All right, the story has ruminated long enough. The tale must be told.
I'm flying a bit solo on this one (pun intended Mark the airplane flyer), and this is liable to be one person’s memory of the accounts of the weeks running from Jan. 4th to Jan. 21. Anyone who remembers that recent history with more clarity and precision (hint, hint Rosie and Grosvenor) please feel free to chime in with accuracy. Otherwise, you run the risk of living a lie. I need to send condolences publicly at this point to Mack Braly, whose spot I filled on the ten- being roster after his back punked out on him in November. Sorry, Mack, I've been in those can't bend over/straighten up/get out of bed shoes and they are some hard loafers to wear. My information has it that you, like myself, will recover fully. The island still awaits you.
I've titled this chronicle "Hunt for the Emerald Isle" as the story starts way before getting on a plane to fly to Ireland, and doesn't end upon return to these shores.
You'll find the usual accounts of strange and exotic hunt jumps, banks, drains, hirelings and the like. But this story wouldn't be complete, for me, without addressing the weather here in the good ole U.S. of A., and the hunting plans Mother Nature decided to change for myself, and most of you out there. Travel conditions made up a significant portion of our experience on both sides of the transatlantic flight, and a good bit in between as well.
A mere few weeks after returning from my first ever trip to Ireland, an account of which was so kindly gathered by Christine and archived by Matt, I realized I was able to make a second tour with host and hostess extraordinaire, Grosvenor and Rosie. I don't have many responsibilities tying me down yet, like a job or significant other, but the few commitments I have were sounded out and green lights obtained. So, how to make the most of this return engagement.
I've got friends hunting with hounds all over the place, so I decided to visit a few before trekking to Ireland. I needed to hunt with Bull Run so I could give firsthand testimony to those hounds’ hunting abilities when asked by curious Irish. I also needed to get out with the folks at TVH in Knoxville, plus I had a delivery to make to Carla/FluffFox that I didn't trust to conventional delivery services. (Glassed pictures in frames can be a bugger to ship.) So, a road trip seemed in the offing. And, as long as I was driving, why not make a swing through Georgia and visit the relocated for the winter Southern kennels of Fox River Valley? Sounded like a good plan to me, offering the potential for hunting twelve or thirteen days from the 6th to the 20th in three different states and two different countries with ten or eleven different packs.
That was the plan. Plans changed.
Now is where The Weather asserted dominion. You'll remember the "little" snow storm that affected pretty much most of this country in a delayed reaction type fashion on or about January Oneth of this New Year. Well, I had a cold for most of the storm, but had decided my personal trip should start on Monday the 4th. My goal was to be somewhere around Indianapolis Monday evening, putting me in striking distance of Knoxville early Tuesday evening. I almost didn't make it right out of the box.
Roads around Chicago, where we had 21 inches of snowfall in 24 hours, a record, were clean and clear, and I was tooling along at a very judicious rate of speed and feeling pretty good. (Better when I remembered within blocks of the house that my passport was still on my desk at home. Can you say U-turn?) I got into Indiana no problem, and then the Sun went down.
Illinois has a fleet of snow plows that work fairly efficiently. Indiana, I'm not so sure. As the radiant energy from the Sun went away, temperatures dropped down to and past zero, Fahrenheit, and the half inch of slush on the highway froze up in a flash. I'm not a chemical engineer, but spreading salt on ice in temps below zero didn't do a damned thing. I saw six salt trucks in a one hour, probably thirty mile period, no plows, and a dozen or more cars, trucks, minivans, and what have you off in the ditch. Emergency vehicles every ten miles or so.
Picture this. I've decided that Indie is my destination for the night, and I consciously pass a truck stop where essentials such as fuel are sold, figuring I have sufficient petrol to get me to a gas pump and a bed for the night. Then the Sun disappears, ice emerges, vehicles jump off the road at a whim, traffic slows down to stop and go on the interstate, outside temps are sub zero, and my gas gauge is in the red. I was hurtin' for surtin'.
As we're crawling along on the road, I'm looking off into the dark Indiana countryside for any collection of lights that might denote an off ramp and precious gasoline. Nothing. I'd hit a dead spot between Lafayette and Indianapolis where normally nobody has a need for gas.
I turn up the tape deck a little louder, trying to convince myself that I'm NOT going to run out of gas, get stranded, and freeze while waiting for an emergency vehicle to come creeping up to me at four in the morning.
Okay, enough suspense. I made it to a town called Lebanon, IN. They have gas and a Quality Inn right off the interstate, and the sigh of relief I heaved when I started to pump fuel was large. You all heard it, didn't you? I made calls, got directions, and intended to be in Knoxville by 2 pm the next day, Tuesday. Just in time to exercise Tennessee bunnies with the Upper Bay Bassets. Plan was still relatively intact.
Now, I left the story with me bedded down for the night in Lebanon, IN, and you may start to question my grasp of geography. Fear not, I know that Indiana and Tennessee are two distinct and different places. Let me take you from one to the other.
Remember, I'm on a hunting expedition, so my waking and traveling were to be perfectly timed so as to put me in the right spot each time hounds were let loose from a kennel. The goal on Tuesday the Fifth was to place myself at the doorstep of Dick and Lugene Askins just as their Upper Bay Bassets were about to go somewhere and sniff out bunnies. Let’s see if I made it there, shall we?
Not knowing how tired I was from the driving ordeal the day before, I set the hotel alarm for six in the morning, a practice I very rarely engage in. I've an aversion to system shock, such as jumping into ice cold mountain tarns, or frigid Minnesota lakes, or pretty much anything to do with cold water. Alarm clocks are a close second on the aversion scale, and I will usually wake up way before any alarm sounds, subconsciously hoping to avoid system shock. I can count on one hand the number of times a clock has awakened me.
Tuesday was no different. I come around at about 4:30 in the morning, obviating the need for the alarm, check the Weather Channel (cold and frosty was the report with a hint of a weather front moving from, of all directions and a personal stunner to me, West to East {I come fully equipped with an active facetious gene}) and look out the window. I must have requested a room with a view when I checked in, because I had a splendid vista of the Interstate to gaze upon. Let's see, 4:30 a.m., cars and trucks moving at a slow crawl. Jump back in bed with an idea that things will not improve until around 8 a.m. when the Sun smiles on this benighted land. Each hour after six that I stay in bed cuts into my cushion for arriving in time to chase cottontail.
Six in the morning. Cars and trucks still crawling.
Seven in the morning. Cars and trucks still crawling, with no noticeable change in speed from previous two checks.
Eight in the morning and things look a little better, at least people can see, so I make myself presentable to the world and duck down the street for some travel food. McDonalds being the 'straunt of choice whilst in a car (least messy sandwiches). I jump onto I-65 with a light heart, full tank of gas, a Sausage McMuffin with Egg in hand and roar out to a screeching crawl. The pavement looks like an ice waffle with dry and bare patches checkerboarded with old, slick, dirty ice. I'm thirty miles away from Indianapolis, and it doesn't look like I'll being seeing the dome of the State Capital any time soon.
For a radius of about thirty miles around Indie lay this mish-mash of clear and iced pavement, intimidating even the hardguy truckers into slow going. I believe I finally made clear enough roadway that allowed me to "stretch my legs," so to speak, around 10 in the morning. No way was I going to make my rendezvous with Upper Bay, or any other bunch of dogs, and I made a call to the Askins' residence with a depressed spirit. I won't be able to join them.
They had canceled anyway.
I exercise my right to place calls on my cell phone whilst driving, catch Carla in some kind of Art Teacher interlude at school, and explain my plight. Positive energy flows through the radio waves, or microwaves, or telepathic ether, or whatever cell phones use to talk to one another from Carla to me, re-energizing me for the drive ahead and dinner.
I arrive on Carla and John's doorstep, and receive a tour of their newish place while catching up, a tour which included meeting her cadre of three lizards. "Be careful of the one in the floor to ceiling cage," says Carla, "it's not a nice lizard, it bites." This cage is in a room next to my sleeping quarters, and I explain to Carla that anything that causes me to wake in the middle of the night as a result of slithering or biting will get launched across space, said spaceshot only to be interrupted by a vertical plane such as the gypsum board of the wall. I put it in the nicest terms I could manage, she is a friend after all.
Dinner is in a sort of upscalish burger joint, with other TVH friends, but the place is packed. I wonder why this would be, to myself, as I don't see much special apart from the newness of the place, and get an unsolicited explanation from the restaurant critic of Marysville, TN, Carla. Is it Blount County where you live, Carla? Whichever county it is happens to be voted dry. No liquor stores allowed. And very few licenses to sell alcohol by restaurants were granted. If memory serves, the two allowed up to this point were Mexican, and it was explained to me that all of Marysville learned to eat refried beans and such because it was served with beer. Now they can get burgers with beer, a significant event.
I spent a pretty cool evening after dinner with John and Carla, talking computers and graphic arts programs. They have access to the kind of programs that were winning big time computer graphics awards just a few years ago, and they showed me some of the art they were working on. The computer adds ease and flexibility that was not available to traditional art media like paint and canvas, but the talent of these two people combined was pretty awesome. They kept apologizing for keeping me awake looking at their toys, but I was fascinated. Really. And, if you'll remember my personal delivery to Carla and John in the previous installment, the framed pictures, Carla you're welcome once again. It was absolutely my pleasure. After seeing what you all are capable of putting up on your walls, I'm humbled that my little gift has brought such joy.
Now, back to the journey.
At dinner that night, where I finally met the third of the TVH jt-Masters, Maribel Koella (sp?), I had a niggling feeling that the weather front shadowing my steps might cause a problem. Having dealt with frozen roads, I was a bit leery of driving any more of them than I could help, so I begged off hunting with TVH Wednesday morning. It was a painful decision, as I had the use of a wonderful mare named Maggie from Claire Harris, a wonderful woman. We would have had a ball, I know, but missing my flight to Ireland, a real possibility, swayed the argument in favor of scooting.
Wednesday morning, the 6th, dawned overcast and cold. Looks like my weather front had stolen a march on me. Instead of shadowing me it was now "dogging" my steps. (I love puns, and rarely tumble to them myself.) I had a farewell chat with Carla, causing her to leave for school later than she planned (which turned out not a problem), agonized over whether I should take my leave of John whilst he was still in the sack (I couldn't bring myself to disturb him then, so, Bye John!), and made my exit. I hit a car wash to sluice off the road salt of three states. I drive a dark green Blazer that was white with greenish hints and highlights when I pulled up to Carla and John's door. I grab another Sausage McMuffin with Egg as Carla is not known for her lavish breakfasts and head into Knoxville to pick up the Interstate that takes me to Virginia.
As I'm attending to my car and stomach, snow flurries are falling. Not even enough to make me activate my wipers, but some is sticking to the road. Ten miles out of Knoxville, traffic stops. Is there a wreck ahead? There is about a quarter inch of snow on the road, if that, and it's blowing around. Surely that can't be the cause of this delay. Has to be a traffic accident. Down to five miles an hour. I have a nagging feeling I've experienced this sort of driving in the not at all that distant past. The two lanes traveling in the opposite direction are moving along just fine, must be a fender bender that I'll pass any time now. Right? Let's see what the radio says about this situation. Ah, here's a traffic report. Knoxville is having a traffic nightmare because of the snow. What snow? The less-than-quarter-inch of powder on the ground? Seems my storm has snuck right up behind me and is breathing down my neck. I make it to a rise in the road, not even a hill by my calculation, and watch a lady in a minivan struggle up the incline. She may want to consider purchasing new tires, along with a whole lot of other folks in and around Knoxville, because the traction she and they used to have is there no more.
I get on the Interstate, luckily, keeping my radio tuned for more traffic info. I hear about roads closed because of snow, businesses delayed opening or staying shut because of snow, and schools sending kids right back home because of snow. Carla was off the hook, if she had ever found her way to that position, for being late.
I, on the other hand, have open road ahead of me. I got on the interstate just ahead of the wave of stoppages and made the most of my well-treaded tires and four-wheel drive. Aside from some limited visibility, and allowing for dodging trucks and hills, I made great time, all the while hearing about the paralysis setting in behind me. To paraphrase the character of a centuries old knight in "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade"... "I chose wisely" by 'Escaping from Tennessee' when I did. The next stop on my grand tour was Keswick and Culpepper, VA to watch BRH hounds hunt. My date with Bull Run and those hounds was saved for the moment, and I had escaped the clutches of Mother Nature and her fiendish weather patterns once again. I was feeling pretty canny.
I was to learn later that TVH, along with most everything else in East Tennessee, cancelled their meet. Whew! I didn't have the agony of missing the best hunt of the season to add to my burden. Thursday was to see me mounted and following Bull Run. Hopefully. The weather hound that had almost nabbed me in Tennessee was only outrun for the moment.
The interstate between Tennessee and Virginia was the kindest thing I'd encountered in a while, and I started to feel a bit groovy. Tunes playing, countryside whizzing by, and I was on my way to hunt. Finally! I fault my friends in East Tennessee not at all, but the whole dumb exercise of my driving was to get at more hounds than a plane ticket would have allowed me. I was building a feeling that that particular event would manifest on the morrow.
I shouldn't have been so optimistic.
I arrive at the house that Grosvenor built, Paddock Wood, after some superb and easy to follow navigational instructions from himself, greeted by Rosie and Grosvenor's son Zander (short for Alexander) outside the door. I had the advantage of the young man because, whilst in various pubs, restaurants, and hunting fields on our first jaunt to Ireland, a proud set of parents had given me half of his life story . (I still can't believe I got to go twice, and the pull to go back is surprisingly stronger now than before.)
Be that as it may, I asked if the young worthy in front of me was called Alexander, which elicited a shy smile and a quiet affirmative. I'm sure the proud parents know which reaction I'm describing. I gave my name as Jeff, and asked if any parents were about. Again, yes, and I found the Man, The Myth, the Legend (got to build up the ego of the huntsman every now and again) inside on the phone, conversing about… hounds and hunting. I was at the right place.
I was welcomed into the home, spending some time working on Zander's homework with him and a puzzle path he'd been given at school. I was introduced to the young lady of the house in the person of Nicolette, whom I also had the advantage of, helping a bit with her homework, and scarfed Chinese with Rosie, Nicky, and Zander whilst Grosvenor indulged in hunt business in the next town over. It was like being transported back to the part of my childhood where math and spelling were subjects, and horses and dogs were sort of mysteries that were lived with, not really analyzed.
I got caught up a bit in explaining some personalities, please forgive, but the people on the trip were by far the most important part.
A portion of the instruction set I had to get to Paddock Wood was a caution regarding the ice at the back door. Uh, it wasn't a little ice, but a goodly bit of an ice rink. I've logged enough rink time to respect ice, so the glaring expanse was not too terrifying, but its implication for the morrow’s hunting were pretty serious. Remember, I said I was a bit overly optimistic before.
Grosvenor returned from his meeting, and the coming days hunting was discussed, amongst other things. A call was placed to the amazingly capable and justifiably appreciated kennel-huntsman, Adrian Smith, a person others on the list have acquainted you all with. A horse was arranged, hounds picked out, meeting time discussed, and various other hunt business gone over. And the telephone hung up.
In an offhand way, Grosvenor looks over and says something to the effect that if I weren't making a guest appearance, Bull Run would probably not go out the next day. I remember that part pretty clearly if you don't, Grosvenor. It's not every day that a hunt is arranged in one's honor, which is what was effectively being done for me. I was pretty flattered, and a little nervous. Reminded me of another day in New York when we idiots, which included myself, the stalwart and terribly nice Barbara Drogo, and five inches of new snow should have passed on hunting but didn't. Please, Lord, let me exhibit enough skill to stay in the saddle. Now, off to bed.
Thursday the 7th dawned iron gray. Not the iron gray of an impending shower of precipitation of one sort or another (rain or snow or something icky in between was not out of the question), but the kind that keeps the Sun's warming rays at bay, or at least in check. The ice was going to be with us all day long.
The meet was for 1 p.m., and I have to say I love that kind of start time. For one reason or another my home pack of foxhounds goes out pretty much at dawn-thirty our entire season. It's absolutely wonderful to have time to spend getting self and horse put together in daylight with a relative lack of chronometer pressure.
To my provincial mind, we meander over to the fixture, Muckamoor if you know it, and pull up in the field below that fixture's big house to find Adrian and the hound truck waiting. Rosie-the-knowledgeable gives me a geological lecture on the terrain and footing in and around Muckamoor, something about this black stuff that holds moisture close to the surface and is right now a grassily deceptive chunk of ice. I'm given to understand my horse is one of the few with studs on. Grosvenor and Rosie have no such non-skid equipment, but after our footing talk I can't help but think maybe I need a bit more. Anyway, very soon after, the rest of the day's crew arrives, introductions made (and release forms signed), horses unboxed (to borrow a term from across the water), and tack stuck on said ponies. I was given the use of a handsome thoroughbred named Shakespeare, a horse that Jos Mottershead has also ridden to great success, but a bit of a pickle when it comes to being tied. He broke his lead in the trailer on the way over, and busted out of our improvision after he'd been completely tacked up, just as I turned away to get my coat. He danced around for fifteen or twenty minutes, showing what a well-formed animal he was, and causing my cheeks to glow red with embarrassment.
Horses that needed catching allowed themselves to be caught, more introductions were made, including Doug Morris (Thanks for the pictures from this day, Doug!) the BRH photo journalist, and Barclay Rives who brought up the subject of the Longmeadow Hounds here in Illinois. Not too many people remember that group, and I have only the most rudimentary knowledge. Didn't know I'd be out for a quiz as well as a ride that day. But a miracle occurs not long after my brain is tested. Hounds move off! 16 1/2 couple of old Bull Run and PennMarydel blood are let into the first covert, and I believe find right then. If it wasn't the first, it certainly was the second drawn. I was given the privilege of riding with Rosie that day. (Rosie's horse did better with a companion, and mine wasn't geared for the field anyway, being one of Adrian's remounts. I forgot to add that Leo, Adrian's mount that afternoon, celebrated the day by pulling a rodeo act, kicking up heels and hopping around right before hounds moved off. That is significant news for much, much later in this narrative.) Rosie and I, along with the non-jumping field, take a chance that the fox will run left-handed out of a rather large covert he's taken the hounds into, and we set ourselves up to view the show as they emerge, hopefully, in our range of vision. To those of you who aren't whippers-in, a large portion of hunting as whips is filled with such choices. You're either in the thick of the race, or left out and scrambling to get back in. As staff, that's the best argument for big-voiced hounds, especially in country where the land folds in on itself. Sound waves have kept me on terms with hounds and quarry a heck of a lot more times than sight ever has (again, a sentiment that has particular significance further on in the saga.)
We give the pack time to show up in our sights and then try to play catch-up when they don't. We'd exploited a gap festooned with downed wire and briar tendrils next to a padlocked gate to get into the field of our latest vantage point, using some of my recent Irish crossing country training to spy it out, I might add. But the pack took us away from that handy opening.
We were hampered by wire and iced up hunt jumps as we attempted to get with hounds, watching the pack in an open field below what I took to be a dairy operation, swirling around in the open, re-casting themselves to find the trail of the fox. No staff were helping them, those worthies being scraped off at various points by various obstacles. From my own personal point of view, that's the kind of hound work one dreams about. Hounds honoring each other and working on their own as a unit is a sight to behold, which I did, and was happy.
It didn't last, however. Rosie and I, along with the rest of the field, caught up to our companions on some railroad tracks, minus the Master and Huntsman, Grosvenor, who was on foot trying to entice hounds back to his horn. We wait there for a while, pass a flask or two, and when nothing seems to be happening but Grosvenor standing in a field and serenading a few hounds, Rosie and I canter around to join him.
Seems the pack had hit a patch of uncrossable land, the local highish security prison, been on the cusp of recall, and then hit the line again, leaving everyone in the dust. Grosvenor had about half the hounds when Rosie and I caught up to him, and the rest were not close at all to where we were.
We went back to the tracks and Grosvenor blew for a while. Our hound calling station placed us across from the aforementioned State Penal Institution and next to an animal rescue property, an interesting nexus from which to re-launch the hunt. Staff were dispatched to get around hounds, if possible, and after some little while, that task was accomplished. From being down half the pack, I believe we were short around a couple and a half when everyone met up again to compare notes. As interludes went, it was rather boring. As instruction over where and how this country can be ridden, it was rather helpful. Plus, I was asked to help move hounds about and didn't "step on my whip", so to speak. I was honored.
Now that we were put back together, let's see if we can run a few more fox around. Grosvenor hands the horn over to Adrian in a barely understood exchange, and off we go to the next covert right in the heart of the Muckamoor fixture, minus the Master; he went off to visit with the prison Warden.
Rosie and I ride flank on the road, as good little whips, and Adrian casts the pack and draws along a bit of a frozen creek. Rosie and I split up a bit to cover more of the road, both horses amenable to the arrangement, and I grabbed the sort of left of point position. I was just in time to hear hounds find and to view a fox streak out of covert and turn right-handed along the frozen creek Adrian had been drawing. No need for a holler, as hounds had hit already, and a tally-ho might have confused our huntsman into thinking that the fox had gone left across the road instead of the real right-handed path. But it was hard to stifle a whoop at seeing the hunted fox. (Lessons learned on the list parading across my minds eye.) Rosie caught up instantly and we watched the pack pick a path back and forth across this frozen, tree-lined creek, speaking and checking. I believe we took a coop, carefully, and managed to avoid some leg-swallowing holes as we shadowed hounds along this creek. Adrian and the field were hunting on the other side.
There's a concept in business of employee ownership of an idea or program. This idea is supposed to help increase employee enthusiasm and dedication to the idea or product that was their brainchild. That translates entirely to the hunt field. This was "my" hunted fox, and the blood was up.
Hounds were making for a bridge over which ran a blacktopped road with a lovely covert on the other side. As slow as they were going, I was pretty sure Charlie had slipped across the road or under the bridge to the trees on the far side of the upcoming pavement, and I cast my eyes ahead for a glimpse. All at a canter, I'm dividing my attention among Rosie, the ground, the hounds, and searching for the fox, and as I work my gaze back from the bridge I catch a flash of reddish brown not ten yards in front of the hounds. Charlie was having as much trouble getting through the ice as the hounds were. Adrian is streaking and calling ahead of hounds, now, making for the bridge and road, and I remark my observations to Rosie, expecting Adrian has also seen the fox and is trying to turn the pack to him, which he does.
He hadn't seen the blighter, though, and while the mounted field's attention was on Adrian, Charlie slipped around behind horses and hounds and took off at a right angle to the creek. He was heading for a different covert and a set of farm buildings, or so said the hounds as they picked up the line behind the field as they cast back for the fox. Classic self-starters.
Rosie and I are faced with another whip's choice. Do we follow the field and huntsman, or swing back along right-handed and guard the creek. We chose the latter, out of duty, and were again left out.
Barclay, who during the entire day was in the right place at the right time (a tribute to his hound knowledge and fox sense), viewed the hunted critter coming back from the lovely covert near the farm buildings. Brother Rives executed a classic putting-the-hounds-on-the-line maneuver. He stood on the heel portion of the line, dropped his cap, and Adrian brought hounds up to the fox's trail. Off they go... for about ten yards where Charlie had slipped into a hole.
Bull Run has some pretty good marking hounds, and they vented their frustration in their very vocal manner. We had been faced with some slippery turf, chuck holes, coops, post and rails, and a nice little chase on a red that was a closer run thing than any of us had counted on. Best run of the day, and the sound of the marking hounds provided a beacon for the return of the erstwhile Grosvenor. Of course we weren't done.
The covert across the road that I thought the fox was making for turns out to be our last draw. Hounds jump in pretty quick and again find right off the bat. This fox takes a page out of the previous vulpine's book and starts a crisscross of the same frozen stream, only the ice is patchier, slicker, and the water the ice covers is deeper. Rosie and I are again faced with a whip's dilemma, follow hounds closely where no trail exists, or get into the open where room to maneuver can be had. We choose to follow through the underbrush, and are treated to the same exhibition of hounds working back and forth on the line of the fox who takes them over as much ice as he can.
Our intention was to find a place to cross the stream and be in a handy spot if the fox takes off left-handed over the beckoning fields we keep catching glimpses of between ducking thorny vines. (I'd give you compass directions, but I had no idea where North was that whole day.) The ice was acting quite the barrier. Instead of studs, I was wishing my horse came equipped with... you guessed it, ice skates (chuckle, chuckle).
The fox finally left the ice stream behind, giving that tactic up for awhile, and ran out and away in front of hounds. Ole Red took a turn that would have taken hounds back into uncrossable land, the back of the prison again, and the hard working pack was stopped and picked up at that point and re-cast.
Another fox makes him or herself available soon thereafter, and manages to indeed take the pack into forbidden ground. Nuts! But those of you wise to the ways of foxes know they have a habit of running circles. Pack came right back at us, back to the frozen creek (are these foxes sharing the same playbook?), and finally lost somewhere along the bank. Probably in a hole in a wood pile. Grosvenor winds his magic horn, and off we trot for the meet and home.
I now have conversation ammunition for the curious Irish, having acquitted myself well in the Bull Run hunt field (I think), and had a heck of a day watching hounds. Not everything went smooth as silk The hounds showed flashes of brilliance mixed in with flashes of G@# D*&^%d hound stubbornness, but the day was a winner in my book. All the more for the fact that it might not have happened, barring my presence.
Dinner is a tired affair at a nice little restaurant, except for Zander and Nicky who amuse themselves on giant piles of parking lot snow for an hour, chasing one another and chucking snow chunks at the unwary. But the great, good news is, we are off to Ireland in the morning. We'll be there and riding in a day! Again the optimism is running high. Will I never learn.
Friday the eighth of January was a date long etched into my memory. For weeks beforehand I would calculate the correct date and day of the week based on this trip to Ireland's span of days. The day to start had arrived.
Things, as you know, had been interesting up till now. Weather had given me grief for over six hundred miles on my pre-journey journey, but now was the time to set that all aside and get on to Ire. We were in a part of the world where snow doesn't cause much trouble, icy temperatures are fleeting, right, so getting to the airport will be no problem? I've heard it said that every day you don't learn something is one that was wasted. I learned on Jan. 8th.
We've had fun hunting the day before, and now Rosie and Grosvenor must pay the price and condense packing into a morning's work. Add in sending Nicky and Zander off to school (and pray the school bus doesn't ignore one or both and whiz off again today as they stand at the stop, waiting), settling the house sitter, and taking down Christmas decorations, and you've got a picture of the bill they were looking at taking care of. Certainly, I would do all I could.
Buses ran on schedule, kids on them in the correct order, house sitter arrives in time to take instruction, and the Christmas tree and various indoor and outdoor decorations descend and are dissected back into component parts for next year. The plane IS SCHEDULED to leave at three in the afternoon, and we're ready to be out the door at quarter to eleven. I'm told it's around an hour to Reagan National Airport. Looks like we're in great shape, except ... what's that fluffy white stuff that's been falling the past hour or so? It seems to be accumulating. Do I sense trouble?
We're to get a lift to the aerodrome from a friend and BRH member, Yank, (who is on this list, lurking around, Hey Yank!) in his van. We three are to meet Yank at his place, drop a car there, and then pick up his son, William, then on to the launch pad. My car is elected to make the journey to Yank's because of the dual features of large cargo capacity and four-wheel drive. Both are utilized as necessary.
On our way to Yank's we were given a small lesson in civics. Snow plows and salt trucks from counties that voted to give the road commissioner enough money to clear roads know exactly where their county line ends. Even if that terminus is in the middle of a road. We were creeping along in four-wheel drive, following tracks of the foolhardy before us, and there weren't that many to follow, when all of a sudden the road clears in an eye blink. Wonder how the next county board meeting will go?
Yank greets us at the door, we chitchat for a few, then move out and collect William. William's made this journey to Ireland several times before, is an old hat and a dab hand, and still in High School. And a fine young gentleman as I came to find over the course of the trip ahead. We spend as little time in a static position as possible as the snow is still dropping from the sky like flies. Good thing we had that extra time allotted for travel.
The interstate chosen to get us to the airport should have been swift. The snow made it pretty slow, what with cars off on the side and all. A familiar sight for me from Illinois to Tennessee, and now Virginia. I'm beginning to wonder if I should jump a car in the ditch just to get it over with. Good thing I wasn't driving because a hypnotic call to do that very thing was teasing at my hind brain. Cabin fever, I guess.
We take a spin through downtown D.C. First time I've been there, and what sights of national historic significance did I see? A Nieman Marcus store and other upscale shopping spots. No time for dillydallying though; we've used up almost all our time budgeted for mishap on the way to the plane and we've only minutes before take off!
Three more of our slowly evolving crew are waiting for us at the Delta check in counter. Jeff Rizer, Ed Harvey, and Ed's stepson Rob. Ed and Rob are used to Merle-Smith time, a state of being that depends on the phrase "in the nick of time," but Jeff, being a relative new comer (first trip to Ireland with Ro and Gro) has a worried expression on his friendly visage. I believe Grosvenor had their tickets, along with the four of us from the van, so we were all in the same boat for lateness. Everything's cool, though. Our bags get checked with fat minutes to spare, and we dash off to the boarding area.
The plane is pretty full. People jetting off to New York for the weekend, or commuting back after a hard week's work, or trying to make a connection with one of the numerous and myriad international flights that leave from John F. Kennedy International Airport. We're in the latter group, scattered about the plane, but excited about taking off to meet the last three of our little company in New York, Eileen O'Farrell, Hugh Faust, and Dick Askins, hunting people from CA and TN. Ah, but there's a delay.
Three o'clock comes and goes. Four o'clock comes and goes. Many people deplane in a huff, preferring to take their chances in Washington than in New York. (Wish we were among 'em in the clarity and certainty of 20/20 hindsight vision.) An announcement is made that if we get going by five thirty, I think, we'll still make our connections if those connections don't leave JFK before 6:45 p.m. Our plane leaves at 7:30 so we're staying.
The crowd had thinned to a shade of its former self, and such free seating encourages conversation. We band together in a group for a confab, pass around Deer Jerky and Mentos as provided by Ed, William, and Jeff (whose recipe for Deer Jerky was killer) and proceed to get to know a bit about each other as time permits. Time permitted a lot, and one portion of our talk revolved around baggage that doesn't always end up with you at your destination. A fairly big concern for those of us depending on the specialized, and expensive, gear we call hunting kit. Ours was to be put into use almost immediately upon our arrival in Ireland, and missing a bag could cause a lot of disruption. To me, especially, as I had chosen to place all my eggs in one barrel (I can be a nut, at times.)
One of the warning signs for potential baggage misrouting is a change in an outgoing flight. Seems the baggage system has a problem recognizing that you are on a different plane with a different flight number. And a big indicator is if you see your bags waiting by the side of the plane as you pull away from the terminal for take off. As we are sitting on our Delta shuttle, minding our own business, I happen to glance out the window and see ground crew unloading bags. Lots of people had deplaned, and they wanted their luggage, naturally. I must have been delusional to think the baggage handlers could tell whose grip was whose in the hold of the airplane, but for some reason I held on to that belief right up until the time I watched my bag deplane without me. Bad luck is compounding.
I make a comment and the rest of us watch our bags go off on their own as well, and we two Jeff's march up to the front of the aircraft to make sure someone knows mistakes were made. Didn't mean we'd see our stuff before the middle of next week, but at least we would have tried. A large man on a radio, official looking, is talking to someone else with a hand set, and trying to put that someone right. We heard the words international passengers (and there was one Greek family that had refrigerator boxes of stuff in transit on our flight), mistake, and re-load in the same sentence, so our message was heard. A half sigh escapes our lips.
We sit around some more, Ed deplanes to get food (the jerky didn't fill him up, I guess,) and William and he scarf a sub while Rob steps out to get a nicotine fix. The future is looking dim. But wait, the intercom crackles and a pleasant voice (they're all pleasant, aren't they?) says get your stuff together, we're taking off! Just as soon as we get the bags on, passengers sorted, and wings de-iced. We start calculating.
We watch our bags rejoin us, passengers file back in, and the plane doors are shut. Now we wait for the de-icing crew. Never been in a plane that needed such treatment before, and I was kind of intrigued with that process. It was very much like being in an automatic carwash, only this was a giant, big plane. This yellow junk gets shot out at the lane, windows covered in some soapy, crusty, slurpy kind of stuff, and magically the leading edges of the flight control surfaces are free of lift-destroying ice irregularities. Pretty cool if it wasn't for the fact that this process is slowly eroding our chance to connect with an Aer Lingus plane bound for Shannon and our fix of Irish countryside. Learning patience was the lesson for that day, and the lesson was not over.
Motion is felt. Means we're blowing this pop stand and on our way to the next stage of our journey. We've been sitting on the plane at the terminal for three hours, long enough to have flown to NY, back, and on to NY again. Finally! We're sitting back to enjoy the ride when I feel a hand tapping my shoulder. William, sitting directly behind me has noticed that the starboard engine seems a bit funny. I look over my shoulder and notice a lack of movement in the fan blades. They stayed unmoving throughout the flight, and our plane ride from Washington D.C. was made with only one working motor. How pleasant.
All right, we're on the ground, which was a relief. Fog off the ocean had created a nifty little landing situation where the pilot could only see ground the last ten seconds or so of the approach. That pilot was a champ, and I'd fly with him again. I did see a rabbit break covert in the middle of the airfield as we were taxiing to our gate, taking that for a positive omen (grasping at straws, here).
On our way to the gate, we could see planes warehoused everywhere, waiting for clearance to leave. No one was moving. We passed the Aer Lingus terminal complete with two Aerbus jets still attached to gangways, indicating we had an excellent, if hurried, chance to make our connector. I also was treated to a look at the worlds largest snow plow, snow in NY being the culprit that kept us on the ground in D.C. The blade of the plow was easily thirty yards wide.
Now, the fun starts. Rush off the Delta plane to get to the Aer Lingus terminal. Have to wait for a bus because it's cold as hell and there is no real good way to get there on foot. Where's the bus stop? Ask three or four people, getting several answers and no real help. Jeff Rizer, the pit bull, flags down a Ramada hotel shuttle, slips him a twenty, and off we go to the Aer Lingus terminal. The Delta and Aer Lingus terminals are physically next to each other, you can see where you want to go, but not attached. You need a bus, and traffic patterns send you around the whole damn airport like some lunatic sight seeing tour. Patience, please, patience.
We're at the Aer Lingus departures entrance... and it's closed. A room that should have had a load of people is near empty and the deck is being swabbed by a janitor. A sinking feeling sets in. We talk our way in and find out that our plane left the terminal on time. How in the hell could it have left on time when we saw rows of planes sitting on the jetway, begging to be let out of here? "Gone", the crabby Aer Lingus rep says, "come back tomorrow." And what will we do until tomorrow? "That's between you and Delta, you need to go talk to them, goodnight." These two airlines are international partners, for Pete's sake, any chance of cooperation between them. Apparently not.
We make our way back to the Delta terminal, in a dejected daze, and attempt to reason with the unreasonable. Our man, Jeff Rizer, has a real talent for raising a ruckus, and he volunteers for point duty in this our hour of need. We burn through countless Delta agents and managers, waste hours of time arguing with penny pinchers over hotel room availability, narrowly avoid spending the night in an airport lounge, and finally get a promise of reimbursement for lodging at some motor inn on Long Island, cafare to be picked up by Delta. That process sucked, we're indebted to Jeff for his tenacity, and the night was not over yet.
We need two cabs to get to the Diplomat Motor Inn, and two were hailed for us by the shady looking cab director, or whatever his "official" title was, outside the Delta terminal. Neither spoke English well, surprise, and neither knew where this place was. They barely knew where Long Island was. Our cabby was asking everyone for directions, including us, and we spent twenty minutes traveling the same stretch of road three times before we made it to this "hotel." Ever been in a sixty-dollar cab ride? We were. The other cab had made it in forty-five dollars and fifteen less minutes. What a night, but not done yet.
The Diplomat is one of those places where the desk staff is protected by bulletproof Plexiglas. How's that for ambiance? We step up to the partition, a skin flick is on the tube behind us cleverly placed for the amusement of the night clerks, and rooms are grudgingly dispensed. Our airline vouchers are laughed at, but at least we will have a bed for the night as opposed to a lounge chair with forty strangers. The fight with Delta can take place tomorrow. It's Midnight-thirty, TGIFridays next door closes at One, and we need food and the calming effects that a good stiff drink can provide.
We join our comrades, order up burgers and beverages, and revel in just sitting down quietly. Drinks arrive, and for those who ordered whisky, it came in a schooner-sized goblet. The first truly nice thing that had happened all day. I made the mistake of professing my extreme distaste for the birthday routines at places such as Fridays (the clapping, attention, and bad sorority drinking song rip-offs touch a sore spot) so of course Grosvenor tells our server that it's my b-day. This gal put up with a group of grumpy and tired travelers, plus she had just had her tongue pierced that morning, so she deserved some slack cut. But, when the crew came out in their chant I was obligated to break for the door. She felt bad and I didn't make a big deal of it, cutting as much slack as possible, but that signaled the end of the day. Back we trudged to the Diplomat for some shut eye.
We weren't in Ireland. We were mere minutes from boarding our plane, but the weather, JFK personnel, and the designer of that most confusing of airports had all conspired against us that day. We really were so close, and that rat's nest of an airport really worked hard to jump on my last, good nerve. But Ireland still awaited. We had confidence that a plane would take us there eventually, the price of our penance being the trading of a day in Ireland for a day in New York. The price will be paid.
I awaken to the sound of a steady stream of water hitting carpeting from a height of three feet, or less.
Quick as lightning I go into a personal inventory check list. How close to the edge of my bed am I, and how much did I have to drink last night? Middle of the bed and two Black and Tans (the kind with the laser distinct line between Bass and Guinness). It's not me! Thank God!
I'm in the hotel with this particular roommate for the first time (maybe of the first water!?!) and the sound, to my more finely focused hearing, is from his side of the room. Cast my mind back. How much hooch had HE had to drink? Didn't finish his schooner of whisky and didn't stumble to bed. Is there an incontinence problem manifesting, and will said problem be with us all week? Holy crap! Do I just lie here and pretend it isn't happening, sparing us both an embarrassing morning greeting, or do I pipe up and nip this in the bud. I'm more likely to commit an error of omission than commission, so I wait.
Ten minutes later the same dreadful sound invades our room. No way anybody's bladder has that kind of recovery time, and I bestir myself to address the situation out loud. "What the heck is happening over there?" I mention. Reply, "I was about to ask the same of you." My chambermate (not chamber pot), Jeff Rizer, had had the exact same thoughts flashing across his mind as the unfortunately timed water spout was "leaking" into our room. Turns out this hotel is fancy enough to have a roof leak that woke both of us at the same time and cast aspersions on both our characters. What a way to start our day in the Big Apple.
The weather and the airline have kindly given us a day to play in New York, what joy, so what will we do today to take our minds off the fact that we must wait until 7:30 p.m. to catch the next Aer Lingus flight to Ireland? (To those who live in New York, and more to the point, in New York City, I apologize for my attitude. My Chicago bias was reinforced by the hideous encounter with JFK and the frustration of NOT being in Ireland. I'm sure the place is nice.)
Ed Harvey had given us a blow by blow of his two-year battle with Tiffany's over some earrings for his wife that the famous jewelry purveyor was jerking him around on, and his aim was to take the fight to their home ground. Along the way, he'd show William, the teen representative in the group, Times Square and the Empire State Bldg. Good tourist fare, and perhaps a bit of fun. Rob went along to stimulate his senses.
My roomie and I, along with the Merle-Smiths, decided Delta owed us some more, and decided to take them up on their offer of free use of the VIP lounge. Open bar, to those of you not hip to the ways of the VIP traveler.
We do a bit of business with Delta beforehand, camping out at the supervisor office just off the bank of ticketing stations, saying hello to old friends from the night before, and trying to get cash compensation for cab rides and room rates. Surprise, surprise, they'd given all their cash away! None in the till, try us on your way back through, if you'd be so good. We will be so good, which way to the VIP lounge?
Our man Jeff, the airport liaison specialist, explains in no uncertain terms our situation and the guardians of the Delta Hot Shot Lounge swing wide the gates, figuring peace at the price of a few drinks a fair bargain. Football games are playing, and these beautiful banks of semi-private phone booths allow communication with our "people." We determine that Hugh Faust and Eileen O'Farrell are safely in Ireland and out chasing after Co. Tipperary hounds in a rental vehicle. But, weren't there three people in this scaled down entourage? No, one man, one woman, no pets. Where, oh where has Dick Askins gone?
We all had assumed that Dick had come with Hugh, and that the two had stayed at the Faust's New York apartment, as likely jumping off point as Eileen May's place in Queens. Nope, didn't happen that way. So, if you want to find out anything in the Askins household, you call their house. I'd watched both Dick and his wife, Lugene, call home often enough at the Institute Farm of the National Beagle Club in Aldie, VA for that to be a knee jerk reaction.
I call Tennessee, engaging in a pleasant conversation with Lugene, talking hounds and her husband's whereabouts, and am told Dick spent the night in Charlotte, NC. I think. The weather had prevented him from making it to NY, and we should expect him in the airport in the afternoon. His own battle with airlines and their overnight accommodation policies having gone much more smoothly for him than us. I know he'll check in with Lugene when he gets to JFK, so I leave word that free drinks are being passed out in the Delta Lounge, some with his name on them. We leave a pass for him at the entrance to the lounge, and sure enough, he appeared.
Our afternoon was then spent with playoff football and Bloody Mary's, while Ed, William, and Rob had made good on their threats to chastise Tiffany and Co. and climb the Empire State Bldg. We all meet up in the Aer Lingus terminal, snacking on Guinness and pizza (Guinness being a sort of unifying theme and general panacea), and await our departure. The plane is boarded without mishap, weather delay, technical difficulty, terrorist attack, air sickness, or earthquake and we take off. As I write this, imagine I'm doing so in a whisper. I don't want the fates to know that we made it out of NY.
The plane ride was uneventful. All engines worked the whole time, the food was average but edible, and some got sleep. Others, myself included, did not, but so what? This plane would land in Ireland, not New York, or Manitoba, or India. A short car ride and a horse waited on the other side of the flight.
We land in Shannon and enter our prayers that our luggage had made the trip with us. Those coming from Washington D.C. had had our bags checked through to Shannon, so we did not recover them during our forced layover at JFK. As you know, the longer a bag sits around in the nether regions of the baggage realm, the more likely it is for said bags to grow legs and wander to strange and out of the way places, like Dubuque, Iowa.
We gather around the baggage carousel's with a host of fellow travelers, straining to catch a glimpse of our gear. A cry goes up as a garment bag is identified, captured, and recovered. The chances for the rest of our stuff surfacing rise exponentially. Another bag is found, and another, until the entire contingent is weighed down with the correct and appropriate amount of stuff (damn, did I really need all this!) and off we head to the rental car kiosk.
Cars are arranged, including a vehicle with automatic rather than standard transmission for those less-skilled unfortunates. (Oh, that one was for me.) We step outside to our first breath of free flowing Irish atmosphere… and a distinct nip in the air. Everything is covered with frost, and though the Sun isn't up yet, that is not a sign that bodes well for the smelling of foxes for the coming day.
The eight of us sort ourselves into three automobiles and caravan over to Inch House, the Merle-Smith home away from home, and our base of operations for the coming week. I surprise myself by keeping my station in line behind the wheel, avoiding major damage to life, limb, and fender, and learning the tricks of a rental vehicle all at the same time.
The car ride was over in far too short a time, the scenery being the kind that invites contemplation on the habits of the people who live behind the fences and hedges. We pile out of our rides at Inch House to be greeted by the enormous grin of Hugh Faust and the demure smile of Eileen O'Farrell. We're indeed all together, now.
We exchange stories in that sort of talking at the same time and interrupting one another and barely getting the gist of each other's conversational style. It's learned that hunting the day before was a bust, and we didn't miss anything important, so those of us stuck in America felt a bit better (and a couple hundred pounds ahead.) Breakfast is served and consumed, hunting clothes unpacked, shaken out, pronounced fit for service, and donned. We're to meet the Golden Vale at Killea, down the road from Fairy Hill which was the sight of the "session" from November (keyword, poteen), and boy are we ready.
If you've heard it once, you've heard it a hundred times. Ireland and hunting this season means mud and wet. The draws for the day are uphill, away from the lowlands and the streams they harbor. Horizontal is not to be part of our vocabulary that day as the hills are to be our playground.
Our horses come from known and trusted sources. I've got my pal Archie, again, whose nickname I learn is "The Thug" as he is king of the herd back home and not shy about browbeating lesser beings. It's nice to get on a horse you know, quirks and all, and not be worried about how he will react to crazy horses acting up alongside, or what maneuver he'll try at a ditch, fence, drain, bank, wire, or gate.
The first draw is pretty much straight up a thousand feet (I'm totally guessing) from the meet, and some in the group were a bit disenchanted with their horse flesh. Eileen had to cut a switch to "coax" her horse to move off up hill, and the field strung itself out a bit along the way to the first covert. Now, the hunting since November had been spotty at best, with a lot of cancellations, and instead of bouncing with energy, some horses were a bit out of shape. My bud, Archie, was huffing a bit as we neared the top, something I hadn't really expected, but as he was a pal, I let him pick his own pace until hounds started running. He picked the pace all day.
Earlier I remarked on the frost at Shannon, and that meteorological condition did have a bearing on our day in Killea. The roads and tracks we followed along behind hounds were, for the most part, covered in ice. Glare ice. And no one we were riding had anything like borium or studs on their shoes. I'd say a good two hours out of the four or so that we were riding was spent in the imminent apprehension that a patch of ice would claim a victim. But do you know, not one horse hit the deck from slipping on ice. At least, I never heard of such an incident.
We really didn't have too many typical Irish obstacles to negotiate that day. A few drains, but no banks, walls, wire, what have you, until the very end. There was one field high up on the mountain that was unique in my experience. The territory we were drawing that day was heavy in forestry. Plantations of pine trees that, as far as anyone knew, had very little commercial value, but did a bang up job of creating runoff to clog streams and rivers, adding to the "wet" hunting conditions. We emerged from one clump of pine trees into an open field of cut over pine, pine trees that had been harvested and replanted with saplings, making our way across this "open" ground to another line of pine. A few strides into this field it becomes apparent that either you or your horse had better pay attention to where he puts his feet or you're going to fall flat on your nose pretty quick. This field had a series of horse belly deep trenches cut along its entire length, the slot just about hoof wide, and spaced mechanically at five or so foot intervals. I spent the entire time in that field goosing Archie with my spurs so that he would pick up his feet. No way was I going to let him snap a leg.
The other side of the field in question, and the woods out the other side, produced a long check on a logging road, we field members lining the track and trying to steer a fox in a desired direction. I don't think this tactic works too well, but what are you going to do? We sit around, waiting for hounds to find, drinking Warre's Warrior Port from my brand new saddle flask, and taking stock of our situation. Seems Ed had had a close encounter with a tree of the branchy kind and lost his glasses. Pat Lyons, a jt-Master and general nice guy, snatched Ed's frames and one lens from the offending conifer, but the missing eye glass had decided to become one with the Irish countryside. Very existential for the lens, very myopic for Ed. He spent the rest of the day out of focus.
Hounds work and they work, we ride and we ride, the Sun climbs and then falls, threatening to set on a pretty blank day. The ice that had thawed while the Sun was just past zenith remembered that cold allowed it to be mischievous again, and it decided to refreeze, becoming all nice and slippery. The combination of falling temps, crappy footing, and lack of visibility prompted about half our contingent to duck and run for the horse boxes. As we passed a log barrier off the road back to Killea, I watched several lads jumping it. I thought they were schooling, as often happens in an Irish hunt field when hounds aren't running, a notion reinforced by the sight of most of these character's horses refusing. I thought nothing more of it and followed Grosvenor back to Killea. A noteworthy event as it goes pretty much against the grain to come back before hounds.
Feet so frozen they have lost feeling. Face so numb speech is possible but without my usual dulcet and lilting quality. Bladder so full I was in mortal danger of rupturing and incurring some form of sepsis. (Note to self: find a bigger group than just Grosvenor and myself to kill off the contents of saddle flask on the way home.) We slip off horses, running up stirrups and loosening girths in an attempt to contribute at least minutely to the care and grooming of our steeds before we hand them off to their real caretakers and slink off sheepishly to the pub and a badly needed date with the head.
The second thing we've come over here for is about to begin. Drinking Guinness, hot port or whisky at preference, and various other libations in company after hunting all afternoon is an experience best repeated as often as possible. I think you can guess my first choice. Thinking about it even now has my mouth salivating. Must have spent time with Pavlov in my youth.
Quite a crew has gathered already, and hounds not in yet. The place was average by pub standards, but we were going to pack the joint. Plus, music was advertised for later in the evening. And then the hounds came back.
In the falling dark and freezing conditions, hounds finally got a fox to shift and tore away for a twenty minute burner that sent our more hardy (I'll admit it) comrades back to us with facesplitting grins and tales of bravery and daring-do. The jump that I thought was a schooling exercise turned out to be the portal to the one and only run of the day. At the end, Rob found himself riding right behind the huntsman, that close to hounds. Jeff, the rank rookie, negotiated killer drains and other notable obstacles with skill and aplomb, touching Mother Earth only after his horse miscalculated a drain and fell over on its side. Those who had left the field early absorbed these tales with charm and grace, all the while cursing under our breath at missing the fun. Oh, well.
Taps flowed, tales were spun, old friends reacquainted and new ones made. The band showed up, an older gentleman with a turntable and an electric piano. Dancing in too small an area commenced with yours truly dragged onto the dance floor and deliberately making a hash of it to stave off any more such attempts at foolishness. It was difficult to leave that party, but if dinner was to be had, it were better we left to chase it down early rather than late as food is not served as conveniently there as here.
Having taken our leave, we dash off to the old standby of the Chinese restaurant in Thurles, practically the only thing open at ten at night on Sunday. I'm not sure the people in that place would recognize Rosie or Grosvenor if they didn't show up in soiled and stained hunting clothes and filthy rubber boots. Which is good, because time for a change of clothes was nowhere to be found.
We're tired, but glowing. It's cold outside, but we've warm beds to go to (for some, a bit too warm, but that's for later). And finally, finally, we're all in our places with bright shining faces. The next day has us splitting forces to hunt variously with Duhallow and Co. Tipperary. I may have to wear shades to bed as the future is looking too bright. And I say yet again, will I never learn?
Monday the Eleventh sees me up before the Sun. Just in time to take a lukewarm shower. Since we had last been to the lovely and gracious Inch House, the proprietors, Nora and John Egan, had found a plumber to install a pressure pump to get hot water to all the rooms before it lost its kinetic heat energy and arrived cold to the unsuspecting hydrous user. The Egans had gone round and round with this infernal system, spending thousands of pounds to get it fixed, and yet, here we were in the same boat. Oh, well, at least I don't feel slimy.
The room is a bit on the chilly side, though. The central heating in this particular structure was of the boiler and radiator variety, on a sleep timer for conservation, and every day the juices in the old place got themselves flowing about half an hour after I felt the need to be up and stirring. Plus, as if that wasn't enough (and don't you think it ought to be?), the bathroom window facing West (from whence all weather comes) has been painted open. A right brisk breeze is blowing through each and every morning.
My roomie comes to after I finish in the commode and is looking flushed. Despite the scaled back room temperature at night and the dip below freezing for outside temps, the blankets and comforters provided have just about cooked my partner, Jeff Rizer. I had no such problems sleeping next to a drafty window, and my night was spent in peaceful slumber ( a marked contrast to the nights from November, if you remember those ordeals.) Feast or famine, I guess.
The meet for those going out with the Tipps is rather local, and at Noon, perhaps, or thereabouts. Our Duhallow meet is for the same time, but a bit further away, so we've got to hustle to be on time. But wait, what is wrong with the scenery outside? Remember, I'd gotten up before the chickens, so the outside world was a blank mystery. But now, in what passed for light, there seems to be snow and hoarfrost all over everything. Add in a healthy dash of fog and warning bells start to sound. The Merle-Smith expeditions are notorious for having some form of intervention, natural or otherwise, prevent them and their guests from chasing Duhallow foxes. Has the curse found a new form of expression?
Breakfast is hot, large, and full of protein in the form of eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, sausage, bacon, black and/or white pudding, toast, cereal, fresh fruit, tea or coffee. You don't starve over there. As we sit down to build up our reserves for the coming ?hunting? day, a phone rings. A phone call, unsolicited, at breakfast time usually means bad, or at least plan-altering, news. And so it is today. The good and gracious folks at Duhallow have called the meet on account of ice, frost, and fog. No joy in Mudville, Mighty Casey has struck out.
Well, tough luck for we Duhallowers, but the Tipps are to meet in their coolest bank country, a portion of which territory sees an annual bank race of titanic, possibly biblical proportions. Ballydine. You lucky so and so's, you get to hunt while we get to sit, and ... I guess sit. But wait, the phone, that miracle of modern invention and black hearted spawn of the devil (take your pick) has rung again with fateful overtones. Due to ice, frost, and fog the Co. Tipperary hounds will meet at a time later in the day, but hunting will be on foot rather than mounted, if that. Blast, will the weather never give us a break? We've heard from Old Man Winter and Mother Nature, does Jack Frost have to strut his stuff and show us all he is perfectly capable of stopping hunting as well?
Okay, you get dealt lemons, you go ahead and stir them into your hot whiskeys. Alternate plans are made. Tack shops are on some itineraries, better go now while time permits. What is a visit to Ireland without calling on Michael Frazier in Hospital and adding to your stock of hunting attire? His place is added to a few lists. We came here to hunt, Tipps are hunting, so let’s go see what we can do on foot and from cars. And, this being Monday, is music night at the pub (whose name eludes) in Limerick. Let’s meet for dinner in Limerick Town and then wander over for a tune or two after the evening meal.
We've four cars, and it seems three parties to travel in four different directions at different times of the day. Five of us feel like chasing foxhounds on foot, so two cars are set aside for that group. One bunch is tack store bound straight away. They get a car. And the last set has decided to take things easy this morning and will join us in Limerick for dinner and music. To the cars!
I've decided to be a chauffeur for the day (ruining my Guinness intake for the evening in the interest of safety) and invite Grosvenor to ride shotgun. I may be driving, but I damn sure want the best navigator possible. Let's fire up the automobiles. But, uh, um, where did I put the keys to the only car I feel good about driving, the snazzy blue one with no stick shift? Anybody take 'em, heh, heh?!? (Feel free to ascribe trepidation and nervousness to that last interrogatory and chortle.) I've no earthly idea where those keys have gone. As I write and thus relive those awful moments, my stomach is sinking into my shoes in remembered sympathy. Plans for getting new keys are bandied about as I look through every piece of luggage and under every piece of furniture in our bedroom, the car itself, and any other place I can think of. No fuzzy dice (translation: no luck).
I'm wearing a Mark Phillips style Barbour and patting my pockets like I'm on fire, and digging through my shirt and pants pockets like I've got red ants tasting my tender flesh. Zip, and the look of disappointment is seen on several countenances. We take a look back in the room, one more time, and wonder of wonders, in the wardrobe the wayward keys turn up! They had been protectively nestled in one of the seven pockets in my Barbour coat, which coat I had doffed to facilitate searching. Found in the cozy moleskin lined handwarmer pocket on the off side, they had eluded my every fumbling pass over and into that silly nook. My face was flushed and hot to the touch, and embarrassment was writ large across my forehead, but at least we were totally mobile. If you can believe it, those keys were never lost again.
Our group splits up into smaller component parts and scatters to the four corners. We hunters head off for the pub that will see the launch of the Tipps on foot, ready to give our best in pedestrian efforts. Driving to the meet was a bit unreal, as every tree, limb, branch, needle, blade, post, and wire strand was picked out in silvery white frost crystals. This effect was with us all day long as the fog hid the Sun from ground level. I can't say it was dark, because what light got through the fog was refracted ad infinitum, but visibility was down to not very much. I felt like I was wrapped in shining cotton.
At the pub, we were met with a distinct lack of hunting type personages. Our first clue that we were early was a lack of a hound truck. So much the better, we'll nip in for a drink and await their arrival. A few local lads and gaffers are there ahead of us, and conversation starts up. Anybody seen hounds? No, they aren't coming today. Figures! (They did go out that day, but someplace else and didn't let us in on the fun, again, figures!) So, we order another round and talk farming in Ireland. One fellow in particular gave us a farmer's perspective on the wet weather and its effects on hunting and farm prices. The late morning and early afternoon was not entirely wasted.
Unbelievably, our stomachs make some rumblings, so it's into town, Tipperary I think, (most places we went didn't register too well, each being as cool, and similar, as the last), for food. We duck into a pub for lunch, order up huge plates of grub (except for me as I had a grilled cheese sandwich, knowing dinner was going to be large, too), and thereafter split up our party further. Several headed off to tack stores (and obscurity) while Grosvenor and I made for Hospital and the tailor.
My driving session going well, we detour to pick up a CD full of music done by a local artist that Grosvenor had previously encountered in Bansha while living in Ireland lo these many years ago. Twists, turns, lanes, and oncoming traffic is successfully negotiated, leading us to Michael's shop in Hospital. Same place as ever. Looks like a fabric bomb went off in the store, and I view a couple of familiar articles of clothing hanging about. A vest and a frock coat belonging to Rosie have made it to the top of various heaps, one looking repaired, the other not so much.
An hour or so is spent figuring out what we want, keeping Michael from fixing up Co. Limerick People's ball clothes. And then out we saunter into the lowering gloom, on our way to Limerick Town and more food and drink. A slight drizzle is falling, presenting the possibility of glare ice forming anywhere and at any time. A local veterinarian who had neglected to fasten his seat belt had been killed the night before in similar conditions, so said Michael, so I was on extra alert. Mangled in a car is not how I want to end the evening.
We catch up to Rosie, William, and Eileen in a neat little pub decorated in a legal motif. I'm feeling at home and some of the less scrupulous are feeling a bit uncomfortable. (In the last week an Illinois Supreme Court Justice has sworn me in, enough of a clue?) We toss back a few, waiting for the rest of the crowd to gather back from the four corners. Ed and Rob shortly appear, fresh from an afternoon of reading, tea, and above all, napping. Now why didn't I think of that? No sign of our erstwhile foot hunting partners, the ones who had gone back for tack supplies, but they can find us. Let's to dinner.
Food in the next-door eatery is fine, indeed. I believe I had some Irish lamb stew. Wonder where that dish originated? Our company was fine, the food was fine, the wine selected by William was fine (though not what he ordered) and dessert was fine. Not one morsel of food that passed my lips both trips was less than yummy. Says a lot. We're still down three for dinner, and after entrees had been served, we gave them up for lost, hoping they'd find their way back to Inch in one piece.
With the bill paid, next stop music. As this was a bit of a spur of the moment detour from our insane hunting schedule (which was every day for some of us) we hadn't checked to see if Rosie and Grosvenor's musical pal Mickey was playing that night. He wasn't, and as we walked into the pub we were greeted by many more people than had been there the time before. As a consequence, one had to really work at worming one’s way close to the musicians in the corner, next to the large, burly, thoroughly soused and yet strangely homey and appreciative chap by the fire. Eileen and Grosvenor made such an attempt, while most of the rest hung out away from the action.
Rob and William had fun, as did Grosvenor and Eileen, but Ed, Rosie, and I sort of chatted amongst ourselves about things at home, and I for one didn't get quite into the spirit of the evening. Possibly because I had confined myself to Coca Cola, or possibly because Mickey's spark was missing from the impromptu combo strumming tunes, or maybe because the crowd was less into the music. I don't know, but closing time sent us out into the wet streets and thence back home to Inch House and I was ready.
Our missing comrades were back at the Egan's before us having skipped the long drive and music for a second go at Chinese food and an early bedtime. No mishaps, and a fine time for all, for the most part. We're all hoping that the rain quits or slackens, and that temperatures rise so that a repeat of today's weather picture does not happen. But I've learned. Don't count your chickens before they hatch, and place optimism on a shelf. Tempt not fate lest such temptation come back and bite you on the butt. We're all booked in to Ormonds tomorrow. Let's just be patient and see what the next day brings.
As I sit here in unseasonably warm Illinois weather in February, overcast and rain threatening in sixty degrees of warmth, I'm reminded of stumbling into the bathroom in our corner room of Inch House and feeling a chill breeze emanate from the window on the morning of January 12th. Rain is lashing the panes and casement and I have to just grit my teeth and carry on rather than give in to temptation and crawl back into bed, pulling the covers over my head.
The shower is again messed up, but we're getting closer to a solution. At breakfast, notes are compared, and it's determined that you can either have frigidly cold water or scalding hot water, but the twain shall not mix during peak usage times (such as when the laundry, boiler, kitchen, and each guest room is placing a demand call at the same time every morning.) The plumbing sleuths are hot on the case, and every confidence is placed in their abilities.
By the time breakfast ist forbei (translation from German: finished), the Sun has chased the gloom and doom away and is actually shining brightly, terribly welcome to our light-starved body clocks. Whoever invented the circadian rhythm should take the invention back as inconvenient to travelers abroad. No phone calls disturb our repast, so it looks like hunting this morning. Could this be the day that everything works smoothly? If hope springs eternal, someone should cap the well off in my case. But read on, fair people, and learn of today's challenge!
I jump back upstairs to finish preparing for the day ahead. My coat was brushed off after Sunday’s ride in anticipation of the Duhallow meet that never was, so I've plenty of time to take stock and effect proper turnout. Heck, I even have time to help my roommate plumb the depths and explore the mysteries of knotting his hunting tie correctly. I put my eyes in (contacts) as I've found that hunting without eyeglasses is my preferred method here in Ireland. I normally wear glasses in the huntfield for protection and clarity of vision, worried more about dust and tree branches here in Illinois, but those protective qualities are traded in for the freedom from wiping mud and rain from spectacles at speed from the back of a horse. Glasses are exchanged for contacts after stepping into the pub after a meet. After the loo, but before the Guinness, to place it in order of importance.
Having taken a brief step outside, it seemed warmer today, so the long underwear top that was too much insulation on Sunday is stripped off as unnecessary. The difference between comfort and too hot or too cold boiled down to the addition or subtraction of that one single garment. I got it right about a third of the time.
We placed ourselves into vehicles, needing only three as we were all making for the same destinations before and after hunting, and I took the chance to let someone else drive. The Sun holds with us the entire ride to Ormond and then on to the little pub in a nearby crossroads village, a few clouds floating along overhead complimenting the tableau. Could be we avoid foul weather all day.
Our arrival is somewhat premature, no one else is about, so into the pub we go for a hot whisky. Never quite sure you're at the right place until local horse boxes show up. A few phone calls are made to people who are likely in the know, and our fears are allayed. We're in the right spot. Just sit tight, drink up, and horses and hounds will be along directly.
Friendly and familiar faces start filtering into the common room. A couple of gentlemen in red coats step inside, Ormond Masters, and acquaintanceships are started or renewed. Another round is served out for the new comers, drunk, and then the facilities are visited one last time before we all spill back out into the fresh air. Our horses are being unshipped and presented for riding.
Here is the start of a long day for me, though I didn't know it at the time. Horse flesh from a couple of different jobbers is on hand, and I end up being passed a tall, beautiful grey from the hireling man who hired us horses last November our first time out with East Galway. A warning should have sounded but didn't.
I jump into the saddle and start fiddling with stirrup leathers. They never seem to come in the right length, nor do they usually start even side to side. Everyone is mounted and milling around, waiting for hounds to appear, and I'm getting compliments on my horse's looks, which I find out a bit later is a mare. Another bell should have clanged. I started to feel proud of my steed even though I had nothing whatsoever to do with its upbringing. I couldn't even gloat about my excellent powers of choice, though I did a bit, because the horse was handed to me without comment. Pride goeth before a fall. Keep that in mind.
Caps are exchanged for riding privileges, and we move off down the road to find a fox. High spirits are in evidence, and some horses are feeling their oats. Mine is trotting along sedately like she knows her job. Cool, I won't have to work quite so hard today (more the fool I). I'm still getting compliments as we ride down the paved roadway, Dick Askins going so far as to call my horse the pick of the day. I'm wondering how my hunt cap fit my swelling head after such a barrage.
Hounds turn off into a pasture and are cast, and we, the Field, are told to line up along the road and encourage the fox to run East rather than West. Or was it South rather than North? I didn't have a compass. This exercise works about as well as all the other times I participated in it, which was not very well, and we sidle up the road and into the pasture to see what hounds are doing. We see a fox, hounds pick up his trail, and chase him in fits and starts in the gorse verge in this pasture land.
We move back out to line up along the road, not affecting anything one way or another, so it's back into the field to join those that hadn't bothered to shift. My mare takes that opportunity to demonstrate her herd bound tendencies, running to join the group, and emphasizing her displeasure with a buck and a crow hop. Where the hell did that come from? Well, I'm still in the saddle and draw a compliment from William for my efforts, so no problem, I guess. His was pulling the same capers.
The fox finally breaks out and heads in a direction we can't hunt. So, off we go to another covert down the road. Smiles are evident, and though I'm beginning, just beginning mind you, to doubt I've got the pick of the day, it's no strain. Let's find another red fuzzy to follow.
We're in hedge and stone wall territory today. Some of the walls had deteriorated into long, low mounds of stone rubble, overgrown with scrub trees and bushes and peppered with strands of wire. A jumping horse is needed today, rather than a bank and drain equine, and everyone looks mounted on fairly scopey jumpers. Jeff Rizer had drawn the horse that Rosie rode our first East Galway day in November, and you may want to relocate her description of that animal from the first round of tales. When she was on it in November, the horse was an unclipped plug that was green as grass and terrible at a drain. This being Jeff's second hunt in Ireland, I was feeling a bit badly for him and his prospects for a good day. I shouldn't have wasted the effort. He loved the horse, putting it at all manner of obstacles and sailing over them. He made a serious attempt to buy that horse, that's how much he liked it. Different days in different country bring out the best or worst in an animal.
After casting around for a few minutes and drawing several more or less interrelated coverts, a fox is finally rousted out and a chase ensues. We bound over low walls, and scramble through the rubble mounds, keeping up with hounds fairly well as this fox is not in a particular hurry. My horse has a tendency to pick some funky spots to get through the rubble and is starting to be impatient, scrambling through to the other side on top of the horse in front. That's a no-no, so we have some frank discussions about crawling up the backs of other horses (though I don't think Frank's name ever really came up.)
The fox takes us down to a wide bend in some river's course and scoots into a pile of wood. We the field wait uphill from the copse holding the pile and get a really good look at Charlie make a break for it out the other side, away from hounds. Tally-ho's are sung and the hounds quickly swing around and pick up the line. Away we go again.
Muck is flying in the air from the zealous hooves of charging hunters. Half an eye is needed for the zooming mud bombs lest one catch you full in the kisser. Another half an eye is needed to spy out your horse’s route lest you get maneuvered into a bad track that leads to hock-deep sludge and impedes forward motion. Yet another half eye must be kept for upcoming fences, another for the hounds, and yet another for the fox. Wait, how many eyes does that leave me? Well, you get the picture, and have probably been in that same predicament yourselves. So much information to gather all at once! Really clears out the neural pathways.
Charlie doubles back around and makes for a different stand of trees down the line from his previously not so safe brush pile. This next copse holds a proper earth, and down the hole he goes. Several characters in black coats bring up straggling hounds and we sit to wait and see what's next. Paul, an excellent horseman I'd met out with East Galway in November, is looking rather official today with the Ormonds, his home pack, and asks one of the riding lasses if she would ride back and pass the word for the terrier. I was right about Paul's being a whipper-in that day, but mistaken about his officialness. Seems none of the regular whips had shown up for hunting that day, so Paul, and others like him, had been pressed into service. Didn't seem to make a difference as far as I could tell.
As we stand around listening to hounds mark to earth, talking amongst ourselves, up comes the terrier and his keeper. A fairly youngish fellow and companion are led to the earth by this little badass, black terrier on a string. He knew what he was about and was strutting his stuff in front of the home crowd. Though he was about seven or eight pounds heavy, you could almost feel the ground shake from his passing. This man and the terrier walk up to the hole, survey the scene, and just as this little hellion is about to enter the tunnel, the fox, perhaps feeling those imaginary ground tremors, bolts. Pack goes wild!
Our fox zips to the nearby wall/hedge/boulder field iced with strung wire, leaving the little black, badass terrier with a look of astonishment on his small face. Little Blackie's still got the string on his neck, so his man didn't let him fly off, but I think the terrier was so shocked that he didn't even think to attempt to chase after. The hounds, however, had no such hang-up.
As this action unfolds in front of the field, we watch the hounds, then the huntsman, then our field masters, one after the other, follow the line of this fox. Once the fox jumped over the wall, it was difficult to know from eyesight where the line went, so the huntsman chose a likely place to jump the wall, and, unfortunately, the pack followed him instead of the fox. Those hounds were so keyed into him as top dog, that they left the line to follow in his wake as he made it over the hedgy place he had picked in the wall. They lost the line. The started so close to that fox, yet he got off free as a bird.
One Master took off uphill to sort of cut a corner and try for a glimpse of the fox, while the other Master, the one we'd been following all day, called to the field to follow. His route took him over the hedge/rubble construct with wire mixed in for good measure, the route the huntsman took, and I and my horse had a choice to make. Follow horses uphill, or keep behind the field master. I chose the latter, but my herd bound mare was all for the first choice and charging uphill. Battle ensued.
I put her at the fence, keeping her in check so that she wouldn't land on top of anyone on the other side of the greenery, and played in my mind how we were going to take this fence. My game plan didn't include taking it sideways, which was what the mare was trying to do. At the last second before the jump I yanked her head around, she got all four feet square, and I goosed her with my spurs for that added, extra energy needed to avoid the wire. That horse had a leap to her, and she sailed like a champ, but our relationship soured after that fence. She took mare-ish offense to my making her jump rather than charge up hill, and she held a grudge.
We lost that fox, and that was pretty much the end of our sport that day. We drew along back towards the meet, looking in coverts that were promising specimens, but no luck. The Masters, determined to show us visitors a good time, decide to take a line through some stiff stone wall and hedge country on the way home. We weren't on a run or anything, just "larking" in the "meadows" of the Irish countryside.
The Masters start this little jaunt off with a couple of stiff stone walls, no real problem, but high enough to make you think about 'em. Not needing to keep up with hounds, I hang back a bit to watch the fun, and that's when my mare's hidden temper breaks free. She starts rearing, and backing, and looking straight up in the air. One of Claude's classic stargazers. She and I approach the wall at a canter, she shifting from side to side and me applying leg and rein to square her up to jump. I've no idea which spot she's going to pick for her takeoff, but when she leaps I manage to figure it out and land in good shape. I think Ed Harvey was not so fortunate at either this or the next wall, and he got a really upclose and personal look at the good Irish soil of the other side. No harm done, though. Off we race to catch up.
We had another very similar stone wall for the very next jump, and the mare and I go through the same dance. Frustration elicits a string of choice expletives, pitched in volume to carry through her silly ears and into her silly brain. Hopefully, no one heard exactly what I was saying (though I think Rosie heard my descriptors), and I was pretty embarrassed, but also pretty pissed off. As I think back now, we had reached the magical two-hour mark where a green horse will have become overloaded and go bonkers. I think she was in that inexperienced category.
For the next hour I work as hard as I've ever worked to make it safely over hunt obstacles. At one point I remark that I wouldn't know we were jumping unless the mare signaled me by pointing her head straight in the air. She has taken to flinging herself at fences, relying on pure agility to make it over or across rather than picking the best spots and doing things mechanically correct.
I don't specifically remember too many of the fences we went over on the way home that day. At one point, in a sequence of hedged pastures, the Masters led the field over a series of farm gates, with marginally smaller hedge jumps to the sides. Not trusting my mare, I generally chose the hedges as less potentially destructive, jumping gates as needed. One gate was taken down before we got there, making it a broad jump rather than a high jump, and the silly mare got her hind feet caught in the rungs. No damage done, but it confirmed my theory that she didn't care to pay attention to what she was doing.
Two obstacles stand out in my memory, and I'll relate those here, if I may. The first was a rather wide and high old rubble wall. The mare was charging stuff at this point, and as one was best served by picking one’s way across the rubble, I had a time holding her back so that the horse in front could clear before we rushed through. I didn't want to be the idiot that let his horse run over someone in front. Well, this particular hedge had some old scrub trees that had matured to considerable girth. You bounced off them rather than shoved them aside. I steeled myself for a knock on the head and let her go.
It was as if I were in a bobsled shoot. I remember pulling a hard right rein to get her lined up for the correct starting point, ducking and pulling a hard left so she wouldn't smash her face into a thick-trunked tree directly in her path, and then yanking a hard right rein to squeeze between two trees to jump off the rubble, ducking to her withers with eyes closed and praying she would put her feet right. We made it into the field free and clear on the other side and I unclenched a bit in relief. At least we hadn't ridden anyone down.
The last jump of the day was a big old hedge that dropped you down on the other side into a lovely hay field. I had crept up in the standings, riding sixth or seventh behind the huntsman, having worked through a bit of my mare's temper tantrum and allowing her more freedom of movement as she demonstrated a lessened desire to run up the back of the horse in front. I think she was losing her edge to muscle fatigue.
I watch the first few take the hedge and then disappear on the other side. Bigger drop than I had at first thought, so I set myself up accordingly, sitting deeper in my seat. We approach in a more or less mannerly fashion, and leap out into thin air. She'd picked a big spot, but I was wise to her tricks and made the leap with her. If I was ready for the drop, she was not, and she stumbled big time on the other side, using her face as a balancing aid on the ground in front. I absorb this jolt, staying in the saddle, but sacrificing my right groin muscle for the privilege. Horse rights herself and leaves me hissing in pain. Down my right inner thigh and up and over to the point of my hip feels wrenched and ripped. Perfect! Fiesta!
Concern is conveyed to me once my compadres sense my problem, and though I've never had a wrench this bad, I'm pretty sure it will be fine for the next morning. Especially since I'll be riding Archie again and won't need to work so hard, he's that smooth-gaited.
I endured the short hack back to the horse boxes and the meet in mostly stoic silence, cursing my ill luck in drawing this psycho mare for a horse that day, and listening to the rest congratulate themselves on a good day. In particular Jeff Rizer, who lives for fast paced big jumping. His horse was a trooper, as I described earlier. Although I didn't physically come off my horse or "fall", my pride was pretty much picking itself up off the ground. I'd survived my encounter and learned a few things, and had actually done a creditable job, but the performance rankled.
Instead of enjoying the big jumping lark, I was forced to take each fence with a certain feeling of dread and tough determination. Insult was added to injury when I learned that a big red horse that was out that day with a gal up in a sort of groom function was none other than my old pal Billy, my super ride from November and the second East Galway day. That sucker could jump, as evidenced by the fact that the girl was hopping the farm gates with ease, and best of all, he was relatively safe. He was out as a spare horse in case anyone had trouble. No one apprised me of that fact, and I'm sure the girl heard my curses, but chose to enjoy her ride and let me do the training work. Sheesh! I probably wouldn't have switched anyway, being caught up in the challenge, but you never know.
Guinness and pressure release therapy helped my injured groin recover, and I walked with only a slight limp during the evening. We toasted each other over a fine day in the pub afterward, recounting spills, chills, and thrills. I was not the only one to have a time of it with their horse, and we commiserated in the warmth and safety of a peat fire and each other’s company. But these times are not meant to last.
We bid adieu to the Ormonds, thanking them for at least an interesting day, and make our way to the now famous Goosers for dinner. We'd lucked onto the place in November, liking it so much that we felt a return trip was definitely in order. Now, I'd been there once, could definitely recognize the place, but hadn't a clue on how to actually get there. 'S all, though, we've just to stick to the caravan and we'll be there in no time. Forgot about the rental return on the Guinness we'd imbibed.
As we're motoring to dinner, a certain bodily sensation becomes more and more pronounced. The good times and Guinness we'd enjoyed at the pub had come with a price, a price we thought we'd be able to pay at Goosers. We four in our auto were not given that much time. Compounding our misery was a terrible penchant for some in our car to talk about our sorry state of need, the fiends. Able to stand the "pressure" no longer, I direct our handy driver, Mr. Jeff Rizer the jumping fool, to pull over on the street by this city pub, dropping us out of the caravan but giving us a chance not to disgrace ourselves.
Two of us race into the building, making a beeline for the loo, and return our filtered Guinness to its native surroundings. Just in the nick of time. We two saunter back into the pub's front room, feeling "relieved" and pleased with ourselves, and using some quick thinking, ask directions to Goosers. The lads at the bar, not put off by our obvious foxhunting habits, give us excellent directions to our destination.
Our car pulls in very shortly after the others, being quick studies in the bathroom as well as chauffeured by as speedy a demon behind the wheel as on a horse. Dinner is held by candlelight on a collection of little tables by a sadly nonfunctional fireplace. Major Mark knows the corner. Fresh fish, lamb, duck, and a plethora of other dishes are brought out, preceded by a whole bucket of steamed mussels. A wonderful choice of establishments to cap off our successfully negotiated day in the field. I marvel at the diversity of people in that group who, despite lots of differences, all showed a rare competence on horseback. I was certainly in the right spot. But the winds of change were blowing.
As per usual, rain on the windowpane greets me in the morning. I've begun to start to ignore it as irrelevant. The old weather saw, "rain before seven, done by eleven," is becoming more and more true. It makes little difference what weather the dawn brings, it's that critical period around nine or half nine that makes the difference.
I had given in to pressure and good sense the night before and indulged in analgesics and muscle liniment for my sore groin. The incipient hip pointer was a faint echo of its former self, and the right groin muscle was under control, green light for riding. Our resident druggist, Ed Harvey, had come prepared with IcyHot (I think) or some such menthol rub. Let me just say it worked, but greater care than I took must be used when applying said product to such a sensitive area. It took a while to get to sleep that night waiting for the wonderful healing properties to dim down a bit and ease off on other stray parts of my anatomy in that general area. Use your imagination.
Hot water is no longer a problem. Warm and cold are mixing in infinite combinations through the miracle of modern science. A new water softener with a half-inch feeder pipe was backing up the cold flow when put up against the inch pipes throughout the rest of the house. Apparently, a three quarter inch substitute allowed enough pressure through to let all water mix on a more friendly basis. To those who are non-pipe oriented, skip around. I, on the other hand, have had firsthand experience fixing sinks, toilettes, urinals, and even water tanks, and the mysteries of plumbing hold a strange place in my heart. Didn't think a lawyer would know about plumbing, did 'ya?
Breakfast as usual. Several of the Egan children get drafted to help out in the mornings around the house. Laundry, cleaning, rooms, and food. I can't remember the kid count for John and Nora, but it's not inconsiderable, and the youngest was most frequently our server for the morning meal. My roommate, Jeff Rizer, was most taken with this little waif. She would delay getting to school until all had been fed, enjoying her job, doing it pretty well (better than her sisters), and perhaps playing a bit of legitimate hooky. She reminded Jeff of his little girl which was part of the charm.
We're to meet again with the Golden Vale today. I can't remember what time now for the life of me. Somewhere between eleven and one. Sun was up, that's pretty much all that mattered. Everyone is out today, so our horses are spread amongst three providers, and a better bunch you can't wish for. I'm in particularly good spirits as I get my old pal "the Thug" again, meaning I don't have to do too much to protect my strained thigh from the day before. Hooray for me! Whoops, was that me counting on something to make my life easier? Shouldn't have done that, now, should I?
We're being graced with the presence of Ireland's premier sporting photographer. Another name that I've heard too infrequently to have it stick in my mind. Rosie knows, and that's close enough for me. I'd met this lady in November, and I believe she made her way into the tale then through Rosie's addendum. Anyway, we want to be looking our best for the immortalizing effects of the camera.
We arrive at the meet in fine form. The always looked for pub is handy, but since my near catastrophe with the grey mare, I've decided to forego my "lucky" hot whisky during the pre-game warm-up. My bladder thanked me. Horses from all points of the compass arrive on scene, including Hilary the wonder horse. It's always a comforting sight to see that little cob and her no-nonsense, take charge attitude unbox. But, um, where are John, his horse van, his horses, and my easy chair? At one point this would have been a cause for alarm, but catching up to hounds after they move off isn't quite the bugaboo it used to be. Mellow, man, mellow.
Everyone else has a four-legged creature to carry them for the day but Eileen, Ed (I think, help me Eileen), and myself. We're waiting for John Lang and his herd to arrive. I've gotten wind of this rumor that John, who had been out with us the day before with the Ormonds, had left the horse ramp down or unlatched on his two horse trailer and smashed the thing up as he and his wife pulled away from the pub at the meet. I really don't know if that was a cause for tardiness, nor did I confirm the rumor, preferring to let John talk about it in his own good time. But late he was, and we three had zilch to ride. Mellow, you know, mellow!
So Jimmy Doyle, John's partner of sorts, and Jimmy Flynn, the third in our hireling ring, cook up a plan where we who are left will take on spare mounts and such, and those who need to switch will get caught up later. Archie will be joining me as soon as John arrives and can find the hunt. Could be a while if a run develops. And what do I get dealt in this card shuffle of horses? Jimmy Doyle’s project horse, a little paint cob mare… oh boy.
Jimmy Flynn and a visiting Ormonder, first name of John-Jo (spelling?), lead us off in the direction of the first cast. Not content to trot around roadways in his home country, Jimmy Flynn takes us crosscountry to find the hounds. Jimmy is on a beautiful big chestnut gelding who looks like a jumping bean. I'm on a smallish, close-coupled cob who came with the advice that she's a bit of a puller. Oh, crap. Groin, it was nice knowing you.
Jimmy indulged himself in a bit of larking, taking us on a line that picked up right where we left off from yesterday. Big hedges and a few drops, mucky fields and questionable footing. Ever been on a roller coaster ride that you sort of wanted to get off because you saw a few pieces of trestle falling away as you left the platform but there was no way for you to pull off such an escape maneuver? I had that feeling riding behind Jimmy. And I do mean behind. The only reason the cob and I weren't leading was I had no idea where to go. My whole universe narrowed to our small group of horses, getting into and out of hedge lined pastures, and hoping we reached the Field before my arm strength gave out.
I remember some logs in a hedge, and a plain old hedge. I remember circling my horse to get behind Jimmy, letting a few more horses get in front to knock down the plant life a bit before I got to it. I remember being left behind my horse badly as she popped over stuff we could barely see over, losing stirrups and fishing around for them while steering frantically to keep behind other horses. And then my nemesis appeared.
I was tiring a bit, not in synch with the cob, and eyeing the next hedge as Jimmy picked his spot and flew. I wasn' t up to picking a different spot so had to follow him and trust he wouldn't break his own neck with his choice. He picked a doozy. I remember remarking in my head that this was a fence that bore further discussion. This is what it looked like.
Some enterprising farmer had taken an old time farm gate, one of those angle iron jobs that were given a bit of decorative quality by the way they were put together, the precursor of today's bent tube farm gate (that our compadres were jumping with the Ormonds.) This gate was leaned into a gap, and over the years the hedge had grown in and around this piece of iron and sort of green welded it into a solid amalgamated structure to keep cows from barging through. It made for an interesting fence.
Jimmy went, so I had to, with my heart in my throat and caution flung to the wind. The mare and I went up and up, there was a bit of a wrenching transitional feeling at apogee, and down we came, me totally out of contact with horse or saddle. Mare hits turf, and I'm just hoping I can land astride. That hope was dashed as I came down beside my painted freight train. I've never done a face plant before, but I still recall the sequence of body parts hitting the turf. Knees squished first, then elbows and forearms, and then lastly face buried right into the cold mud. Son of a bitch!!
When coming off like that, the first instinct is to jump up out of the mud and try to shed as much ignominy as possible by the way you chase down your horse. The second instinct is to check body parts, a process that can take place on your sprint to catch your mount. No harm done, groin isn't even slowing me up, and the horse is thoughtfully corralled by Eileen (I think). Fortunately, the mare's small enough for me to get back on without a major production. Concerned inquiries are answered with the same response, I'm fine, let's get going. And of course, we have to jump out of this field.
The next hedge is actually even taller than the one that scraped me off, but no way am I making the same mistake again. Our previous parting of the ways may have awakened something in both me and my horse, because we sailed the next pile of sticks very well indeed. She was still pulling like a demon, though, and I was reminded of a phrase related Sunday from John the Tardy to Jeff Rizer on his first ever day in an Irish saddle.
Jeff was on a puller that day, and his horse was equipped with multicolored rubber reins. Terribly incorrect, if you score those kinds of things, but the reins did indeed have three distinctly shaded zones, a bit like the old American Basketball Association's Red, White, and Blue basketballs, the blue portion being only about a foot away from the bit and the horses mouth. John rode up to Jeff, saw Jeff had his hands well into the white section, the section right next to the horsejaw hugging blue, and asked Jeff if he knew what happened when ones hands reached the blue colored parts? Jeff, having probably never seen red, white, and blue reins (I never had), and thinking some profound training secret is about to be imparted, some bit of wisdom that will help him survive his first day in the Irish hunting world, solemnly answered back that he had no idea. John, in a pure deadpan poker face (I imagine, me having this anecdote second hand), explains in a sage way that when you have reached right up to the blue on the reins, well, it means you're "fooked."
Mr. Rizer loves that story, and he tells it better than I do. When I caught up to him, finally, he asked how I was doing and I nodded to my hands with my muddy huntcap (Oh, yes, buried the brim completely in the grime) and I told him that I was "fooked," having my grip a bare eight or so inches away from my mare's mouth. In fairness, she had a very short neck.
Our little safari catches up to the hounds just in time to be standing square astride the direction of the draw. We sit tight so as not to foil any line or anything, watching hounds work towards and then away from us. During one waiting moment I caught a whiff of fox scent, head high, with all sorts of negative connotations. We get an all-clear sign from Grosvenor and attach ourselves to the herd. Of course, that's when the famous photog unlimbers her picture maker to capture our images on film.
This part of the story has been broken into two parts, the writing of which was divided in two by sleep. Mine. I now recall the first name of our intrepid photographer as being Rachel. Anyway, we sort of gather in a horse huddle for a panorama/group shot, myself now splotched with muck in strategic spots. No help for it, I guess, and if any of these pictures turn out, I will have archival evidence of my mud wallow for all eternity, or at least until the photographs and negatives fade.
No time for a whole roll of film to be spent at this location (sigh) as hounds have investigated the nearby covert thoroughly without luck and they're off to the next venue. My arms are rested, and I'm resigned to my continued fate on the back of the cob. Oh, the other piece of advice Jimmy Doyle gave me as I was hopping up on his mare's back was she didn't like being pulled around to the right. She'll buck and carry on if I have to pull up at a jump or something and decide to go right-handed in the face of whatever it is I'm trying to avoid. This feature hadn't been explored on this horse, until now.
Not long after moving off again, Jimmy and John arrive with my remount, and I get a chance to see first hand what Jimmy meant by the right-handed drag maneuver. The pair show up just as we were slogging through a lowland piece of ground that was more sponge than firm footing. A drain with a stone causeway looms in front of us, and I have to decide where would be the best place to dismount the cob and mount up on Archie. Archie being a good bit taller than the mare, I'm looking for a hillock or at least a drier patch to facilitate the process. There's a dry looking area before the drain causeway, to the right of the hedgy causeway opening, and I try to make for it. Right, get it?
Jimmy pulls along side on Archie, the mounted field files through the causeway gap, and I start pulling on the right rein. Pulling right turned out to be wrong. I'll diffuse the situation now by saying there were no spectacular fireworks at this juncture. The mare started to get a bit antsy and jig. I was smart enough in this instance to pick my battles a bit more carefully, and without letting the horse realize she'd won one, we slip across the causeway and start looking about for another dry patch. Another relatively firm stretch is located and the switch is effected with very little fuss. I've got to mess with stirrup leathers again, but relief is writ large across my mud speckled face.
Just in time, too, as Rachel had set her camera up on this same drain line, and we had to jump back across the drain at a point further down from the causeway. Archie took it like a pro, and a photograph was made of quite a few of us jumping that ditch. That was the last series of pictures made that day.
Hounds found in this mucky lowland in some woods across from our photographed drain. Off they go, and here comes the field trying to keep up. Hard as anything to do because the woods we need to get through are dense, hock-deep, root-tangled, and bisected by a surprisingly deep streamlet. It's single file and pick your way, not the best situation for keeping up with hounds, and quickly this portion of the ride becomes an exercise in containing frustration as you wait your turn to cross the sticky parts.
The streamlet in the middle caused no end of problems. Archie being tall, I wasn't worried about getting a dunking. I actually got some of the gunk washed off my boots, but the pony brigade in the back was in sorry straits. Balky ponies were holding up the line, and the strained, anxious faces worn by some of their riders indicated a certain lack of impulsion from the kids' quarters. While we were all slogging through the muck and mire, Rachel, ex-whipper-in and wellie-clad, ghosted around us and started to lend a hand to the pony brigade.
We make it out of the muck only to charge pell mell at a bend in the river proper, stopping again to take it single file and slow. This crossing necessitated a leap out into the river and a scramble up the other side, a routine old Archie and I were used to so I was feeling good about my chances. The pony regiment was in for a wetting. Trying to catch up to hounds and not wanting to clog up the bank, I didn't hang around for the fun and games, but suffice it to say the pony contingent took a while to make that crossing. And kindhearted Rachel, in an effort to get a recalcitrant pony across the water, missed her footing and took a dunking. The last sighting related to me of Rachel was of her stiff back marching to her car, water streaming from head to toe, camera and film sopping wet. The film she'd already exposed to make pictures turned out fine, but her photojournalism for the day was over.
That whole run from a field point of view was messed up and strung out. By the time we caught up with the pack, whose voices I hadn't really heard at all, we find out the fox had been caught up top and we're on to the next draw. What the heck? Can't be helped, and I think it's time to for me to move up to the front to keep from getting stuck behind the pony troop.
I have to admit, though, that I wasn't in a very thrusting mood. The combination of mud diving and the two fractious mares in quick succession had taken the wind out of my sails. It was a bit of consolation to know that the hounds had done their job, and any time hounds perform as expected I get a lift, but even that was not enough to really break me out of a descending funk. It happens.
The rest of the day was spent looking around for another fox to run. As is becoming a familiar protocol, we headed for the high ground for our next draw. And we couldn't have found any higher. Tom O'Meara takes his hounds at this bare hillside and then strait up it, no switchbacks or anything, only to shed altitude on the other side in the same manner. I didn't ask for or receive an explanation for that tour route, but it was long, steep, and slippery. You had to take your own line and let the horse keep his own pace or over you were going to go. Rob Vogel and I found ourselves riding together off to the side but ahead of hounds. They weren't drawing, only hacking, and I felt a bit of unease at our position, but I was not about to break impulsion for want of stalling out on that steep grade.
When we hit the top, Rob and I pulled up to let hounds and staff play through. The rest of the field fell in with Rob and me, and the next charming characteristic of that hillside manifested. Wind. A couple of times I thought I was going to get blown clean off the back of my horse. Again, why did we need to make this climb? If the wind didn't steal your breath, then the view was surely going to do it. It was pretty cool, and that may have been the reason. I don't know. We all survived, so big deal.
Tom casts his hounds into a bit of forestry on the other side of this big hill, and a fox is found at home. A road girdles this section of woods, and whippers-in, including Master Merle-Smith, scatter themselves to best advantage. Hound voices are pecking around, first here, then there, seemingly strung out in the woods trying to figure out what's what. All of a sudden a holler lets loose around the bend from where we sit. Grosvenor got a chance to exercise his lungs, and a few of us, William, Rosie, and Jimmy Doyle (I think), clatter around to hark to the holler. Let's see if we can get going!
We never catch up to Gro, but no hounds are honoring his efforts, and eventually the wind has tumbled scent around and scattered it away. Nothing. I think there were a few foxes in those woods, as has been the case with forestry throughout Ireland, and the hounds had picked up some line or other closer to Tom. I think a small chase ensued within the confines of the woods, but we never went anywhere after it.
There was a portion of this lane encircling the woods that had a farm gate strung up to block cattle from using the gravel path as a means to gain freedom. After our spin through the swampy lowlands, a couple of the lads were feeling rambunctious and eyed up the gate for a leap. Pat, Golden Valley Whip and ex-jockey, started throwing taunts back at William from his side of the gate, egging William and other young rowdies to give it a go. After some serious challenge phrases were tossed out on the order of "dare", "double dare", and the ever-inspiring "triple dog dare," William put his horse at the gate and sailed over. The floodgates burst and a line formed for the proving of mettle, including our friends Jeff Rizer and Rob Vogel, their show jumper backgrounds leaving them little choice. I've learned a thing or two about tempting fate and turned away back downhill to rejoin the rest of the field, but not before I witnessed Jeff's horse refuse (the horse just previous to his attempt had done so as well) and watched Jeff using a branch crop to try and induce a jump. I'm not sure if he eventually made it or not.
If there was any hunting done after that, I can't recall. We hacked back to the meet, in due course taking the same jumping line back home that Jimmy Flynn had guided us through to such dubious results at the beginning. More horses and a different mount made everything much less intimidating. My greenweld farm gate had come down by the time I got to it, the logs were knocked over and steppable, and the hedges were trimmed down to nothing. Not quite the same challenge from earlier in the day.
Close to the road and just up from our horse boxes was the continuation of the stream that had done in the photographer. A place that had special meaning to a portion of our group from the previous year. Seems Rob Vogel had had a time of it keeping his seat last year, and managed to find water most times he and his horse parted company. This was one of those spots, and the place of his failed crossing taken last year was racing with murky brown water and right up to bank level. Several wags started in on poor Rob, egging him into taking that same previously ill-fated line in the hopes that he'd meet a similar fate.
To my surprise, Rob took the bait and kicked his horse into attempting the crossing. I'd have bet on another swim for our pal, but he and his horse stayed upright and dry, reaching the opposite bank with a huge grin of accomplishment, possibly an exorcised demon, and a reverse challenge to follow if you dared. No one did, not liking the water any better than I did, but tipping their collective hats to Rob's good luck, bravery, and improved skill. We took the easy way out and headed for the slop of a barnyard and a bridge to make our way to the road.
The after hunt ritual is becoming old hat by now. Get off your horse, loosen girths or unsaddle according to jobber wishes, hand the bugger off to the fellow what brung 'im, and head for the pub. We as a group were strung out along the roadside of the meet pretty well as we handed off our horses, different hireling providers having arrived at different times during the morning. As a result, the carload I had driven up with had made a hasty exit without my knowledge as I dealt with Archie at the back of the queue. Now, we were just up the road from Inch, and I had an idea that they and the car would be back, I wasn't worried in the least about being left, but the car they were driving ontained some items of terrible importance.
Earlier, I mentioned my preference for wearing contacts in Ireland, a correct choice in the early going as I recovered from my face plant, but at the end of the day, my choice was looking a bit more dubious. My glasses and contacts case were in my now absent vehicle, and my eyes were letting me know that contact wearing time was rapidly drawing to a close. Great.
Still in my hunting kit, whip, gloves, and cap stored in a different trunk of our baggage train, I made my way to the pub's men's room to wash my hands and face of pasture muck. I didn't do as thorough a job as I might have wished, there being no towels to dry with, and as I re-entered the taproom and gave my visage a chance to air dry, my contacts started to give me fits. My eyebrows had refused to give their collection of Irish soil up without a more vigorous scrubbing, and little specks of fine dirt were filtering down into my eyes and under my contacts. Those who have contacts know what I'm describing, those without the pleasure must imagine the sensation of jagged boulders scraping your cornea every time you blink.
With my eyes tearing and watering, I make my way to the bar, take a Guinness in hand, and sit down to wait out the pain and let my tear ducts try and wash out the debris. As I sit there, brushing at my eyebrows to dislodge the detritus, making sure none of the displaced soil adds insult to injury by finding its way into my pint glass, crying (in my beer, if you will) and hoping for a return of my lost motor mates, in walk Hugh and Jeff. Minus Dick Askins. I had been ready to offer up a few zingers to the pair in exchange for the pain in my eyes, but deflected my ire into a different channel as they explained that they headed back earliest to take Dick back to Inch House and bed. He was feeling pretty crummy. Not a good sign.
I rush out and gather my apres-hunt gear, disengaging the offending disks of plastic from my eyeballs, and changing out of my muddy coat, giving a passing thought to the amount of brush work I'll need to apply come morning. We pass the early evening in companionable cheer with John and Marion Ryan and ourselves almost exclusively. This being Wednesday, most folks have work in the morning and can't afford to linger over glasses in a pub midweek. Whisky and Guinness flow. Trying to squeeze in to buy a round in that crowd is a chore, but before you know it we're packing it in and heading back to Inch House for supper. The party is only interrupted, not over, until the next time we meet.
We've a chance to change for supper, a welcome event, and gather in the parlor for before dinner drinks and conversation. The Egans set a wonderful table, and tonight's entrée is another round of their fabulous salmon. Most things in Ireland come cooked to a degree firmer than we are used to here in the States. Rare translates into medium rare over there, and overcooked salmon can be an abomination, but Inch House and whoever cooks there know that fact and serve up a tasty piece of fish. All present and accounted for but Dick, who has succumbed to some kind of bug. A portent for the days ahead.
Several things posted to the List since #8 jogged some memories, thankfully, as I want to get as complete as I can. So before we get on to Thursday, here's a little backtrack.
Dinner Wednesday night was one of those intimate gatherings one occasionally sees on the tube, particularly some program with a European flavor. I think we had the dining room to ourselves, lending a flavor to the evening as if this big old house was exclusively reserved for us. In the mornings, this dining room has a certain charm, big huge windows letting out onto the front drive and terraced car park with lawn, trees, and countryside as far as your eye can behold. At night, the room transforms.
The beautiful picture windows with their stained glass insets are covered by massive burgundy velvet drapes. They keep in heat and bar drafts from outside, but they also help to remake the room. The walls close in with the subtraction of those windows, and thus, the outside world vanishes when the curtains are drawn as if it never existed. Daylight has fled, and soft lamps and candles combine to create different shadow patterns and color combinations than before. A wood fire rounds out the lighting atmosphere, picking out subtle shapes and hues in the wood paneled wainscoting that aren't evident at other times during the day. You get the feeling that you're in almost a cave when this all comes together. A well-appointed cave, but the rest of the world has been driven off by the transmogrified charm and grace of this room.
I told you we had salmon of a wonderful nature and texture, but the rest of the fare was a wonderful supporting cast. Eileen's remembrance of profiteroles made me recall the wild green salad, the garlic mashed potatoes, the steamed vegetables, braised baby potatoes, brown bread, chips (French fried potatoes), and a lovely wine. I resisted coffee afterward so I could get some sleep for the next day’s riding.
But neither the room nor the meal was the best part of the evening. They were the perfect setting for the conversation that flowed around the table, a flow that was eventually gathered in and harnessed by Rob Vogel. It seemed at every turn on our trip someone rose to the occasion and became the entertainment for the group. This was Rob's night to shine. Brother Vogel, being well primed from the dinner wine and evening cocktails, began to tell his story. Eileen sitting to his left became the major focus and audience for the tale, the rest of us feeling a bit like eavesdroppers, though we were included in the grand sweep of his gaze and gestures from time to time.
Rob was holding forth on his just completed day in the saddle and was explaining his nickname of "waterdog." The ground we'd hunted that day with the Golden Vale was the same piece of real estate that Rob had done the majority of his skin-diving from horse back on the previous year's trip, a routine he managed to perform an amazing number of times back then, and the memories were too fresh to suppress. I'll beg your pardon for not telling Rob's tale for him, but Eileen's description of Rob wet to the waist sparked this memory snippet. It brought back an atmosphere and feeling that was a special part of the trip and I needed to include it.
The other flashback was touched off by Ranch's jest about laundry. After the first few days of hunting, we'd all run through our clean clothes, and the laundry service provided by Nora and her elves (probably just Nora) was called into full action. I hadn't had to put my name on my laundry since I was seventeen and at boys camp (a year I made trips to the Uinta Mountains in Utah and to the Arctic Circle and Hudson's Bay in Canada before you jump on me for still being at camp at age seventeen), and it hadn't dawned on me to mark out my stuff for this trip. Last time in November, with four of us, it was pretty easy to recognize your own garments. This time, not so easy. Socks looked alike, white T-shirts looked cut from the same cookie cutter, and all the Mr. Fox hunting shirts were difficult to tell apart without your name in them. I quickly put initials in some of my more generic items of apparel, and, being the first one stirring most days, became the laundry sorter for the gang.
I think I described laundry before, so if this sounds familiar, skip on by. I'm too lazy to go back through the whole text from the two sets of tales to see what I wrote previously. A table in the upstairs landing became the laundry nexus for the ten of us. The protocol started out as tossing soiled clothes under the table, and picking clean stuff up off the top. But, as the pile got large and unsightly, a new sequence was emplaced. A large, round, red plastic stall mucking bucket with rope handles appeared by the table one morning with obvious intentions. Laundry now made its exit and reappearance in this receptacle, filled up during the course of the day, and emptied by yours truly in the morning.
Clothes came folded, somewhat, but to save everyone's stuff from being pawed through, several times, while you tried to remember what you put in for laundry service and what it looked like in a wad, I took it upon myself to unpack and arrange for ease of retrieval. Anything to help the cause. I'd have done more if I could have, like carry the laundry around for Nora, but I was usually asleep or gone when the bucket made its daily migration. I did come upon the ritual once. The sight of John and Nora Egan each with a hempen handle in hand, hauling that big bucket downstairs to the laundry will be with me for awhile.
Now, back to Thursday.
Thursdays are Co. Tipperary days with eleven o'clock meets and timely starts, so you've got to get cracking. No dawdling. Morning ablutions are a breeze now that the water has become reliable, and it's quick down to breakfast to stoke the furnace for the coming day in the field. I'm dragging a bit from my two previous days' workouts with those challenging horses, but not dragging as much as some. Dick Askins had come down with a full-blown flu bug, and had been knocked out of the b