from each kennel. One Waterford dog was a short coupled strong dog with a very good voice, Warlock ’94 the other being Alderman’96. The Belvoir dogs were much the more interesting. Poldark ’97 is a hard driving dog who has now been hunting here for 2 1/2 seasons. He also has a good voice and has thrown extremely black puppies.
The second stallion hound from the Belvoir was Poacher ’98. He is actually a Duhallow – bred dog, extremely good looking with particularly good shoulders. He also has a good voice and was seen hunting well in the hunting competition in Yorkshire and has bred a litter of potential Peterborough winners for the Heythrop. (We had his sire –Muskerry Cricketer’94 - here last season.)
So, in keeping with what is rapidly becoming a Wynnstay Puppy Show tradition, at 3pm on the nail the heavens opened, forcing the judges and first hounds into the ring to take cover in the kennel doorway. Fortunately the initial downpour soon abated. By 3.15 judging was once more in full flow. Bert had the hounds and kennels looking immaculate. Every hound showed itself with confidence – such a great compliment to kennel staff and puppy walkers alike.
As the afternoon progressed it became clear that the judges were very much on the ball. The less well contested doghound prize was given to Paterson, an athletic dark dog by our own Painter’95 out of Publish ’98 and walked by the Carter family at Sibbersfield. Second was Cloister who is by our Porter ’97 out of Claret ’98 and walked by the Jennings’ at Stockton Hall. Third was Poison (by Belvoir Poldark ’97 out of Pebble ’98) who was walked by the Brunt family.
The bitches were altogether much more difficult to separate. We were lucky to have quite a level lot, including a very nice litter of pure Old English bitches by Belvoir Poacher ’98, out of Sector ’95. The judges finally decided to place Primrose first. She is from this litter and was walked by Sally Loud. (No money changed hands).
Second was Perfect (by Belvoir Poldark ’97 out of Pebble ’98) who was walked by the Jennings family (again – I am told that some money may have changed hands as a result of this decision). The judges then placed Bantam (a nice active little bitch by Porter ’97 out of Meynell and South Staffs Bangle ’95) third. She was walked by the Turner family at Heath Paddocks.
Then came the most important prize of all, the best working hound. This year there were two; the dog was called Curragh and was walked by the Davies family at Edge Grange. He is by North Cotswold Caister ’92 and out of Gadfly ’96. He entered extremely well without being too flashy. His father was a very good dog in his work. The winning bitch was Cloudy who was walked by the Jennings family – if you hadn’t already guessed! She is by Brocklesby Craftsman ’94 and out of a very good bitch of ours called Landscape ’97.
We are extremely lucky to have so many wonderful walks for our puppies. Such a good start in life must help produce such a fine pack. Congratulations also to Bert, Shayne and Andy for having everything in such ship – shape condition. Finally thank you to all those who helped produce and serve such a delicious and plentiful tea.
William Wakeham
THE COUNTRYSIDE ALLIANCE & POLITICAL NEWS
The Countryside Alliance has been far from idle over the last six months, although little of their work has been headline grabbing. Whilst the newly appointed Minister for the newly formed DEFRA [the telephone receptionists appropriately pronounce this as “Death Row”] took her newly fitted out caravan off to the south of France for a five week holiday, the Countryside Alliance has continued to campaign for better handling of the foot and mouth epidemic. From the start of the epidemic they arranged for Hunts to provide experienced slaughtermen to the disaster areas; the response from Hunts was magnificent but the horror stories that they brought home with them quite the opposite.
The Countryside Alliance and many other countryside organisations [BASC, Farmers Weekly, Horse & Hound et al] are quite determined that the Government will not be allowed to escape from the consequences of a full public enquiry into their disastrous mishandling of the epidemic. At present the Government has announced a series of non-public investigations into various aspects of the outbreak. These will invariably fudge the issues and conclude, like the magistrate in ‘Albert and the Lion’ that “ No one was really to blame….” And, because none of these enquiries will be in public, no one will be able to refute these conclusions.
The petition opposite explains the situation; please spare the time to obtain as many signatures as possible – feel free to copy extra sheets - and return it to the Foot & Mouth Truth Campaign office.
In the last edition of Cry I wrote:-
· 14 million people live in rural areas · average net farm income p.a. England £5,200 Wales £4,100 · 373,900 employed in agriculture – 29,000 fewer than Jun 2000 · every 11 days a farmer commits suicide · 91.4% rural businesses have less than 10 employees · 40% of UK abattoirs have closed in the last 10 years · rural house prices are 15% above national average · 16,000 families in rural areas considered priority homeless · 25% of rural households on the poverty margin · petrol prices have increased by 42% since 1997 · 20% of gross annual income of rural households spent on fuel · 75% of parishes have no daily bus service · 42% of parishes have no shops whatsoever · 92% have no GP · over 4,000 banks have closed in 10 years · six rural pubs close each week · rural crime costs farmers £100 million p.a. · country sports are the 5th most popular activity in UK · country sports are equally as popular as football · country sports employ 60,150 people full time
THE BELAN WATER, WYNNSTAY, 1784
We have received the following account of the feast given by Sir Watkin Williams Wynn on completion of the Dam at Wynnstay:-
Sir Watkin Williams Wynn having had in contemplation, for some time, the execution of a scheme proposed by the late Mr Brown, of forming a beautiful piece of water, by constructing a dam below the bath in his park, determined to execute it in the course of this summer; accordingly he began it on the first of June, but finding all the teams and labourers he could hire unequal to the task, he had recourse to the neighbouring gentlemen and farmers, who cheerfully sent to his aid their teams, carts and colliers, by which means this immense work was completed by the 17th instant, when each individual concerned received a ticket of invitation, repaired to Wynnstay, and being properly marshalled by Mr Sidebotham, in pairs, formed the following procession to the Dam Head. PROCESSIONHugh Sands, the game-keeper, with a long staff. A pair of bag-pipes. Six tall men, with mattocks, by way of pioneers. Six short men, with their clay maul. 80 colliers, armed with spades and pickaxes, with a flag in their centre. A waggon drawn by six oxen, in which was a large piece of roast beef, with the following motto: THE SUPPORT OF LABOUR
100 carters, with their cart whips, and a flag in their centre. A wagon drawn by four horses, wherein was a hogshead of beer, with this motto:
TO MOISTEN THE CLAY
200 labourers, armed with their mattocks and spades, with a flag in their centre. 20 artificers, armed with their tools, ensigns of their arts. [All the foregoing had black printed tickets hanging at their breasts] Mr Midgley 150 gentlemen and farmers, with red tickets, with a flag in their centre. A band of musick. The spirit level, carried by a tall man. Mr Evans on horseback. Sir Watkin and Lady Williams Wynn, with their eldest daughter, in a phaeton, drawn by six ponies. Master Williams Wynn and Master Charles, on horseback. Several Carriages. The servants and waiters brought up the rear. S Sidebotham, on horseback, who conducted the whole.
The company having formed a circle round the Penstock, the new lake received from Master Williams Wynn, amidst the shouts and acclamations of a vast concourse of people, the name of the
BELAN WATER.
The procession then returned to the great avenue, where tables were laid, and most plentifully furnished. Dinner being over, many public and local toasts were drunk; and notwithstanding the number of guests amounted to 600, exclusive of double that number of spectators, the day concluded without one accident or act of irregularity to disturb its cheerfulness.
I am extremely grateful to Roz Hughes for lending me the Horse and Hound Year Book for 1952 – 53. Hunting had got back into full swing after the cut backs necessitated by the War and the reports cover the hunting season 1951/52 or in other words exactly fifty years ago. There are some interesting parallels between now and then:-
“A late harvest again delayed the start of cubhunting, and with flood conditions early in November in areas as widely separated as Somerset and Yorkshire the season under review threatened to follow the pattern of its predecessor, which was one of the wettest on record.”
Even more pertinently:-
“Foot and Mouth disease restrictions held up the activities of many packs, but in some cases the quality of sport when hounds could hunt compensated for the curtailment.”
We read of the Jed Forest meeting at Millheugh for their last day of cubhunting finding a fox on Townmead Hill and killing it at Carshope – a point of 11 ½ miles. The Bedale had a 5 mile point followed by a 7 mile point on the same day in November and the Belvoir ran from Harby Hills to the River Wreak in 1 hr 50 min, during which a 10 mile point was achieved. The next day the Meynell killed their fox at Foston after a hunt of 4 hrs 10 mins, having found in the Duckpits – 16 ½ miles as hounds ran and a point of 7 miles.
The Wynnstay do not go unmentioned:-
“One of the best hunts with Sir W W Wynn’s Hounds since the war was scored on January 4th, from the meet at Farndon. A vixen from the Beachin provided a great hunt of about 3 hrs, hounds being stopped in failing light when close to their fox near Plough Lane, Christleton. This was a 15 mile run (best point 6 ½ miles) largely in the Cheshire country.”
Which only goes to show that old habits die hard. Even more interesting and politically incorrect is the Hunt entry in the Directory:-
This was Sir Edward Hanmer’s last season as Master and also Jack Simister’s ( rather than ‘Sinister’ as in the Directory) last as huntsman. The whipper-in, Clarence Webster, went on to be an extremely influential huntsman at the Warwickshire, responsible for the education of a whole new generation of post-war hunt servants and invariably referred to as ‘the last of the old sort.’ Even then there were complaints about the increase in plough, although this was generally as a result of Ministry of Agriculture enforcement.
And, lest you think that the princely sum of £35 for two days a week was buttons in today’s terms it equates to about £600 and was probably the equivalent of five weeks wages for a farm worker so let us have no grumblings on that score, please. Furthermore it was not considered the done thing to pay just the minimum subscription in those days, and the Cheshire were charging £50 (ie £850) for two days a week, plus donations to the Fencing and Damage Funds.
It would appear from the statistics that, had they spent more time hunting foxes and less time hunting badgers, a more reasonable number of foxes might have been accounted for.
The 1951/52 season saw several famous amateur huntsmen moving on to centre stage; at the Duke of Beaufort’s Robin Gundry’s father, Gerald, had enjoyed his first season as huntsman and at the Cotswold a young Ronnie Wallace had completed his final season prior to moving to the Heythrop. His report for the season is typically terse and modest “Sport very good. Foxes killed 87 ½ brace.”
Because of foot and mouth, both the Wynnstay and Cheshire point to points were cancelled, but at the Cheshire Forest we see that D Fearnall rode his Seagull II to victory in the Adjacent Hunts’ Maiden. R L Matson’s Gay Monarch wins the Members at the North Shropshire ridden by T P Brookshaw, is subsequently sold to S H Brookshaw and wins again at the Wheatland. E M Broad’s Ocean Toi, ridden by P Williamson, is beaten by ½ a length in the Adjacent Maiden at the North Staffs and many other family names appear which are still forces to be reckoned with in the point to pointing and racing fields.
At the Berwickshire Charlie Wilkin was having his last season as whipper-in and kennel-huntsman prior to moving down here to begin his long and golden reign as huntsman; his brother Tommy was having considerable success as a point to point rider in Yorkshire where the battles between him and his great rival on the point to point course Major Guy Cunard were to become legendary. If we cannot go hunting, then at least we can read about it. My first choice as a ‘Desert Island’ hunting book would be Siegfried Sassoon’s “Memoirs of a Foxhunting Man.” A semi-autobiography written in 1928 but referring to the halcyon days at the beginning of the last century. Siegfried Sassoon (1886 – 1967) was brought up in Kent and his local hunt was the West Kent, a heavily wooded and slow country. He much preferred to hunt with the Southdown, staying regularly with his great friend Gordon Harbord (‘Stephen Colwood’ in Memoirs of a Foxhunting man.) Here our young hero George Sherston experiences his second day’s hunting with the Dumborough, accompanied by his aunt’s groom Dixon. Denis Milden is a boy of similar age to George but, as the narrative shows, has a lot more experience of hunting. In reality he was Norman Loder, a noted amateur huntsman of his day, being Master of the Galway Blazers 1906-1911, the Southdown 1911-1913, the Atherstone 1913-1914, Joint Master of the Fitzwilliam 1914-1919 with his wife Phyllis and of the Atherstone from 1920 until his untimely death in 1940.
Where we rode the winter sunshine was falling warmly into the wood, though the long grass in the shadows was still flaked with frost. A blackbird went scolding away among the undergrowth, and a jay was setting up a clatter in an ivied oak. Some distance off Jack Pitt was shouting “Yoi-over” and tooting his horn in a leisurely sort of style. Then we turned a corner and came upon Denis. He had pulled his pony across the path, and his face wore a glum look which, as I afterwards learnt to know, merely signified that, for the moment, he had found nothing worth thinking about. The heavy look lifted as I approached him with a faltering smile, but he nodded at me with blunt solemnity, as if what thoughts he had were elsewhere.
“Morning. So you managed to get here.” That was all I got by way of greeting. Somewhat discouraged, I could think of no conversational continuance. But Dixon gave him the respectful touch of the hat due to a “proper little sportsman” and, more enterprising than I, supplemented the salute with “Bit slow in finding this morning, sir?”
“Won’t be much smell to him when they do. Sun’s too bright for that.” He had the voice of a boy, but his manner was severely grown-up.
There was a brief silence, and then his whole body seemed to stiffen as he stared fixedly at the undergrowth. Something rustled the dead leaves; not more than ten yards from where we stood, a small russet animal stole out on to the path and stopped for a photographic instant to take a look at us. It was the first time I had ever seen a fox, though I have seen a great many since – both alive and dead. By the time he had slipped out of sight again I had just begun to realize what it was that had looked at me with such human alertness. Why I should have behaved as I did I will not attempt to explain, but when Denis stood up in his stirrups and emitted a shrill “Huick-holler,” I felt spontaneously alarmed for the future of the fox.
“Don’t do that; they’ll catch him!” I exclaimed.
The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I knew I had made a fool of myself. Denis gave me one blank look and galloped off to meet the huntsman, who could already be heard horn-blowing in our direction in a maximum outburst of energy.
“Where’d ye see ‘im cross, sir?” he exclaimed, grinning at Denis with his great purple face, as he came hustling along with a few of his hounds at his horse’s heels.
Denis indicated the exact spot; a moment later the hounds had hit off the line, and for the next ten or fifteen minutes I was actively preoccupied with my exertions in following Dixon up and down Park Wood that my indiscretion was temporarily obliterated. I was, in fact, so busy and flurried that I knew nothing of what was happening except that “our fox” was still running about inside the wood. When he did take to the open he must have slipped away unnoticed, for after we had emerged the hounds feathered dubiously over a few fields and very soon I found myself at a standstill.
Dixon was beside me, and he watched intently the mysterious operations of Jack Pitt, who was trotting across a ploughed field with the pack behind him. Dixon explained that he was “making a cast”. “He must be a long way ahead of us; they could scarcely speak to him after they took the line out of covert,” he commented.
All this was incomprehensible to me, but I was warned by my previous blunder and confined myself to a discreet nod. Dixon then advised me not to wear my cap on the back of my head: I pulled the wretched thing well down over my eyes and made a supreme effort to look like a “hard man to hounds”…… I watched the riders who were chatting to one another in sunlit groups: they seemed to be regarding the proceedings of Jack Pitt with leisurely indifference.
Denis, as usual, had detached himself from his immediate surroundings, and was keeping an alert eye on the huntsman’s head as it bobbed up and down along the far side of the fence. Dixon then made his only reference to my recent misconception of the relationship between foxes and hoounds. “Young Mr Milden won’t think much of you if you talk like that. He must have thought you a regular booby!” Flushed and mortified, I promised to be more careful in future. But I knew only too well what a mollycoddle I had made myself in the estimation of the proper little sportsman on whom I had hoped to model myself….. “Don’t do that; they’ll catch him!” …. It was too awful to dwell on. Lord Dumborough would be certain to hear about it, and would think worse of me than ever he did of a keeper who left some earths unstopped…. And even now some very sporting-looking people were glancing at me and laughing to one another about something. What else could they be laughing about except my mollycoddle remark? Denis must have told them, of course. My heart was full of misery… Soon afterwards I said, in a very small voice, “I think I want to go home now,Tom.”…..On the way home I remembered that Denis didn’t even know my name.
We have all had our “mollycoddle moment.” Mine occurred when I was twelve and attempted to open a gate out of a wood for the amateur huntsman and whip. The huntsman, noble of birth ,but with a complexion to match his red coat and the permanent appearance of having steam coming out of his ears (well, I was only twelve…) was understandably eager to catch up with his hounds and stormed through the gateway like the Flying Scotsman. This caused my pony to rear up and put his front legs over the adjacent single strand barbed wire fence. Roaring with laughter the whipper-in jumped off his horse and manhandled us back over the fence. This was the first, but by no means the only, time that I would be extremely grateful to Bill Lander for rescuing me.
“He also warned Masters that in spite of their many good qualities they were not always equally capable of making public speeches and writing letters, and suggested that they be a little careful of the way in which they dealt with these matters………
Lord Winterton, speaking at the 1948 AGM of the MFHA
FURTHER MEMOIRS OF A FOXHUNTING MAN
After school and university George Sherston settles at home with his Aunt and decides to start hunting again, but first he had to be kitted out……
The summer was over and the green months were discarded like garments for which I had no further use. Twiddling a pink second-class return ticket to Londonin my yellow-gloved fingers I stared through the carriage window at the early October landscape and ruminated on the opening meet in November. My excursions to London were infrequent, but I had an important reason for this one. I was going to try on my new hunting clothes and my new hunting boots. I had also got a seat for Kreisler’s concert in the afternoon, but classical violin music was at present crowded out of my mind by the more urgent business of the day.
I felt as though I had an awful lot to do before lunch. Which Had I better go to first, I wondered, (jerking the window up as the train screeched into the tunnel) Craxwell or Kipward? To tell the truth I was a bit nervous about both of them; for when I had made my inaugural visits the individuals who patrolled the interiors of those eminent establishments had received me with such lofty condescension that I had begun by feeling an intruder. My clothes, I feared, had not quite the cut and style that was expected of them by firms which had the names of reigning sovereigns on their books, and I was abashed by my ignorance of the specialized articles which I was ordering. Equilibrium of behaviour had perhaps been more difficult at the bootmaker’s; so I decided to go to Kipward’s first.
Emerging from Charing Cross I felt my personality somehow diluted. At Baldcock Wood Station there had been no doubt that I was going up to town in my best dark blue suit, and London had been respectfully arranged at the other end of the line. But in Trafalgar Square my gentlemanly uniqueness had diminished to something almost nonentitive.
The lower half of Kipward & Son’s shop window was fitted with a fine wire screening, on which the crowns and vultures of several still undethroned European Majesties were painted. In spite of this hauteur the exterior now seemed companionable, and I felt less of a nobody as I entered. A person who might well have been Mr Kipward himself advanced to receive me; in his eyes there was the bland half-disdainful interrogation of a ducal butler; for the moment he still seemed uncertain as to my credentials. On the walls were some antlered heads and the whole place seemed to know much more about sport than I did.
His suavely enunciated “what name?” made the butler resemblance more apparent, but with his “Ah, yes, Mr Sherston, of course; your coat and breeches are quite ready for you to try, sir.” And the way he wafted me up a spacious flight of stairs, he became an old fashioned innkeeper who had been in first rate service, and there seemed nothing in the world with which he was not prepared to accommodate me. To have asked the price of so much as a waistcoat would have been an indecency. But I couldn’t help wondering, as I was being ushered into one of the fitting compartments, just how many guineas my black hunting coat was going to cost.
A few minutes later I was sitting on a hard, shiny saddle and being ciphered all over with a lump of chalk. The sallow little man who fitted my breeches remarked that the buff Bedford cord which I had selected was “a very popular one.” As he put the finishing touch with his chalk he asked me to stand up in the stirrups. Whereupon he gazed upon his handiwork and found it good. “Yes, that’s a beautiful seat,” he remarked serenely. I wondered whether he would say the same if he could see me landing over a post and rails on Harkaway. The artist responsible for my coat was a taciturn and deferential Scotchman, stout, bald, and blond. He, too, seemed satisfied that the garment would do him credit. My sole regret was that I hadn’t yet been asked to wear the Hunt button. Downstairs in the dignified and reposeful reception room the presiding presence was warming himself in front of a bright fire. As he conducted me to the door I observed with secret awe some racing colours in a glass case on the wall. In after years I recognised them as being Lord Rosebery’s.
Craxwell and Co was a less leisurely interior. As might have been expected, there was an all pervading odour of leather, and one was made to feel that only by a miracle could they finish up to time the innumerable pairs of top boots for which they had received orders. The shop bristled and shone with spurs; and whips and crops of all varieties were stacked and slung and suspended about the walls. Pace was indicated everywhere and no one but a hard bitten thruster could have entered without humility. A prejudiced mind might have imagined that all Craxwell’s customers belonged to some ultra-insolent, socially snobbish and libertine breed of military Mohocks. But the percentage, I am sure, was quite a small one, and my boots, though awkward to get into at first, were close-fitting and high in the leg and altogether calculated to make me feel that there were very few fences I would not cram my horse at. In outward appearance, at least, I was now a very presentable fox-hunter.
Suitably kitted out, let us enjoy a morning’s cubbing with the Ringwell hounds, who’s amateur huntsman is the same Denis referred to in the first extract.
Ringwell cubbing days are among my happiest memories. Those mornings now reappear in my mind, lively and freshly painted by the sunshine of n autumn that made amends for the rainy weeks which had washed away the summer. Four days a week we were up before daylight. I had heard the snoring stable hands roll out of bed with yawns and grumblings, and they were out and about before the reticent Henry came into my room with a candle and a jug of warm water. (How Henry managed to get up was a mystery.) Any old clothes were good enough for cubbing, and I was very soon downstairs in the stuffy little lining room, where Denis had an apparatus for boiling eggs. While they were bubbling he put the cocoa-powder in the cups, two careful spoonfuls each, and not a grain more. A third spoonful was unthinkable.
Not many minutes afterwards we were out by the range of loose-boxes under the rustling trees, with quiet stars overhead and scarcely a hint of morning. In the kennels the two packs were baying at one another from their separate yards, and as soon as Denis had got his horse from the gruff white-coated head-groom, a gate released the hounds – twenty-five or thirty couple of them, and all very much on their toes. Out they streamed like a flood of water, throwing their tongues and spreading away in all directions with waving sterns, as though they had never been out in the world before. Even then I used to feel the strangeness of the scene with its sharp exuberance of un-kennelled energy. Will’s hearty voice and the crack of his whip stood out above the clamour and commotion which surged around Denis and his horse. Then, without any apparent lull or interruption, the whirlpool became a well regulated torrent flowing through the gateway into the road, along which the sounds of hooves receded with a purposeful clip-clopping. Whereupon I hoisted myself on to an unknown horse – usually an excited one – and set off higgledy-piggledy along the road to catch them up. Sometimes we had as many as twelve miles to go, but more often we were at the meet in less than an hour.
The mornings I remember most zestfully were those which took us up on to the chalk downs. To watch the day breaking from purple to dazzling gold while we trotted up a deep rutted lane; to inhale the early freshness when we were on the sheep-cropped uplands; to stare back at the low country with its cock-crowing farms and mist-coiled waterways.
Thus to be riding out with a sense of spacious discovery – was it not something stolen from the lie-a-bed world and the luckless city workers – even though it ended in nothing more than the killing of a leash of fox-cubs? (for whom, to tell the truth, I felt an unconfessed sympathy.) Up on the Downs in fine September weather sixteen years ago…..
It is possible that even then, if I was on a well behaved horse, I could half forget why we were there, so pleasant was it to be alive and gazing around me. But I would be dragged out of my day dream by Denis when he shouted to me to wake up and get round to the far side of the covert; for on such hill days we often went straight to on eof the big gorses without the formality of a meet. There were beech woods, too, in the folds of the downs, and lovely they looked in the mellow sunshine, with summer’s foliage falling in ever-deepening drifts among their gnarled and mossy roots.
WYNNSTAY HUNT BRIDGE
The Hunt Bridge competition was well supported this year and as a result of this I was able to send cheques to the Farmers Aid Appeal, The Countryside Alliance, Whitchurch Cottage Hospital and Sir Watkin Williams Wynn’s Hunt.
64 couples competed and I managed to get the 8 finalists to Broad Oak for the finals on May 21st. Frances Ford and Margaret Owen held good cards and defeated Pat Powell and Rachel Pentecost to win the “Cup”.
In the finals of the “Plate” there was a keen contest, Edna Skelland and Myra Wynn narrowly beating Chris and Penny Ayton in the final rubber. Congratulations to both winners.
I would like to thank everyone who played for their support. I hope they will all have another ‘go’ this year and encourage friends to play too.
Diana Warburton-Lee
EVENTS OCTOBER/NOVEMBER 2001
Mon. 8th Oct. Sir W W Wynn’s Hunt Annual General Meeting Chorlton Village Hall 7.30pm
Fri 12th Oct. Tanatside Hunt Supporters Club present the Pennine Hunt Concert Party An evening of hunting and country songs and stories. 7pm for 7.30 start Tickets (including bar and hot pot supper) £10 from Trish Rigby 01978 822 198 Joan Clark 01938 553 969 Shirley Blaise 01691 772 626
Sat. 13th Oct. 8.00am Hound Exercise at Brynkinalt all welcome. 9.30am Breakfast at Brynkinalt £5.00 pay on the day.
1.45pm First Race at Bangor on Dee Races.
Sun. 21st Oct. Cross Country Ride at Hall Lane Farm, Daresbury for Wynnstay Hunt Funds. First Horse 10am Last Horse 2pm Adults £10 Under 14 £5.00
Tues. 23rd Oct. ‘The Tullamore Dewo’ Irish Entertainers Welshampton Village Hall 7.30pm Tickets £6.00 to include Hotpot Supper from Mrs G. Hanmer 01948 710634.
Sun. 28th Oct. Racing at Aintree. Main Office number for Tickets 0151 522 2929.
Mon. 29th Oct. Countryside Raceday Bangor on Dee Races. Hounds are parading and there is falconry display before racing. First Race 1.30pm. Reduced Price admission for Wynnstay Hunt Supporters’ Club Members when using the application form issued to them. £7.50 per Paddock Ticket. £2.50 to go to the Wynnstay Hunt. Contact Jeannie Chantler 01829 250488
If you are not a W.H.S.C. Member NOW is obviously the time to join the W.H.S.C.!
Fri. 2nd Nov Casino Evening Overton Village Hall. 7.30pm Tickets £10.00 each to include Hotpot Supper From Jeannie Chantler 01829 250488 or Tiddles Tellwright 01948 830684.
Sat. 3rd Nov. ‘NOT’ THE OPENING MEET! 11.00 am Higher Barns. (No Horses Please).
Sat. 10th Nov Hound Exercise. 9.00am Rose Farm, Coddington. Breakfast 10.45am Carden Arms, Tilston £5.00 pay on day.
Fri. 16th Nov. Wynnstay Hunt Supporters’ Club Dinner Wynnstay Room, Bangor on Dee Racecourse. 7.30pm Tickets £20 from Karen Slater 01829 250217.
17th ,18th Nov. Racing at Cheltenham. The Thomas Pink Weekend.
Sun. 25th Nov Racing at Aintree. Main Office number for tickets 0151 522 2929
Thurs. 29th Nov. Area 2 W.H.S.C. Quiz Night Welshampton Village Hall Tickets £5 to include Hotpot Supper. From Mrs G. Hanmer 01948 710634
Sun. 2nd Dec. Clay Pigeon Shoot and other activities for all the family. Details from Johnny Turner. 01948 663527
Sat 8th Dec. The Wynnstay Hunt Ball, Pen y Lan. Details from Mrs. P.Moreau 01978 780 892
Dec 11th – 15th ‘Wildest Dreams’ at The Civic Centre Whitchurch Inclusive. Tickets £8.00 from Mr. Nick Higgin 01948 860 966
THE HUNT SUPPORTERS CLUB
Patron: Sir Watkin Williams-Wynn, Bt. President: Mrs D.W. Hutchinson Smith
Vice Presidents: A.R. Hewitt Esq.; J Chantler Esq.; P. Robinson Esq.; Mrs G. Lea, J.P.; Mrs J. Taylor; J.C. Barnett Esq. Mrs J. Chantler.
Chairman: Mrs G Hanmer 01948 710 634 Hon. Secretary: Miss K Slater 01829 250 217 Treasurer: P Lawrence Esq.
Editor of Cry: David Higham, Rose Farm, Coddington, Tattenhall, Chester CH3 9EN 01829 782 420 (H) 01948 666 750 (W) 01948 666 749 (Fax) david@higham.taurusuk.net
Area I (Wrexham)
Chairman: Mrs B Jones 01978 780 870 Secretary: Mrs Linda Maurice, Cinders Fm, Overton Rd, Ruabon, Wrexham LL146HL 01978 822 424
Area II (Whitchurch)
Chairman: S.N.R. Brunt Esq. 01948 710 678 Secretary: Mrs G Hanmer, The Stables, Bettisfield Park, Hanmer, Salop SY13 2JZ 01948 710 634
Area III (Malpas)
Chairman: Mrs J Davies 01829 250 212 Secretary: Mrs Trudi Teasdale-Brown, 12 Heronbrook, Whitchurch, SY13 1BE 01948 662 0356
“THERE’S NOTHING AS QUEER AS SCENT – ‘CEPT A WOMAN”
‘Women’s Lib’ and ‘Anti’ often run hand in unwashed hand, but it may come as a surprise that fox hunting was the first sport open to women. As early as 1730 the poet James Thompson was voicing his objections in verse, but Surtees was generally a great admirer of women in the hunting field:-
When women do ride they generally ride like the very devil. There is no medium with them. They either ‘go’ to beat the men, or they don’t ‘go’ at all. We have seen some uncommon performers among women, performers that would put nine-tenths of the men to the blush. We are puzzled whether to give the palm to the single or the married women in this respect; but, as the single are the most interesting, perhaps the preference will be yielded to them. Pretty dears who would scream at the sight of a frog or a mouse, will face a bullfinch from which many men would turn away – indeed that is one of the palpable inconveniences of ladies hunting, for it is almost a point of honour for men to go over what ladies have taken.
If it were not their ignorance when horses have done enough, and their great desire for pace, we would rather be a woman’s horse than a man’s. Women have much finer, and more delicate hands than men, and they never fight or bully their horses as men do – neither do they ever pull them into their leaps – by which nine tenths of the annual falls are procured.
R S Surtees, Analysis of the Hunting Field, 1846
In the 1860’s Leicestershire was entranced by Catherine Walters, nicknamed ‘Skittles’
I have been told that ‘Skittles’ was the last of the great ‘demi-mondaines’ of the sixties, and that she was a well-educated, clever woman, devoted to riding and hunting. She went to Melton Mowbray with Lord Hopetoun to hunt with the Quorn when Lord Stamford was MFH. Now Lady Stamford, his second wife, was reported to have come from the same social set as ‘Skittles’ and to have started life as one of the three handsome daughters of a Norfolk Keeper. This tale may be true or not, but anyhow Lady Stamford objected to a rival in the hunting field, so she sent for her lord and master and insisted that he should ‘despatch that improper woman home,’ declaring that it was a scandal that so notorious a person should dare to hunt with the Quorn Hounds.
On being told of this discussion by a friend, ‘Skittles’ at once turned her horse for Melton, being too keen a sportswoman to wish to make trouble in the hunting field and embarrass the MFH. As good luck would have it, before she had gone far, a fox crossed the road in front of her, followed by the hounds in full cry. This was too much for ‘Skittles’; she jumped the fence and joined the chase and rode so straight and well that at t he end of the run Lord Stamford congratulated her, and swore she must always hunt with the Quorn ‘and damn all jealous women.’ To show her displeasure Lady Stamford never went to another meet whilst her husband was master.
Lady Augusta Fane, Chit Chat, 1926
In 1876 the Empress of Austria began her regular visits to hunt in England and hunted with Sir Watkin Williams Wynn’s on several occasions.
The Empress had the entrée into every fashionable gathering in London or Leicestershire, and her feats in the saddle became legendary, just as Skittles’ had become legendary a decade previously. She had also taken a leaf out of Skittles’ book by appearing at dinner parties at Easton Neston wearing the very simplest of evening dresses and also without jewellery, but with the folds clinging seductively to the outlines of her figure. And like Skittles she could neither think nor talk about anything else than horses and hunting whilst she was in England. Hunting came before love-making, and hunting came even before accepting royal commands from Windsor to visit the Queen for luncheon
Like Skittles she, too, used to have her riding clothes tailored so closely to her figure that every contour was revealed, and she, too, was often sewn naked into her habit before she went out hunting.
Henry Blythe, Skittles, 1970
The editor would like to point out to interested parties that he is quite handy with a sewing needle……
Do we ever see runs like those of old in the present day? If not, what is the cause? Hounds never were better than now, or altogether better managed. The sole reason is this: where in former days there were fifty men out there are now three hundred. Formerly five or six men used to ride hard, and if they knew but little of hunting, they generally knew when hounds were on scent and when not. At present everybody rides hard, and out of three hundred, not three have the slightest notion whether they are on or off scent. Although probably there are not three horses which could live with them through a clipping run, there are an ample number good enough to ride over them, and prevent their settling to a scent. When there is a lack of sport one man abuses the hounds, another the huntsman…. If therefore there is want of sport, let people attribute it to the right cause, which is jealousy and ignorance of the sportsmen. If hounds were let alone and not ridden on, they could scarcely miss a day’s sport
Sir Charles Knightley; Master of the Pytchley 1809-1817
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