Here's a bit of background. I really hadn't planned on going to Ireland at all this hunting season. I'd made no plans, and even as late as October I wasn't really in the mood for it. But then I spent time in Virginia hunting in the company of Rosie and Grosvenor Merle-Smith, and sort of on the hinting of Rosie I became energized. I'd been to Ireland hunting once on my own and it wasn't as fun without the Merle-Smiths. However, those worthies were down on going to Ireland as well, both because our last trip there together a year ago January was a bust, and that they were making their own expensive progress through the grass country of Leistershire to chase fox with some of the big names in English foxhunting. It took some convincing, but a trip was scheduled for the last little part of January 2000 and the first week of the month we're currently in.
A few different dates for the trip were kicked around, I guess, but an intriguing plan was put forward by Grosvenor which included not as much Irish hunting but did include a trip to New York and attendance at the Masters of Foxhounds Ball. My reluctance to visit New York was overcome by the opportunity to wade around in some swanky places and to revel therein, and I decided to give it a whack. Thus was born the trip that was to become the spiritual and karmic (is that a word?) antithesis of our last foray to Ireland. To borrow a phrase from my brother who also had a trip with similar properties, we were on the "Doom to Good Luck" tour.
Before I launch into trip descriptions, let me make an observation and offer some advice if I may, advice I thought I had taken to heart but apparently had let lapse in my portfolio of common sense. If you're making travel plans in conjunction with other people, talk to your companions to set up said plans so that they coincide. Communicate! I assumed, and Gro assumed, and we all know what happens when one assumes. This was the first instance of doom to good luck.
I assumed that Grosvenor, Rosie, and I would catch a car ride from their home to one of the Washington area airports and then fly to New York. They assumed I would drive from Illinois to Keswick, VA. What we didn't know was that our individual bases of consideration had changed. I was in no mood to drive the fourteen hours between Streamwood, IL and Keswick, VA in possibly snow filled conditions, and Grosvenor was unwilling to trust the airlines to brave those same possibly yucky elements and get us to New York on time. I refer you to our trip from last year where snow on the highway about killed me in Indiana and the same storm kept us from making a connection in New York for Ireland. Changed bases of consideration.
I booked a flight to Washington, Dulles and was counting on renting a car to get me to Keswick, which we could then use to go back to the airport the next day, obviating any need for me to drive fourteen hours anywhere. Grosvenor had booked three spots on Amtrak from Charlottesville, VA, hard by Keswick, to New York City, figuring the train was less likely to be stopped by bad weather than a plane or automobile. Do you see how we were not necessarily connecting up? No need for a rental car and thus no good way for me to get from Dulles to Keswick.
How do you fix that problem? You book a second round of air travel from Dulles to Charlottesville because your first round of tickets were made through Priceline at a lovely discount that, alas, doesn't allow for any monkeying with flights, times, or destinations. I was able to make another reservation on a different airline and the problem of getting on the train with the Merle-Smiths Thursday morning was solved. For the time being. Last year there would have been no chance for such a last minute accommodation, but we could feel our karma turning.
I had a hint of just such a turn in our collective luck Tuesday, January 25th when my sister-in-law offered her chauffeuring services over those of my brothers, allowing me to pack for my journey at a reasonable pace on the morning of the 26th and arrive at the airport within minutes of departure rather than the frantic midnight packing and long wait at the airport terminal that my early to work brother offered. I was able to get a god night's rest on the 25th (strangely enough to be the last of such lengthy sleep for a long while.)
Packing was going to be quite a challenge in and of itself. I needed two sets of hunting clothes for Ireland, including two sets of long underwear in case of cold weather like we endured last year in January. I needed some sort of regular street wear for the times between, before, and after hunting, like on the plane and hanging out in New York and Virginia, but not too much of that sort of stuff because I needed to minimize the weight. And finally, I needed a sport coat, slacks, tie, and a full flight of tuxedo gear for those times when jeans and a sweatshirt or my hunting frock coat were not enough. Additionally, I had a pair of rubber boots stashed in Ireland, but none in Virginia, so I had to haul along my Dehner Brown topped dress boots. Those went over my shoulder in beige trimmed green nylon boot bags and garnered comment wherever they went. I debated carting a saddle and was forced by circumstance to abandon that debate. In hind sight, thank goodness the saddle got left back.
I was most of the way through assembling the puzzle that was my luggage, about ten o'clock, when the phone rang. Salesmen usually call at that time of day and I was very ready to hang up at the first whiff of sales pitch. Instead, the call was from U.S. Airways calling several hours ahead of flight time to tell me my flight had been canceled. Oh Crap! My neat little house of cards travel plan was about to be trashed before its inception. Doom! But wait, the snow storm that was causing the problem was running out of steam and a second flight out later in the day was still on time and would get me to Pittsburgh with time to spare. Good Luck! The phone rang a few more times that morning, but the airline was never again on the other end of the line. Have you ever had that happen to you, though? An airline calling up to notify of a cancellation and making every attempt to accommodate. U.S. Airways did, and my estimation of that franchise jumped up exponentially.
The Interstate from Chicago's western suburbs to O'Hare Airport, or at least, the interstate that we took was relatively free and clear of traffic and confusion or delay, always a condition to be noted. I walked up to the ticketing agent, relieved myself of the burden of most of my gear, and trundled on over to the specified gate for my flight number. The flight took off on time, was a little bumpy, but landed in Pittsburgh with all essential parts still attached and functioning, and I settled in to await my flight to Dulles. I had some time between flights so I wandered around Pittsburgh's terminal and was duly impressed. I was told that the local Pittsburghians (or whatever their appellation is when referred to in the collective) go there to shop. I was skeptical at first, but upon seeing how things were with my own eyes I understood the attraction. The main terminal was laid out like a fancy shopping mall, and I was even induced to buy a new pair of shoes (L.L. Bean having changed the styling of my beloved Blucher Mocs beyond all bearing.)
I had meant to purchase the shoes on my way back through this airport mall in a weeks time, but something told me I should strike while the iron was hot, so to speak. Or, to put it another way, you may never be this way again. I was doubly induced to eventually buy as my flight to Dulles was pushed back due to weather. The dreaded "D" word. Delay! The same storm that had canceled my earlier flight from Chicago to Pittsburgh was playing merry hobb with Boston and the East now. Little worry lines were etching themselves into my countenance, and I could hear the faint echoes of the footsteps of Doom.
I made a call to Grosvenor and apprised him of my possibly precarious flight situation, vowing to keep him posted on my travel experiences, such as they were. And, sure as shootin', ten minutes after telling Gro to hang loose we were all told to go hang. The equipment we were to use to get to Dulles was late in arriving for turnaround but was at the gate. No air crew, however. We waited to see if a replacement could be scared up, none could, and then it was determined that the plane we needed to use was broke down anyway and not going anywhere even if we had ten air crews all clamoring for the privilege of conveying us. The gate crew gave us the option of a flight to anywhere we wanted to go and the thought of hopping a plane to St. Thomas had to be beaten back with surprising force of will. Scramble time.
I called Gro and explained my plight. We hatched a plan whereby I'd meet the Merle-Smiths in Washington D.C. and catch up to the train there rather than in Charlottesville. This was a bit of a delicate operation as Gro had had to fight for our three train reservations out of Charlottesville, eliciting a comment from regular Amtrak ticketing staff that they were shocked and amazed that Gro could come up with tickets in a way not open even to them. Part of the secret is found in Gro talking to someone above that lot's heads. My mission was to ascertain whether I could join the train in Washington without screwing up the entire reservation. And, I'm thankful to say, that with a bright cheery voice and polite manners I was able to make just such an arrangement. One problem solved.
Okay, I'm staying overnight in Washington D.C., but without any kind of prior hotel reservation in a place known for pricey hotel rates. Gro's half remembered hotel suggestion, the Americana, with no phone number attached, recommended in part because lots of air crews lay over there, was all I had to go on. The AT&T operator who assisted me in my phone search for the number to this mythical place was on screen 21 and about to give up when we found the right listing in Arlington, VA (how was I to know if the place was in Virginia, Maryland, or the District itself?) And they had a room for the night at half the going rate of any other place so close to the train station. Good luck and a place to stay. Second problem solved.
My flight from Dulles to Charlottesville was now useless, and costly, and I was now obliged to call Travelocity, the Internet travel firm through whom I had booked the extra flight. I spent possibly twenty minutes with a semi-frustrated woman from Travelocity in fixing that snag. I say semi-frustrated because she initially got it in to her head that I was a disgruntled customer. She must have been used to people calling up and complaining to the high heavens and was quick to take umbrage. I assured her I was not put out in the least, though I couldn't honestly tell you why. At that point things were getting screwed up and straightened out in such quick succession that I was left with a somehow pleasant yet dizzying feeling of what must have been euphoria. Go figure. In any event, we got my United flight to C-ville canceled, a new ticket out of Charlottesville issued for the return leg of my journey, and I left her with a warm and fuzzy feeling because she had indeed helped me out of a tricky, complicated situation. Third problem solved.
While these negotiations of hotel accommodation and airline travel realignment were taking place, my fellow would be Dulles travelers were done mobbing the U.S. Airways gate/ticketing agents. I waited in no line at all, was booked on to the next flight to Washington Reagan International Airport, was assured that my baggage would be rerouted and would I just check back in an hour to make sure that deed had been done, and was given a ten dollar food voucher for my trouble with no prompting. Last year at that time we had to scratch and claw for a place to sleep and a voucher for food because of airline delay. Fourth and fifth problem solved (didn't even know food was a problem until it was taken care of.)
I bought the shoes, drank some Guinness, ate some Godiva chocolate, spoke with my loved ones via the telephone, determined my bags were in the right position to accompany me, got on the plane to D.C. and had a pleasant trip to our nations capital. The kind people at the Americana picked me up not five minutes after I called them, at an arrival doorway mere steps away from both the baggage carousel dispensing my correct amount of luggage and the pay phone I used for summoning purposes. I was checked in quickly and efficiently, and though it was after Midnight, I didn't have to be to the train station until nine the next morning. I actually went to bed with a smile on my face.
I'll end here for now. As you can see, no hunting has taken place yet, and none will for a while yet. But for those of you who read of my adventures in conjunction with hunting in Ireland have to appreciate the absolute switch between last year's January trip and this. The next installment gets us to New York, with more examples of the strange dichotomy of doom and good luck that we were treated to.
I spent a restful, if brief, night in the Americana Hotel in Arlington, VA, just across the river from Washington D.C. General Lee and his wife, whose former property I was probably sleeping on that night, would never have recognized the place. But, I recommend that particular hotel to all of you. I must have gotten about five hours sleep, more than if I'd made it all the way to Charlottesville and the Merle-Smith abode, less than I could have if I'd spent an extra erg of energy to break out my travel clock to check the time. The Americana provides no in-room time keeping devices.
I grabbed an unhurried shower, sped up a bit by the fact that the drain was
slow and I don't fancy standing in knee deep water while sluicing off, and
when finished made my way down to the complimentary donuts, bagels, and
juice in the lobby. I snarfed a cruller and a cup of O.J., asked for a cab
with my hands full if not my mouth, and was directed to a red curtsey phone
hanging on the wall by the lone elevator. Juggling my meager breakfast and
huntcap (said cap kept in hand in a nylon hat bag
I stood for a few minutes on hold and was told I'd have a wait of twenty to
thirty minutes before the cab arrived. I'd made the call at eight in the
morning, and the train was due in at Union Station in Washington around 9:30
a.m. Oooh that was cutting it close, but what ya gonna do. I'd wandered back
to the donut table and was picking at a bagel, you'd best eat when you've
the opportunity 'cause you never know when you'll get the chance again, when
the front desk lady announced my cab had arrived. fifteen minutes before I
expected it. Actually not bad timing if you discounted the bagel literally
hanging out of my mouth as I maneuvered my gear through the front door and
into the interior of the cab. The picture of elegance I was not.
Now, you may wonder who cares about a cab ride to the train station, and
normally this would not be newsworthy. However, D.C. had taken a hit from a
snow storm, clogging up the streets with unlooked for snow from the weekend,
and the city was still digging out from this natural surprise. Many folks
who had no business driving, let alone driving on snow, were out in force
during this morning rush, and no route to anywhere was guaranteed. In fact,
my cabby, kind soul that he was laid out some options for me. We could take
the most direct, and cheapest route, to the train, or we could backtrack
along the way he'd just come to pick me up. The latter option cost more, but
was known to be free of blockages while the route that would normally have
been swiftest and least dear had the look of wreckage about it. I chose the
known path that time, and it made all the difference.
As we drove along my cabbies preferred route, we glanced over at the bridge
we'd decided to steer clear of, only to notice cars at odd angles on the
over pass and emergency vehicles with sirens sounding and mars lights
flashing on their way to the scene of a snow induced crash. We congratulated
ourselves on our prowess, sharing stories of driving in the snow and how
some places, like Chicago or Minneapolis (home to the cabby) could learn to
deal with the white stuff, but that places like Washington D.C. were bound
to have the same mistakes repeated over and over again. During our little
tete a tete I took note that we were passing such notable places as the
Pentagon, and various monuments to past U.S. Presidents. Union Station
loomed in
very good time, comparatively.
Bidding adieu to my cab driving friend, I wandered into the newly resurgent
D.C. train station. Many of the same upscale shopping mall establishments
I'd surprisingly encountered in the Pittsburgh airport had also opened doors
in this train station. You could spend some serious time here, and I did
wander a bit searching out the place I'd catch the train I could only hope
Rosie and Grosvenor had boarded back in Charlottesville. We were booked on
the Crescent, a cool old train route that starts in New Orleans and ends up
in New York City, and having experience with train stations and their
schedules (three years of commuter law school), I quickly found the time and
platform and went in search of same.
I'm still not sure what whim or perhaps prompting of the Force made me duck
into the Amtrak Customer Service Center, but stop in I did, and that was one
o the luckiest things I did all trip. I found an extremely helpful lady,
explained my situation (needing to board the train in Washington though I
should have been on it from C-ville), and was shocked to find out I'd need
an escort to get to trackside to meet my intended train. I hadn't planned to
be escorted, and when the time came to board I'd have been lost big time.
This nice lady escorted me through several security checks, just whisked me
along past doors that would have stymied my if I'd not stopped to check in
with her office. I had no back up plan if the train was denied me and I'm
thankful it wasn't.
This lovely Amtrak person stood with me at trackside while we waited for the
Crescent to arrive, warding me from any would be ticket checker/vagrant
shifters. Trouble with frozen switches was causing a slight delay. We talked
about the rehab of the station, the soon to arrive new high speed train to
New York, and the passing of an era in the fazing out of the old dining cars
and their fresh cooked meals in favor of airline style precooked fare.
Eventually she felt the need to help other unfortunates such as myself and
left me in the care of one of her compadres as she waved me goodbye and
pleasant trip.
Eventually the train made the station, and I searched out the conductor to
tell my tale to a fresh set of hopefully sympathetic ears. I was also on the
lookout for one of the Merle-Smiths and found both the conductor and
Grosvenor within ticks of the clock from each other. Gro waved me toward a
train doorway, and the conductor was already primed with the story of my
plight and waved me right on the train. No muss, no fuss, although I had to
wait for what seemed like the entire car load of people to exit before I
could get out of the freezing trackside out-of-doors. Seems New Orleans to
Washington is a popular leg of that train's regular journey. I handed the
lighter of my two grips to Gro, boarded the train, and heaved a sigh of
contentment that all was now right with the world. We spent the next five
hours in conversation and contemplation.
After passing through sections of our country I'd never passed through
before, we finally raised New York City in our sights and pulled up to final
destination trackside right on time. Trusty old trains. Of course, riding
the train had brought out train stories, of which the Merle-Smiths had a
surprising abundance. You must ask them of their connection to rolling stock
some time.
We grabbed our gear, some of which was checked through and ostensibly
awaiting retrieval in some nebulous baggage area of what we came to find out
was Penn Station in New York. Grosvenor was on about going to the Oyster Bar
in Grand Central Station and having cocktails and oysters with a friend, an
event Rosie and I were all ready to get behind because any kind of
comestibles would have gone down a treat at that point (food service on the
train was sketchy.) We two were both eyeing up a Krispy Kreme donut shop
while waiting for the checked baggage to arrive, a notion squelched by Gro
and his Krispy Kreme prejudice, but we were hungry!
Okay, the checked bag arrived, kind of a big one for the usually light
packing Rosie and Grosvenor, and we determined to look for the Oyster Bar.
Of course, we were looking for the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station.
Determined not to give up the chase, but equally disoriented, Gro lead us
into the upper atmosphere of the street level, still looking for a cool old
grand building like he remembered from times past. We emerged to the tinted
glass and steel structure of Madison Square Garden and finally figured out
we were at Penn Station, nowhere near Grand Central and the mythical Oyster
Bar, and also found it was cold as a brass bra in a deep freeze outside. On
to our New York accommodations!
We stood in a taxi line as our extremities were rapidly stripped of feeling
on their way to frostbite. Grosvenor was least prepared for this change in
weather, and only the fortunate loan of a scarf by one who packs for most
eventualities (my grandmother would never be pleased to learn I'd gone
anywhere without my rain gear!) saved his ears from severe pain. He looked
rather comical, but was warmer, and thus ready to hail a cab when our turn
arrived and brave the river of black sludge that was the curbside water
hazard. Never was a taxi ride more welcome that that moment, and nothing
froze solid or dropped off.
This cab brought us to the recently acquired home of one of Grosvenor's
cousins, one Meg, and her Swedish banking husband Tomas. I include this
description for several reasons, not the least of which because I was
expecting to stay in a closet for two days and instead found myself in a
palace. Meg and Tomas were, like what I'm coming to realize about the entire
Merle-Smith related clan, fun, intelligent, generous, and adventuresome.
They
live on an entire floor of an apartment building overlooking ABC studios and
half a block from Tavern On The Green, and the place was put at our
disposal. Do you begin to see the pattern of good luck I'm trying to
outline?
Meg had some resume work to accomplish, but directed we three travelers to
a nearby eatery, height O'Neal's, and we betook ourselves there to put some
food in our tummies ere we fall down from lack of blood sugar. I discovered
that Guinness goes down very well with an exotic mushroom pie that day. A
lesson I intend to keep repeating until I get it completely right (fat
chance
of that happening.) And, with our little snack accomplished, we returned to
the palace, I mean apartment, and made ready for the evening.
Grosvenor, in his capacity as MFH, kitted up in full fig to dine with others
of his ilk that night in a Masters only dinner and meeting. He looked
dashing, as he was told by his cousin and wife, and off he went to rub
shoulders and chow down with a foxhunting crew. Rosie, myself, Meg, Tomas,
and four of the Merle-Smith's train related friends from West Virginia, in
New York on a bit of a holiday and to see old friends, made our way to a
French bistro next door to O'Neals' of afternoon and mushroom pie fame.
You may attempt to berate us for not covering more ground and searching out
more tantalizing spots to explore, but I must remind you that the air
temperature that week was at or near zero, and the windchill wasn't helping
matters any. In fact, the week before our arrival in the Big Apple, Meg and
Tomas had battled with the aftermath of a frozen and broken water pipe in
their building, two floors up, water cascading and rushing about everywhere,
and were given a running list of preventative instructions to stall a repeat
performance by apartment staff both days we were there. It was actually
pretty desperate, and the less time we spent in the fresh, brisk air
searching out cool, new places the better. Besides, I was treated to Coq au
vin and a creme brulee that would be hard to beat anywhere, and Cote du
Rhone to match. So there!
To finish off the evening, the lot of us, minus our lone minor and her
grandmama, adjourned to the Oak Bar at the Plaza, the gathering place of may
people in scarlet eveningwear. Many things can be had at the Oak Bar,
including Irish whisky and conversation, and plenty of that was flowing. I
was introduced to several MFH's and you'll forgive me if the names didn't
stick. I also encountered Max and Barbara Naegler and was able, to my
surprise, to introduce that pair to another pair famous FOL denizens. Rosie
and Gro. We all got on famously, and spirit soared and were poured. We
closed the joint down around one or two, I don't know, and thus ended first
in a long string of late, late nights for yours truly.
Although this will make this message kind of long, I'll push on to the Ball
the next night.
The Friday of the Ball was to be a leisurely day of perhaps sight seeing, or
perhaps lazing about for me, but Grosvenor dashed those plans when he
proffered a morning listening to Edmund Porter of the Eskdale and Ennerdale
Hounds, Fell pack from England. Fell hounds intrigue me with their stamina,
drive, and virtually handsfree hunting style, and so I gathered myself
together early in the morning to be ready to sit and listen by nine in the
morning. Not happy about the foreshortened sleep routine, but glad for the
chance to hear about Fell hounds.
Nine came and went, the appointed hour as laid down by Gro the night before,
and no one but me was stirring. I heard Tomas leave for the bank, and ran
into Meg as she walked around on tip toe with a sore head from too much Cote
du Rhone from the night before. Finally Gro bolts covert, dressed in a
jacket and tie (necessitating a wardrobe change in myself) and off we sped
for the site of the meeting and talk. We missed the meeting, but made the
talk, complete with audio visual of Fell hunting and narrated by a man whose
father and grandfather hunted the same pack as he now had for years and
years. I can't remember the exact time frame we're talking and don't want to
guess for fear of belittling the accomplishment. There is a video tape one
can buy with all six Fell packs featured and it's a tape well worth the
viewing. Thanks to Grosvenor for including me.
The Bloody Mary's that accompanied the talk went not very far toward
dispelling our hunger (skipped breakfast), so we cut across Central Park in
January and collected Rosie, heading back to O'Neal's for lunch (hoping for
more mushroom pie,) but leaving Meg back as she was still dealing with a
touch of the bottle flu. Much to our sorrow, no mushroom pie is included on
the lunch menu, but we consoled ourselves with Guinness and some excellent
soup. A consensus was reached mandating a nap before the festivities of the
ball and such did we attempt to undertake.
I can't say I actually slept very much that afternoon, though I needed it,
but a new place with people rattling around in it make it hard for me to nod
off unless completely tired out, and I guess I was too keyed up in
anticipation of the ball to come. We spent some pleasant hours listening to
the cool Asian adventures that Meg and Tomas had had, Rosie doing a her
seamstress/beadstress routine as she reaffixed some delinquent bangles and
sparkles to her ball outfit. Seeing the seed beads and thread brought back
many memories (story for another time.)
Rosie was glittering, Grosvenor was dashing, and I was a slight
disappointment in that I purposely left my formal tails at home. I warranted
too much risk to my precious green threads, and I absolutely need them for
the end of April with no chance of replacement in case of mishap. So, I was
in a boring old tuxedo suit, but I'd like to think I filled it out in a
satisfying manner.
We said our good-byes to our hosts and piled into a cab on our way to the
Pierre and the MFH's Ball. Another great feature of the Bergstrand's (Meg
and Tomas') apartment is the ready availability of taxicabs. The car hires
dump people at the Tavern on the Green and then cut down Meg and Tomas' one
way street for a reload. Tre convenient.
We were slated for a rendezvous in some watering hole located within the
Pierre in anticipation of gathering together our dinner and table companions
before moving on to the Ball itself. We were to round out the continuation
of our trip into Ireland with the addition of a fellow from Charlottesville
by the name of Eric Gibson, which worthy walked in the door of that Hotel
Pierre satellite bar soon after own arrival. He blew into the room in formal
Oak Ridge scarlet evening attire, a cape and silver mounted walking stick
completing his ensemble, and a huge grin on his face. He lead off with a
joke and we were laughing up until, and even after we parted some seven days
later.
Ed Harvey and his wonderful wife Ada, Ed a member of last January's
escapade,
joined us next, and catching up with that pair was fun. Ed has numbered his
days at the Washington D.C. PBS station, is building a largish home in
Orange, has purchased a well suited mount, and is settling in for the life
of the foxhunting country squire. I thought the smiles on the pair of their
faces would eventually require surgery to remove they seemed so happy.
Hard on the heels of the Harvey's were Grosvenor's parents. I'd heard
stories, but real life was better. I spent the next half hour in shared
conversation with Gro's mother, Kitty, and can only hope I held up my end of
the conversation. Anyone who discounts their own family as an asset to
treasure is missing the boat, whether by choice or circumstance, and I think
Grosvenor and Rosie know they have a treasure on their hands.
Okay, most of our group had assembled in that bar with the addition of John
Henken and his daughter Andrea (?), John the West Virginian with the shared
Merle-Smith train history, and we shoved off for the lofty heights of the
Grand Ballroom of the Hotel Pierre. The Ball commences.
We checked our coats and made our way to the check in table to, well, check
in. No sooner had I stopped to survey the scene than I spotted a familiar
Illinois face. A dear friend of our family, and a lady who started her
foxhunting career at the end of a lead line in England and finished her
riding days in our huntfield at Foxboro some eighty years later, walked into
the room with the illustrious Lynn Lloyd of Red Rock Hounds in Nevada.
Meagan and Lynn have been friends going back to Lynn's own Illinois days, I
knew they would be arriving in company, and was happy to see they and their
own circle of friends arriving to the ball. Funny where you meet people,
isn't it?
Our dinner table was situated very close to the stage occupied by the famous
Lester Lanin (sp?) and his big band. We were eleven seated around a table
designed for ten. In a former life I used to set up and tear down banquet
and meeting halls such as the one we occupied that night, so I knew we would
be sitting close for the evening. Not bad, though. The rest of the
celebrants for that night filtered into the dining area from the relatively
cramped cocktail space just outside the ball room doors and the meal service
commenced.
The room was as you might imagine it. The finery of the people inside was
reflective of and reflected by the intricate scrollwork, gilt, and mirrors
on walls and ceiling. Some who were there were disappointed by the lack of
standards kept to by the women that night, in which I refer to not all ball
gowns done in classic black, but it never registered in my mind until
pointed out to me much later. I was just happy to be there.
During Dinner service, of which we were given to eat a very nicely done rack
of lamb and some other stuff on my plate that was obviously overshadowed by
the lamb, Lester and his band let their music waft over and around us in
tones calculated to foster rather than inhibit conversation. Desert was
something closely akin to a chocolate souffl�, and coffee of any octane you
wished was brought round with a smile. And then the dancing started in
earnest.
I confess myself to not be much of a dancer. Flashbacks to a shy childhood
and grade school dancing lessons have perhaps become too ingrained for me to
enjoy tripping the light fantastic, but not so for most everyone else there.
Old Lester was in his element as he bounced along to the rhythms his band
was
laying down. Mostly he was in time to the beat. Eric had had many cups of
good cheer and was barely off his feet while Lester and his crew were
playing. He was as exuberant in his dancing as in, as I came to find, most
other areas of his life. I think old Lester knew he had a dancing crowd on
his hands and he and the band fed off that energy. I had been expecting
staid and placid, and instead these folks rocked! You should have seen it.
I finally pushed myself away from table to go mingle. I made the
acquaintance of several persons previously unknown to me, and chatted with
some friends only recently acquired. I was particularly happy to see that
Max and Barbara had hauled Ann Weber (sp?) along for this New York Ball, but
alas I was unable to complete her hunt ball equipage as I had left my hunt
whip back at Meg and Tomas' apartment. If I'd know you were attending that
night, Ann, I'd have brought my whip to you for a reprise of your stunning
interpretive dance performance given out last April in Tulsa. I'll remember
to ask next time.
Unfortunately, before anyone knew it, Lester was casing up his well used
baton, his band were stowing their instruments, the lights were raised, and
the room's occupants were scattering into the night. We left the Tulsa crew
doing tequila shots, and I'm not sure even now how their evening wound up.
Gro's parents had slipped away unnoticed long before, and it was chiefly the
four of us Irish hunting participants who walked out the ballroom doors
together. The three of us brought in on the train filtered back to our grand
lodgings, while Eric wended his way back to the Plaza and the Oak Bar. Or is
it Oak Room? Either way, a few of the lesser known qualities that the Oak
Bar at the Plaza possesses made themselves known to Eric that night. But
that's HIS story to tell.
I believe I left off after the MFH Ball in New York, which was well worth
the trip, and we (Rosie, Grosvenor, and I) had made it back to our lent digs
quickly and efficiently. Could have walked home but for the biting cold.
Next morning, the one after the Ball, brought much more livable and moderate
temperatures to the Big Apple. Almost a shame really because we were getting
used to going outside and swearing at the cold, almost like a dip in an icy
stream to wake one up. I'm absolutely positive there were Ball goers who
slept in later that morning than we, and also some who were much the worse
for drink than we, but none more excited because we were slated to fly to
Ireland that evening and the weather was perfect for flying. Complete
turn around forma t he last time we'd cycled through New York and JFK to fly
abroad.
Locating a close yet stylish breakfast place was a bit tricky, even with the
help of a NYC restaurant guide. We weren't in the mood to travel many blocks
even for that perfect piece of crumb cake, or whatever, and settled on a
Deli/Diner just around the corner. The service was spotty and rude, but the
O.J. was fresh squeezed and that went a long way toward making the meal a
pleasant experience.
Our quartet met up and then broke fast at this quasi greasy spoon, Eric
regaling us with his after the ball encounters. Let's just say that a man
walking beside Central Park in scarlet tails and a cape, swaggering along
with a sliver headed cane at or after midnight will attract some interesting
sorts of companionship. Our man played along enough to get the cool story
but showed his good judgment when push came to shove. I'd go into more, but
that really is his story to tell.
Most of that Saturday was spent in quiet conversation, napping, and general
preparation for the flight to Ireland. Grosvenor and I mailed our ball
outfits, and my leather riding boots, back to Keswick so we wouldn't have
that extra burden to lug around. I had meant to leave my boots in Keswick
originally, but you might recall my plans were scrambled up almost from the
start. I didn't need leather boots in Ireland, and I don't recommend leather
to anyone else hunting there, because I'd left my rubber Aigles with the
rest of the Merle-Smith stash in Thurles at Inch House. I hunted three times
in my leather boots last year, heavy dragoon leather custom jobs from
Dehner, and they were well on their way to being shredded by the prickly
Irish flora. Rubber is the way to go.
We'd hired a sort of mini-van taxi/limo service to haul us all out to JFK
Int'l Aerodrome, and low and behold the driver was right on time to the
relative second. He pulled up to the front door of the apartment building
we'd camped in, we loaded up our luggage, and bid farewell to some of the
spiffiest of accommodations. When the place gets really decorated, look out!
Our drive through New York, don't ask me which parts we went through,
convinced me that I never want to be behind the wheel of a car in that
place. I'm actually comfortable driving around Chicago, the Loop or anywhere
else you want to go there, but NYC is a whole different ball game. Shops
seemed to go on for miles, and the traffic was literally solid so that I
could have stepped across from curb to curb without touching the ground at
almost any point on that leg of our journey.
The height of unease on this simple (one would think) drive to the airport
came when we almost ran down a pedestrian. Let me set the scene. A bit of a
decline lead to a traffic signal and crosswalk, and our boy behind the
steering wheel was not paying very close attention as the green light turned
to yellow and then red. When our hired professional automobilist finally
made the move to stop the car for the red light, the momentum of the
mini-van had increased beyond his dead reckoning, and more pressure needed
applying to over worked brakes than he'd figured on using at first.
How do I know this? Because just when our driver really applied the brakes
to stop within a legal distance of the painted lines, a very lucky soul
jumped out into the cross walk to make his way, like the proverbial chicken
of myth and legend, across the road. This vehicle was equipped with
anti-lock brakes, a handy rig if you're wanting to stop a skid out, but not
quite as good at stopping short as the regular type of brake configuration.
Our driver stomped hard on the brakes, foot to the floor, the ABS pads on
the anti-lock system engaging and making that peculiar combination
grinding/whining sound that ABS makes when severely stressed and rubbed
together really hard. We pulled to a stop mere feet from the innocent, yet
foolhardy soul who was making his way from somewhere to somewhere else,
nearly taking an unexpected detour to the Pearly Gates. You see? Doom
averted and good luck distributed to all. And said luck held on all the rest
of the way to the airport.
We made JFK with plenty of time, and were not unduly searched or seized
(unlike last time when my wire cutters were extracted form t he bottom of my
bag at the behest of airport security who were slightly curious.) We checked
our stuff onto the correct flight and made our way to the boarding area
where convenient refreshments were made available to us.
This being and Irish flight, filled up by many native Irish on a daily
basis, the local eatery/drinkery serves up Irish potables. Murphy's Stout is
on tap, we treated ourselves to a round, but I have to say it's not the same
as a pint of Guinness. Much to my dismay, I couldn't bring myself to join in
another round of Murphy's at gate side, but who cares because we got on the
plane with dispatch forthwith.
Our plane was hardly what you would call full, a condition we'd inquired
about at the check in counter. In fact, there was probably a ratio of
passenger to flight attendant of 2 to 1. This in a plane that holds around
300 I'm guessing. Our little flying company piled into the airline and we
eyed up our chances for spreading out and actually lying down after dinner
was served. You could feel the grin of disbelief and anticipation begin to
spread across your faces, and saliva started in our mouths not from the idea
of imminent food but from the prospect of a relaxed and cramp free passage
to the Emerald Isle.
Of course, no impure thought goes unremarked, and the captain raised us
passengers on the intercom just before the shutting of the doors, explaining
that we were to have a short delay as our Aer Lingus sister flight, the one
that traditionally leaves five minutes before ours for Dublin instead of
Shannon, was having technical difficulties and the two flights might need to
be combined. The sister flight was full, full, full, and we held our
collective breaths at the possible dashing of our wild hopes of a gloriously
empty flight. But, our good luck was with us yet again, the Dublin flight
fixed themselves, we buttoned up our plane, and took off into the night for
Ireland with all the room you could want and more.
The food was average, the beverages free and plentiful, the rest was not as
restful as anticipated, but I did stretch completely out for hours at a
time, and even managed maybe twenty minutes of sleep, a power nap that most
of our small party was able to share in to a lesser or greater extent. At
any rate, landing at Shannon was uneventful, our hired cars were ready and
waiting, and I was in a surprisingly refreshed and energetic mood. I think
we
all were. On to Inch House!
We stepped out the airport automatic sliding glass doors to an Irish sunrise
in fifty degree, at least, weather. A big climatic change from New York and
also the last time I'd been at Shannon with the Merle-Smith's. Last January
we were treated to the most beautiful, and long lasting, exhibition of hoar
frost I've ever seen. Completely ruined hunting that earlier time, but
frightfully spectacular. No such hindrance this time and we carefully placed
ourselves in various vehicles, myself rehearsing the mantra "drive on the
left, drive on the left," and away we went for Inch House and the wilds
of darkest Ireland.
Okay, County Tipperary is not very much like "darkest" anything, but it
seemed like an interesting phrase. Since Eric had not been in Ireland before
we took the marginally more scenic route to Thurles and Inch from the
airport. All routes are scenic in Ireland, I think, but the way Grosvenor
lead us included the twisty, turny, make you slightly claustrophobic and
seasick route to our gracious hosts', the Egans, domicile. Rosie asked that
I include the website for Inch House near Thurles in County Tipperary so
here it is http://www.tipp.ie/inch-house.htm
We turned up at Inch around eight in the morning, or a little before, just
in time for breakfast, and a little beside ourselves in thinking the meet
for the Golden Vale Hunt was to be, in effect, on our doorstep. Usually
we've got to eat, change, and fly out the door again to get to a meet in
time to move off with everyone else. This time, and for those who've made
this trip before we who were there were gloating, we were possibly in line
for a shower and maybe a cat nap before walking out the front door and
stepping on our horses. How much more service can you get?
Well, as you the dear reader may have surmised, my disbelief at our good
luck and the subsequent gloating session must have queered the deal. That
and the deluge of rain that Ireland had (continuation of the storm that
almost messed me up in Washington D.C. perhaps?) received the day before
necessitated a change of venue from the relative lowlands around Inch to
some higher and drier ground. So we had to drive twenty minutes to get to
the meet. We'll save Inch for another trip, eh?
Nora Egan was in the hall when we arrived and gave us a warm greeting.
You'll never find a more gracious host I don't believe, and she whipped up
breakfast for us, helping our foursome get as acclimated to Irish time and
routine as possible. We snarfed down a lovely breakfast complete with eggs,
mushrooms, both black and white pudding, and fresh squeezed orange
juice, and jumped upstairs to don the clothes of tradition and battle.
I mentioned the weather was fair if not down right balmy, and the long
underwear I had packed turned out to be virtually unnecessary the five days
we were to hunt. What a curious feeling not to have layers and layers on
while going to hunt from some Irish pub, lawn, or just plain roadside cut
out. Eric took my lead in a few things regarding dress, mostly about
layering, or lack thereof, and back down the beautiful old darkly stained
wooden Inch House staircase we stumbled, meeting in the gravel car park and
thence off to the little hamlet that was the meet. Don't ask me the name of
that place of destiny and destination because I can't remember., but it was
the home village/parish of John Egan, co-proprietor of Inch (as he proudly
informed us upon our return to Inch after hunting.)
Now, it really did only take us a few minutes to get where we were going,
and we were in time for a sort of traditional downing of hot port or whisky
before almost everyone else arrived. One lone face in that little village
did we recognize, that of one of the few Golden Vale Whippers-in Pat Hanley.
Pat still is, or certainly used to be, a race jock, rides like one, and was
part of the hunting tableau/silhouette snapshot moment I described while
hunting with the Golden Vale last November. Pat figures in the story a
little later on.
It's not that hard to sniff out a pub in an Irish village, but it can
sometimes be difficult to get one to open up for a little custom. Especially
difficult on a Sunday morning when mass is being said in the church on the
corner. Grosvenor and Eric were not to be put off by a little religion, and
starting opening doors that looked like they belonged to public houses. One
door revealed the inside of a pub, a room much used and abused from the
night before by all evidence, but no people to work the taps.
Encouraged by the proximity of taps and bottles but not put off the chase
for a live body to work said implements, Gro and Eric tried yet another
similarly styled door to the one which revealed the empty pub, a door also
open to the street. This portal lead our searchers to yet another, sort of
vestibular, door and an unfortunate encounter with some poor wight who, by
their account, was lounging on a couch in front of the television in his
drawers, leg thrown over an arm of his recliner as if not expecting any
disturbances. What you might be thinking at this point is, how red were our
intrepid hero's faces, why was the man half naked, and what was the reaction
of our man on the couch? The more important question, to my mind, was why
wasn't he in the church just across the street?
Back pedaling for all they were worth, Gro and Eric decided that the best
chance of getting a drink was to wait for the church service to conclude,
which it did quite soon after their search and expose mission. The publican
and his band of helpers attacked the inside of their establishment with
trash cans, brooms, rags, and buckets and all we could do was get out of
their way as they made an attempt at straightening up. The reason for the
state of the pub? A local 21 party held last night and into the wee hours of
the morning, and by the look of it, it was a bash. I don't believe a single
piece of glassware that the bar keeps owned was clean or put away as we
gazed out across the surfaces of bar counter and table top littered and
stacked with pint glasses, tumblers, and any other receptacle that would
hold good cheer.
We patiently awaited the arrival of our horses and our ordered drinks to the
sound of swept up glass and Irish banter. The publican had a grin on his
face, indicating that the night had been lucrative as well as fun, and he
handed over our hot ports/whisky's with a grin and kind word. An aside about
the healing effects of hot whisky. I don't know the exact formula, but it
seems to be equal parts whisky and hot water with some cloves and sugar
thrown in on top of a lemon wedge. These concoctions are indeed sovereign,
and I admit a weakness for them. Hunting behind my bassets this past Fall on
a day that held cold showers early and chilly drips late, I found myself at
a hosted hunt tea shivering from the cutting wet. What would help me out
better than a hot whisky, but sadly the staff at this reputedly Irish style
restaurant in Dundee, Illinois were unfamiliar and sort of unwilling to make
me one. I made a remark indicating my disappointment to a fellow tea goer
who also happens to be an Ex-MFH, and low and behold here came my hot
whisky, followed by two more before I was truly warm. As my benefactor said,
leave it to an old MFH to scare up a proper hunting drink, and I believe
he's right.
About the time that my whisky was cool enough to be drinkable the horses,
and more importantly, the hounds arrived and I'm sorry to say I left a few
swallows in my glass sitting on the bar as I dashed outside to join the
group. Call it a libation sacrifice to good luck and health out in the
huntfield that day. I could use a hot whisky right now, come to think of it.
I never put in a word of request for my mount for that morning, but I knew
who we were hiring from. And sure enough, I caught sight of old Archie as he
was unboxed by John Lang and his partner Jimmy Doyle and his reins were
handed over to me. I've described Irish obstacles before, and I plan to some
more here, but I don't know if I can accurately describe to you what a
relief it is to know that your horse, I mean really know it because you've
done this stuff together, can take on anything you put him to with no
messing about. Archie does indeed knows his tail from a whole in the ground
(keepin' it clean for the kiddies,) and what's even better is he'd rather
keep his long tail OUT of that hole. He's pretty good at it, too.
Matter of fact, we four were all pretty well mounted that day, though Eric
was a little sour over his lot in life in the form of Thunder. We tried to
explain that what sort of horse you draw depends on how many stone one
carries in weight, and though Eric is not fat as far as I know, he is a big
guy and will always be hired some fairly drafty type horses that can carry
his carcass safely for four, or five, or six, or seven hours.
Thunder is a paint looking broad animal, not as tall as you might think, but
up to the task of carrying anyone anywhere for however long. Eric rides TB's
at home and Thunder is a long way from a racy blood horse. More on that duo
later.
Oh, I forgot to say that I got on Archie from the ground, which, if you
remember my story from last November, I wasn't able to do so handily while
stuck in a grown over, tangled farm lane. I was kind of proud of myself to
mount that tall animal from the ground, to be honest. What I was more
skeptical of was, did I have my legs in the kind of shape that would allow
me to hunt for half the day, and do that five times in a row? Since November
I'd been hunting only sporadically, I described what I'd done in Tennessee
at less than three hours a crack, and though I'd done some pretty demanding
riding down in Morgan, GA, did I still have an iron butt and legs of steel.
Welp, the fifteen minute or so trotting hack to the first draw was a good
test of my unknown abilities. No problem so far.
You'll have to forgive me now, dear reader, because I must confess that
every little detail of that hunt was not indelibly etched on my brain. I'll
try and recount some of the hi-lights, but getting it all down in print is
beyond me. At least two other people who were there are also on this List so
they can feel free to interject.
We had a pretty good sized crew out, fifty or better in the field at least,
with a sprinkling of other Americans, which was a little weird (we're
usually the only Americans out.) One girl, an event rider from, like, New
Jersey or something, was over trying out eventers and was on her very first
foxhunt anywhere and out with the Golden Vale, a hunt which has a reputation
for some spectacular wrecks. She handled everything quite well and we may
have won a convert. Eric spoke with her much more than I so he can give his
opinion of that situation.
I remember our first bank and drain. The front side was of a smallish size
both wide and high, and I was feeling pretty blas� about this particular
obstacle. One stupid little pony got up on the bank and didn't want to get
off, creating a log jam I wasn't particularly in the mood for. A wizened old
farmer was up on the bank trying to kick the pony off the other side, the
pony having none of it, and finally the little white beast went back off the
bank to give someone else a chance. Archie and I got up the front side
efficiently. I think I had to duck some branches or something, but I'll tell
you now that the other side was a pretty wide chasm. I know now why the pony
balked, and I stared at that wide, deep, green muck filled ditch a couple of
times after Archie jumped across in relative disbelief.
Gro, Rosie, and I made it across fine, however our Cavalier, Eric, even
though Ro and Gro had given him the ditch and bank pep talk, didn't. He set
up wrong and didn't get the feel of sitting back and hanging on to your
horse as he slams the other side. Eric came up a little mussed and soiled,
but with a tip of his cap and smile for the entertainment of the farmers
gathered to see just such a performance, Eric mounted up and had no more
drain problems the rest of the week. Which is not to say that was the end of
his problems.
Congratulating myself for getting right back in the swing of crossing Irish
country just after that drain, I wasn't paying close attention to flying
debris from ahead and took a dirt clod directly in my right eye. I normally
wear eye glasses hunting, but the ubiquitous softness of the Irish weather
patterns demands I wear contacts, devices I apparently need getting reused
to from time to time. I know I saw the dirt ball coming, but I never
blinked, I guess trusting my spectacles to deflect the grit, glasses that
were at that very moment protecting nothing inside of my fleece jacket which
in turn was inside the trunk of our car. I spent the next ten minutes, and
three drains, blinking and crying furiously to get the sharp boulders out
from under my contacts. I eventually got most of the gunk out, though the
rest of the day I had a feeling of burning as if I'd scratched my eye, and
it wasn't until late that night at dinner that I blinked a mighty one and
felt a huge cinder move to the corner of my eye and the simultaneous
cessation of all pain. I took more garbage in the eye that trip, but was
more cagey about it and was able to keep the worst from happening.
The first hour or two produced nothing in the way of a fox, and we moved
around a bit, eventually striking out for a covert alongside a peat bog. I
wasn't overly enthused about hunting so close to bog, recalling war stories
of characters sinking up to horse bellies and beyond in brown
fuel/fertilizer slurry. Hounds went with the huntsman down a road cut
through the covert, wind blowing pretty fiercely now, and the field halfway
into the covert and halfway strung out along the paved road we'd hacked down
to arrive at this thick place. It looked foxy, and as mounted followers
chatted merrily with foot followers, all busy conversing but apparently
myself, a little orange fox slipped from one side of the cut road to the
other, behind the hounds advancing line of draw, and mere honest to god feet
from several conversationalists. I turned to Rosie, and with some excitement
and a lot of disbelief at both my fox sighting and the lack of any other
such notice, told her a fox just crossed. No one else seemed interested in
my pronouncement.
Nothing to do but sit there and wait, and I even figured I needed a break
(to get rid of the fresh squeezed breakfast orange juice and hot whisky) so
I made my way back to the end of the line. By this time the little fellow
had resurfaced again and hounds were brought over to investigate. The wind
was playing hobb with scent, and this little orange fox got away with his
brush that day. I however, was not able to accomplish a most urgent task,
and had to catch up to the field as they moved off for fresher coverts.
Drat!
The next half hour was taken up with figuring out a good place to take a
whiz, a feat I thought I had covered by the addition to my riding and
hunting repertoire of a new trick, that of watering a bush while mounted.
Unfortunately Archie, while superb in many areas, is pretty herd bound, and
wouldn't stand still long enough for me to take care of business far enough
away from other riders so as not to offend. We all went from one field to
another to another with me in some kind of discomfort. Once the decision to
whiz has been made, every second of delay can be torture. Luckily for me a
deceptively nasty stream crossing was holding the field up long enough for
me to get down off Archie, do my thing, and be up on his back in time to
take my turn. The crossing I speak of was an unjumpable drain, you had to
wade across, with a hot electric wire barring access. John Lang stood on the
edge of the drain hiking the electrified wire into the air with his whip,
allowing riders to pass under his outstretched arm in a funny sort of
benediction. I reached the far side very content.
My buddy Eric, upon receiving word that I'd been able to become more
comfortable, decided he was all for that and cast about for his own suitable
place. Now, there are several factors in this kind of maneuver, one of which
is placement, and another is timing. You don't want to get down for a whiz
in a slurry patch, nor do you want to be off your horse when the field moves
off at speed. Eric found himself a good dry spot to dismount, but
unfortunately timed his dismount poorly and was left standing as the field
went off after the huntsman and hounds. To Eric's credit, he continued his
activity, remounted Thunder, and caught up to the field after a fashion in
good humor. I would have been happy enough too if I'd been able to get rid
of the liquid he'd been carrying around.
Once we were through with that set of coverts to draw, we made our way at
speed out on to a paved road to the next bit of territory. There doesn;t
seem to be any real area of continuous draw over there, just a bit of covert
here and there with hacks of various lengths in between. Archie and I saw
this particular patch of paved road coming from a ways away, and slowed down
and set ourselves to handle it properly. And I'm glad we took such care
because this was the slickest piece of road I'd ever been on. It had been
newly asphalted and there was a kind of sheen on the road, like the steam
rollers used to pack the cinders down had turned some of the surface to
glass. No raised gravels, not horseshoe friendly grit to give purchase, just
momentum and balance and ability got a horse across that stuff.
After we passed the danger, I turned back to look at that patch of glassine
hard top in time to watch Eric take his second spill for the day. I don't
think Eric judged just how slick or dangerous that stretch looked and as a
consequence didn't check thunder up enough while moving onto it. He also
didn't get his weight moved sufficiently to the off side to help balance
Thunder enough for the both of them to stay upright, and over went Thunder
and Eric together. I watched the skid out, watched Thunder scramble up, and
then Eric, and watched the slightly dusty Cavalier get back up on Thunder
once again. Amazingly, both were relatively unscathed. Eric was fine and
Thunder had only a small raspberry on hip point and hock. The surface was so
thick and cohesive that no little stones, the damage causing things in a
skid like that, were lying about to open big wounds on horse or rider. I
call that most amazingly lucky. Yet more evidence that we were being looked
after by a higher power.
Our quest for a good run continued on into the afternoon. We passed along
the verge of one particular field at a good clip, a hand gallop if I
remember aright, and in a breeze that was freshening. The thing about this
field that was different from most others was the large hardwood trees that
bounded it. These trees, I've no idea what kind, were large, beautiful
healthy specimens, without any leaves of course. We were required to
negotiate this field in line and to the headlands, meaning single file and
at the edge, under the branches of this long line of hardwoods. The breeze
got to blowing harder and set the branches of these upright sticks swinging
at random intervals, creating an aerial obstacle course for the entire line
of trees. Archie was just tall enough that I had to be very concerned about
hitting, or hopefully missing, these swinging menaces. There must have been
a hundred yard stretch where the rhythm of the gallop had to be merged with
the rhythm of the rising and falling tree branch and the riders ability to
duck in order not to get conked on the head. Quite a unique experience and
possibly the coolest thing we did that day.
We did get on one small run that day, the four o'clock fox stretching his
legs to help us out, and for about fifteen minutes we were able to follow
the cry of hounds across country. Eventually we got boxed into a field that
we couldn't get out of. We watched the huntsman, Tom O'Meara, put his
chestnut at a hedge, all tangled together and forbidding, with Pat Hanley
smacking Tom's horse from below and behind to get it to crash through and
make a path. Pat left off his rear end encouragement when Tom's horse
started kicking out behind him in an effort to put an exclamation point on
his reluctance to move through that patch of grown together, prickly weeds.
I told you Pat would figure in this story again.
That place was abandoned as potential egress, and the field spit into
several factions trying to figure the best place to go. Some jumped some
wire out, some, including the filed master and us, backtracked and made our
way to the roads to get with hounds. We who made it to the road were able to
get back with hounds as they had checked up in a sheep pasture and that was
pretty much the end of our hunting that day. As usual, I had no clue where
we were, but a twenty or thirty minute hack brought us back to the meet and
another pub in that little village for a little unwinding.
Unwinding after an Irish hunt, for me, must include Guinness, and the pub
where we gathered was packed to the gills with other such drink seekers. A
smattering of sandwiched was passed around, but I wasn't quick enough to
grab one, though I did get some Guinness. Loud talking, pressed bodies, and
a harried looking couple behind the bar characterized that brief stay. Plans
were made to meet up with the other American contingent at the Chinese place
in nearby Thurles for food, and that couldn't come soon enough.
We extricated ourselves from the heavy hunt talk, mostly of a local Golden
Vale political nature, and made our weary way back to Thurles and the
Chinese place. Our dinner mates never showed, which didn't mean much, and
after a middling long wait (and for some a brief nap in the waiting area,
Gro) we sat down to dinner in one of the few places where food is served
past eight o'clock in the evening.
We puttered on back to Inch, with tired bodies and full bellies. The routine
of leaving boots and coats in the front hall was re-established, except for
Eric. His boots were not Aigles, were unlined, and were fairly tight
fitting. When back upstairs in the room we shared, Eric needed a favor, his
boots wouldn't come off without help. The Aigle lining does two things, soak
up sweat, and lubricate for foot extrication. Eric had been sweating up a
storm in his brand of rubber boot, and instead of helping lube up his legs,
the sweat was grabbing onto that rubber with a devil grip. We ended up in
the time honored boot pull stance of desperation, and I'm surprised someone
didn't rupture themselves, namely me. It took us a good twenty minutes to
get those boots off, twenty minutes stolen from sleep, but we got it done.
The next day we'd be close to a tack store and the promise of a boot jack.
Please let there be a boot jack near to hand!
Mondays, I think Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays are County Tipperary
days. That's right, a four day a week pack, and it being Monday, January 31
2000, and Rosie and Gro being members of the County Tipperary Hunt, we went
hunting with the Tipps. It was a little hard to get up out of bed that
morning, but not quite so bad that I needed to resort to an alarm. And as I
stood up to stretch, I went through my early morning outdoor temperature
gauging routine. What sort of scientific data collection maneuver did I
engage in? I simply put my hand against the night dark window pane to see
how it felt to my oh, so delicate and scientific sense of touch. Felt pretty
warm that day, so extra thermal layers were probably not indicated.
I dislike being rushed in the morning, not that I'm usually a slugabed or
dawdle in my morning ablutions, but I like to feel on top of things and will
sacrifice sleep for punctuality. I left myself and Eric plenty of time to
shower, garb up, and still enjoy the delicious breakfasts served up by Inch.
I think I've mentioned the protein loading that seems to characterize
hunting breakfasts at Inch House, and this trip was no exception. If one
were to be carefully observant, one could gauge the doings of the night
previous by the contents of breakfast plates. For instance, a late night
peppered with many cocktails will generally see a run on poached eggs and
toast the next morning. An easy night, or a breakfast early on in the trip
is likely to see black and white pudding, mushrooms, and other fried stuff,
the stomachs of the participants being not so overly delicate at this time.
I believe I had a full Irish breakfast that day. You judge what the night
was like.
As per usual, I'd no clue where we were hunting, and would have to get a
Tipps fixture card to reconstruct the scene. It was somewhere near Dualla,
but that's not the name of the place we met. I really should make more of a
point to remember these things, at least on the actual day of hunting, in
case I become irreparably separated from the hunt. I can just see myself
now, "I know we were meeting around here somewhere, Sir, did you ever notice
where a large bunch of horse boxes were hogging the roadside?" Or do you
think I should use the word "hugging?" IN any case, we were hunting
somewhere fairly close and arrived in good time.
Our horses were gotten from three sources that day. Danny Burke is a Tipps
jobber mainstay and Gro asked for a horse from his outfit. All last year
Danny was broke up with a cracked humorus (sp? I need a better dictionary,)
and I never met him. Didn't see him this trip either. Eric and I had horses
from Noel Walsh, and Rosie was brought her now traded in mare Hillary ( I
met another Hillary in McCarthy's later in the week, but no relation.)
Hillary was brought over by a lovely lady named Mrs. Ponsenby, or some such,
who looks after Hillary as if she were an honored guest on her farm rather
than the hunt horse she is. And Hillary was delivered on time, for a change.
Noel, as well as Danny, have really good horses, and I seem to have ridden
several from each stable in the past two seasons. I drew Taxi this day, the
third horse I'd ever ridden in Ireland, and the first one to fall over on
his side with me still aboard. Gro was on a horse named Rye, one that I'd
ridden the year before, and I don't know what Eric's big drafty mount was
called. I've discovered, due in large part to hunting abroad, that I'm quick
to figure a horse out these days. You hunt enough horses the first time ever
riding them and you're riding will either improve or show you the door. I
was as comfortable on Taxi as if we'd ridden together for years. Helps when
the horse is pretty much a packer to begin with. He ain't named Taxi for
nothing.
This Monday Tipps field was pretty slim, for them. I think we had under
twenty-five out that day, including we foreigners, which is practically
hunting alone by their standards, but those that were there were the die
hards. Simon Probin, the very well thought of and hard, hard, hard working
Tipps huntsman had separated his pelvis early in the season, and the long
time professional whipper-in, whose name has just flown out of my head, has
been hunting hounds the balance of the season. This fellow has a perma-grin
on his face and an unflappable attitude, knows the Tipps country like he
laid it out himself, and though he didn't have as much of a rapport with the
hounds that Simon has, they hunted very well for him. I learned a thing or
two, which was part of the point for the whole exercise. We'll see how much
of that day I can remember for you.
We started in some pastures, drawing these little gorsey places, looking for
fox with the bitch pack. Willy, the long time Tipps terrierman, semi-retired
by the look of it, held forth that the bitches were flying this season, and
I can't fault them for their work that day. If you want to know whose pack
of hounds were doing what in and around Tipperary, ask Willy, I think.
Immediately from the meet we made our way through a set of pastures that
contained some horses. I hate riding through horses more than anything in
the world. More often than not these free roaming equines will join you, and
with no steerage mechanisms (riders) they feel free to cut in and out of
where ever they please. Some of them, like "Dog Food" from back in Bull Run
country, think you're infringing on their turf and will get all studdy on
you and even start kicking out. The horses from this day were not causing
problems, but they were induced to jump out of their pasture and followed
the hunt quite a ways.
One long time Tipp's member sacrificed a bit of his day to collar one of the
wayward ponies and return it to the place from whence we'd acquired it. This
I learned at the finish of our first little run that ended with a fox in a
hole in a hedge practically right back at the meet. The triumphant hunt
member came puffing back into our company to murmurs of acclaim at the same
time that the hounds were being kept back from the hole, a committee
determining what was to be done with the fox.
Once, while we stood in a farm lane to the side and looked on, the pack got
away from the huntsman, charging back at the hole to see what they could do
to help, only to be sent back by the current Tipps terrierman, whipper-in's
huntwhip in one hand and little black terrier in the other. Picture a wellie
shod, tweed and nylon wearing lad, slightly worried terrier in one hand,
borrowed ivory colored whip in the other, with twenty odd couple of bitch
hounds streaming around his feet trying to get at reynard. The lad began
cracking his borrowed whip in a very workmanlike manner, he'd obviously
practiced, swinging the terrier around in his off hand in counterbalance to
his whip wielding limb. The whipper-in was down in the hole, for those of
you wanting to know, and unavailable for hound discouraging duty, but the
terrierman got the job done. The committee finally pronounced this fox in
too strong a tree root defended hole and left him for another day. Borrowed
whip back to the staff, terrier back in his box, feet back in our stirrups,
and on to the next covert.
In trying to get the chronology of events down I believe it was during this
short run that our friend Eric endeared himself to his Tipperary hosts. The
field being small, it was also cozy, and often mutually helpful. We were all
fairly well matched in riding ability, so no one was made to stack up at
fences for the most part (though I did just remember one little old sour
biddy out that was more ruled by than the ruler of her horse) because a
horse and rider couldn't get themselves over, through, under something. One
place did cause a bit of a pile up, primarily because one set of folks ahead
got affeared of some junk on the ground.
If I recall this incident correctly, Huntsman, Field Master, and a few brave
lads riding up front (remember I said the huntsman often rides in an
entourage) made it through a supposed gap in the corner of a field, but a
load of trash on the ground caused a log jam. One Tipps regular, a lady of
fairly slim build and slight stature, jumped off her horse to try and make
this passage more passable, trying to haul some tin sheeting over wire or
something. The task was a bit onerous, and apparently heavy, and she called
over her shoulder for reinforcements. Grosvenor, by this time, was chomping
at the bit to get up with hounds and assayed a bank and hedge to our right,
taking Rye (who has been called a "hunting machine" by a Tipps Master) over
and into the next field over quite handily. I was about to join Gro in his
alternate route, but noticed the newly plantedness of the field just over
the bank, turned back to gauge progress on the disputed gap, and about had
Gro jump into my lap on his way back into our field after he decided the new
seeding should be left undisturbed.
Our lady was having little luck with her piece of tin, and called over her
shoulder in a more urgent way for a little help on the task at hand. Eric
the Cavalier reacted instantly and jumped off his drafty mount, handed off
his set of reins, and lent his brawn to the covering of the wire with the
sheeting. As the saying goes, no good deed goes unpunished, and on one of
Eric's Herculean heaves to shift the tin sheet he missed his footing in the
muck (this WAS in Ireland, sopping land of sponginess) and skidded out,
tearing a hole in his new, white britches and soiling various other parts of
his
raiment and person. But, the tin got shifted, and with a smile on his face
Eric remounted and was given right of way along with his grubby partner, the
pair leading us to the farm lane and sight of the swinging terrier. A run
much too
short after such effort expended. I, for one, basked in Eric's reflected
glory as not quite so useless American visitors to the field.
Our next draw was a cool old place on the side of a steep hill several
thousand dozen trot steps from our holed up fox critter. We came at this
covert from below the hill on a paved public road, passing to the right side
of a six foot high stone wall barrier, and I was a bit surprised when hounds
turned off the public road into this obviously private preserve. I made a
remark to the Merle-Smiths that I felt as if we were taking hounds into Mrs.
Knox's walled-in hunting preserve, Flurry Knox at the head of his pack. The
Knox's being characters in "The Irish R.M." for those of you baffled by the
reference. The copy of the book I read is two hours away from where I sit
writing or I'd give you more such bookish information. The Merle-Smith reply
was to the effect that Mrs. Knox and her hunting preserve were some miles
away to the South and West of where we were sitting, but that didn't matter
much. The place we turned into lacked large groupings of runaway
rhododendron, but was a thickly vegetated, dark place surrounded by a high
stone wall. There was actually a house in the middle of the property, too.
Hounds were let go Just inside the entrance to this walled covert, at least
it was walled along the road front. We in the field followed along a tree
lined and branch overhung drive behind our Field Master, usually one of the
Tipps Joint Masters, but today that position was held by a marginally lesser
light with only a scarlet arm band to denote his function that day, quietly
chatting and listening for any hound voice that chose to really break the
silence. The day was warming up pretty well, thank the lord for my decision
to leave most extra insulating layers in my travel case, and I remember
wondering how hounds and horses would react if we got really going and the
temperature continued to climb. One Tipps lady indicated that the covert we
were drawing just then was a prime cub hunting target, the undergrowth being
so thick and conducive to fox reproduction. She indicated that some
brilliant days were had cubbing there, and though we were treated to the
occasional hound exclamation, I had to take her word for it not seeing any
evidence of this covert's manifested potential.
A lot of our time in that covert was spent moving back and forth along a
path at the upper edge boundary, barbed wire and sheep pasture just the
other side of the tangle of woodland all downhill. There was a fox or two in
there, but the hounds were having a hard time getting one up to run. Hounds
would speak, adding voices, and then everything would shut down as the
bitches recast to figure out how the fox had escaped. I think they were
swinging from vines at times, the fox not the hounds.
The top trail became a well known entity after our fourth or fifth traverse,
and thankfully the field was smaller than normal or the extra horses would
have churned the spongy places into deep soup well before we were quit with
the place. One part of the trail held a deep drop, making horse and rider
sidle up and then slide a good ways down the face before jumping off to
level ground. Eventually a way was found around that obstacle so we didn't
have to take it on more than once or twice. The only other notable barrier
to quick movement was a downed tree trunk sitting at about two foot off the
ground, or a little more. Usually nothing strenuous until you added in close
to hock deep mud on either side from frequent jumping. Taxi and I, on our
second time across it, took it a bit too lightly and Taxi went to his knees
on landing. I let him figure his feet with no interference and kept a
centered, balanced posture, getting put back together relatively quickly.
But never again, and we jumped that thing maybe four more times, did we even
come close to stumbling, falling, or even touching wood.
Somewhere in that wood a hot wire made an appearance and I remember
cantering across a manufactured downed place with a log straddling the wire
to keep it down. I've had horses jolt under me from stepping on one of those
things, and held my breath each time we crossed it, sometimes at speed. But
eventually the huntsman got tired of seeing the bitch pack frustrating
themselves on the Tarzan foxes in there and we moved on to other places.
We moved out the top side of that covert and into sheep pastures, drawing
along grown over banks as we moved toward another wide patch of gorse. One
pass through from field to field required slithering down into the bottom of
a drain and following the drains course a ways before reemerging onto the
level of the pastures. The first time through this twisty little path I had
eyes only for my horse's footing and keeping any reaching, thorny bush
branches out of my face. My hunt whip came in handy in that little
depression, keeping the bigger sticks from smacking my downy cheeks and
raking my eyes with various sized thorny protuberances. That's the main
reason I carry a hunt whip while not on active whipping-in duty. I can also
pick up a dropped glove from the back of my horse without dismounting due to
a well crafted buck hook.
Hounds made it into the thick gorse covert and lo and behold! got a fox to
run, right out in the open for everyone to see! And straight away this fox
ran, none of this slinking in and out of gorse bushes junk. As if one cue,
or, in reality, because of several subtle and overt cue's like hound cry,
horn blown, and kicks to the ribs as well as general tensing of human
muscles, and I'm sure, psychic emanations, the horses almost as one brought
up their heads and animated their bodies. Multiple and independent sets of
reins were shortened in unison, and giving the pack a bit of lead time to
settle on a direction, off we went, retracing our steps back to the big
woods, the bitches indeed flying behind one of the deep red colored Irish
foxes.
We had to get back through the low place I mentioned before, and this time I
noticed several new things about this pass through. First, there was a rusty
iron barred gate stopping the gap, indicating that this pass was used
frequently and had been for a lot of years. The second thing I noticed was
the bloated carcass of a dead sheep virtually plugging up the water way of
one of the drains leading to this low place. It took a few minutes to get
back through this spot, but a group of about ten of us, including hunt
staff, managed it in pretty good order. We took a farm trail back to a gate
leading us back into the big woods we'd just drawn for better than an hour,
tracking the progress of the hunt by the cry of the bitches off to our left.
We arrived at the gate back into those woods in time to see Charlie running
out across the green, open pasture, and head himself into the "Knox" woods
followed closely by the pack. What a treat to see the fox breast a slight
rise in the pasture, pass into the woods not fifty yards away from our
position, and then watch the hounds follow the newly laid down line exactly,
disappearing into the woods through the small hole made by the fox.
We riders got ourselves stuck into the woods one more time, and that fox had
a good idea what it was doing when it took the hounds in there with it. Very
soon after entering the woods the bitches checked and things slowed way down
as the bitches carried, lost, recast, and reacquired several times. I saw a
hare bolt away from we in the Field at one such check, with the hounds
seemingly getting further and further behind the fox we'd picked up in that
far away gorse, and decided that now was as good a time as any to get off my
slightly blown horse and relieve myself of the breakfast tea and juice. A
familiar theme by know, I'm sure.
I had reckoned the hounds had lost that good running, yet sneaky fox and I'd
have time to dismount and take care of "business." Nearly through with my
little routine, hound voices started up again, nearer to where we stood, and
where some of us whizzed, than I had anticipated, and the voices were coming
this way. Wait, not only this way but directly for us! One of my biggest
fears coming true, to be dismounted and undone when hounds hit and horses
fly! I had just enough time to put myself back together, remount Taxi (no
small task for me for those of you who've seen my graceless mounting
technique,) and settle my feet into stirrups before hounds came into view
right by us. At first I though they were rioting on the Hare I'd seen, but
Grosvenor quickly explained that a tallyho I'd missed indicated the fox had
indeed passed that way. I watched as the hounds spoke up to, and then passed
the tree I'd just watered, me praying that I hadn't just inadvertently
foiled the line in a most embarrassing way. We had enough trouble getting a
fox to run without some bone head whizzing on the line!
I didn't happen to spoil the fun that time though (whew!) and the hounds
took the line back into the open pastureland he'd come from, the hunted fox
unable to shake the determined Tipp's bitches. That was some top notch hound
work, let me tell you, and the way that the temporary huntsman let the pack
figure it out for themselves showed me something.
We ran back into the behind group, of which Eric was a party, and learned
that Eric had again shown his worth by getting down and opening the rusty
drain gate for his group. He got an up close and personal acquaintance with
the deceased sheep, better him than I, and the rest of the field hooked in
with us to again pass by our "moved on" farm animal trail marker. I believe
the fox got enough of a lead on the hounds in the woods to make a dash for
one of it's hiding holes in the gorse, and the hounds came away empty handed
after working so hard. A pity the run was so short, but everything you could
want in a hunting pack was shoved into and shown to us in the limited time
we were on that run. Still daylight left, so on we drew for another fox.
Staff changed horses at a cross roads, and we waited patiently for the next
attempt. We drew similar territory to that above the big woods, meaning
pasture and drain country without many banks, a little sloppy but generally
cool country to be riding across. Hounds again found, and away we went on
our third run of the day. This set of pastures had wire strung everywhere,
and the hunt had undertaken to make it more passable by erecting some hunt
jumps, a more prevalent sight these days over there but by no means on the
scale of the American system. On this run we saw evidence of the reluctant
jumper stacking up the field when a pair of stiff old post and rails came in
quick succession.
The first rail was fairly high, but came down within a few riders, someone's
horse knocking into the rail and making a mere humped up gap of the fence.
The second set of rails, and when I say rails there was only one rail set
across two upright poles, turned out to be much stiffer and more of a
challenge. I watched the huntsman and whip, on fresh horses, fly the fence,
touching the rail with back feet but not severely. The rail didn't even
twitch. The next fellow really rapped the post, almost hanging both back
feet before slithering over to the landing side. Rail didn't even twitch.
Several more figures took the fence in good order, Gro and Ro made it over
ahead of me, and I got stuck behind what turned out to be the lone bad
jumper in the field that day.
This little old lady, who I briefly mentioned above, had a horse that new
her number, though she thought she could make it do anything. This horse,
who could and did jump that fence, took a look at it and refused, not once,
but twice in front of me. She started a string of imprecations aimed at her
horse and the world in general, never at herself, and I took an opportunity
as she circled to nip in and take the fence while she figured herself out. I
gave Taxi lot's of direction on this one in case he had gotten spooked by
the previous exhibition of refusals. No problem for the lad, however, and
though he had to really use himself to clear the barrier, it was at least
four foot and at the end of a longish day, he showed no signs of stopping or
rapping, as if to show the crabby lady and her reluctant pony how the job
should properly be done. I can almost feel the grin that was on my face from
that jump even today.
Unfortunately, this run too came to an abrupt end as the hounds lost on a
small hillside. Late in the day, hounds were called in and picked up, but
our path back out of where we ended up lead us back over that high post and
rail. Taking things easy to conserve horses, a few lads got off to try and
lower the bar we'd all just jumped over. Taking the time to really look at
this fence, an extremely tightly wired rail revealed itself attached to the
posts. The ground crew couldn't unwire it, nor could they force the rail
lower even after standing on top and jumping up and down. I've seen less
sturdy cross country jumps. So, we each got up a good head of steam ( I made
sure to be in front of the crabby lady) and back over we all popped. No
tragedies ensuing.
Now I have a fuzzy recollection of making it back to the meet, where I don't
believe any pub was waiting. At least, I can't remember repairing to the
usual watering hole for a pint or three. I do know that we were expected for
dinner in Thurles at the home of Maddy Ryan (sp?) and we made our way back
to Inch to change for dinner. No Chinese food in grubbed up riding togs for
us that night.
I'm not sure of the correct spelling of Maddy's first name. It could be
Matty, short for Matthew, or Mathias, but hopefully Rosie can chime in and
enlighten me. Eric and I were prepped for the encounter briefly before the
appointed hour of our dinner engagement, but I didn't know exactly what to
expect. This was a Merle-Smith Irish buddy I'd not met before.
Somehow I remember getting back to Inch and having only enough time to
quickly change clothes, no time for a shower, and we were to be in Thurles
by seven. We piled into one of our rental units and made our way to the
pretty deserted hamlet of Thurles, just minutes up the road from Inch. We
presented ourselves at the front door to the Ryan abode (Maddy lives there
with his Mother) which is hard by his jewelers shop on the Thurles square,
and waited quite a while for the door to open, thinking maybe we'd been
stood up. I must have had some kind of liquid somewhere, somehow I must have
had a pint or two, because I definitely remember ducking into the outdoor
accessed loo of a nearby pub. I think Grosvenor availed himself of the same
facility before Maddy met us at the portal to his home. Where the heck did
we do any drinking between hunting and then?
Anyway, let me describe Maddy's home, then I'll tell about one of the best
evening's I've had in quite a while. Maddy Ryan lives in a cobbled together
set of rooms twisting about, up, and through three floors of the buildings
just back of the square in Thurles. A small sitting room at the front door,
with fireplace, has a staircase leading up out of it to a sort of half
landing with doors (one at least to Maddy's loo) in several places as the
stair continues on to a combination parlor and dining room, kitchen just off
that. Every nook and cranny has some sort of picture, or sculpture, or knick
knack, or doo dad, most of very high quality, in several themes the most
obvious of which were hunting and racing. If I remember right, Maddy had
quite a racing career before settling down as a noted jeweler. We were
whisked upstairs before I could ask any questions about any of the items so
bedazzling my eyes. One statue in particular caught Grosvenor's fancy to the
point that he was manipulating the placement of said object during a lull in
the visit as Maddy ducked into the kitchen.
The reason for the delay at the door was due to Maddy's furious cooking to
get ready for our arrival, such frenetics a result of his just completed
return from Paris. Or was he going to Paris the next day? This is one man
who gets around. One of his more recent trips had taken him on a cruise some
direction on the Nile, up or down I don't remember which, for the turn of
the Millennium. His description of the service on that float trip was
incredible, to the point of almost ridiculousness. Trash bins emptied on the
hour, discarded clothing laundered while a person stepped into the shower.
Fantastic, and such tales all delivered in as cultured a speaking voice as
one is likely ever to hear. To give you an idea of what Maddy looked like,
imagine Sir Anthony Hopkins at his present stage of life but a dozen pounds
lighter. That's what Maddy looks like, and Eric had the guts to say so to
Maddy himself. Maddy received the news with careful aplomb and noted to our
little group that he hadn't really heard that before, but that Sir Anthony
was a friend of his. Only half an hour in Maddy's presence and I could
readily believe that he traveled in the same crowd as Anthony Hopkins.
We passed a bit of time sipping cocktails, Maddy had a nice Lagauvulin (sp?)
single malt of no small age on the bar, which Gro and I both selected, while
Eric asked for a martini, I think, and a scramble for martini stuff ensued.
Maddy hadn't had a chance to restock the bar since the last time he'd
entertained. Eric made due with some form of libation, I wasn't wholly
paying attention. After one of Maddy's kitchen trips, he asked if anyone was
interested in soup, and having an idea what sort of dinner we'd been invited
to, I piped up that I would be interested if it weren't too much trouble. If
we'd have asked for freshly packed caviar I believe Maddy would have made an
honest attempt if he didn't have any to hand. I love soup, and was very
curious to see what would appear. Another fifteen minutes and soup was on.
We sat down at a lovely old dining table, room for half again as many as
were there was possible comfortably. Crystal stemware, sliver flatware, and
dishes and plates of bone china were laid out for us, and I counted up the
different number of knives, forks, and spoons and determined that this would
not be just a bowl of stew and a mug of tea for supper. The soup which I had
requested arrived at just the right soup temperature. I think some parts of
that soup were canned derivatives, but Gro explained that some extra goodies
had got in, sherry and bacon crumbles among them I would guess, and the
stuff was so good I couldn't refuse a second bowl when offered. I like soup.
A lot.
Next we were given salmon with I think fennel on the side, capers, and a
creamed mustard sauce. I even used the silver fish knife placed before me.
Didn't know I even knew there was an animal such as a fish knife, did you?
Multi talented, that's me. The main dish was to be steak fillets, garlic
potatoes, green beans, and mushrooms and onions. The steaks were indeed
pretty common, as admitted by Maddy himself before setting them out for us,
but the rest of the meal more than made up for the quality of the beef. A
mushroom of any type is guaranteed to put a smile on my face, and, like the
soup, I was able to zip back for more of those.
Wine was poured around in generous quantities. Red wine, which can give me
fits if the sulfite content is too high, was the type served, appropriately.
Two bottles stood on the table at once at all times in silver bottle
dishes, dishes engraved to Maddy for some sort of award or memento from some
terribly wealthy client. Having read a number of Patrick O'Brien books and
followed the career's of his two main characters, Maturin and Aubrey, I
could only think of the descriptions of captain's dinner's served at sea,
with large quantities of interesting and sometimes exotic foods and buckets
of wine being consumed as were yards of spun yarns and stories. Grosvenor
complimented our well set scene by recounting a similar dinner held in his
brother's honor several years ago. An affair in which the dinner
participants enjoyed course upon course of fine foodstuff, interspersed with
entertainment from several sources, all diners dressed in period French
costume. I felt a tiny bit of that bygone Louis the Fourteenth atmosphere
that night as he spoke.
Dessert was some sort of chocolate confection, another quick way to my
heart, served with coffee, and I wondered if we were to get the full
treatment. By full treatment, I mean to say I wondered if cheese and port
were to make the rounds, and sure enough, the pudding dishes were cleared
and a bottle of port appeared accompanied by my, now, favorite cheese.
You'll forgive me if I can't remember the name of the port, Graham's, I
think, and I'm not sure if it was a vintage year or not. I don't have those
dates memorized. My brother has dragged me into the realm of port drinking,
and I have absorbed some of that type knowledge from him. This port was very
fine, and the cheese, a chamenzolla (sp?) (lot's of unknown spellings in
this piece aren't there?) was absolutely the perfect compliment to the meal.
At some point during the meal, Eric needed to excuse himself to find the
restroom, him having skipped that stop in the pub out back. I mentioned this
only to say that after he left the table, Maddy wondered aloud if he would
find the right door to the loo and not make a different, and wrong, choice
at that half landing and intrude upon Maddy's aged mother. Sure enough, Eric
came back into the dining room with a small grin on his face, and when asked
admitted to making an unfortunate, yet not together totally embarrassing
selection, meeting Maddy's mother as she relaxed in bed. Picking wrong doors
was becoming a habit, I think.
Cheese and wine all drunk up, with me walking the ragged edge between happy
from drink and sick from over indulgence, Maddy glanced at his watch,
declared the hour to be two in the morning, and gave a startled shriek,
accompanied by a half order for we lads to be off. Maddy did indeed have to
fly somewhere important in the morning, and of course, we were off for
hunting with the Black and Tans of the Scarteen Hunt.
I've tried to describe the evening we had, but I couldn't possibly half do
it justice. Suffice to say that I've written down enough here to spark the
memory when time has dulled the details. Time can never diminish the sense
of camaraderie that an elegant meal shared with true friends can bring
together.
With a parting word at the door to his twisted domicile, we bid goodnight to
Maddy Ryan and rattled back home to Inch. Eric and I spent an hour more upon
stumbling up to bed rehashing the two days just passed, me not wanting to
give in to bed spins, Eric needing to talk about the wonderful things he'd
seen and done. I was a bit concerned about the morrow, however. There was no
comfort factor of familiarity with horses, terrain, or people as we were
going someplace entirely new to me.
I believe Eric and I finally shut up at three in the morning Feb. 1 of this
year, and not a minute too soon I'm thinking. I remember waking up at around
seven thirty, still dizzy from the previous night's repast, though
miraculously free of any sign of a headache. No energy, though. I went
through the motions of waking up and dressing, warm out again so I was able
to spend the least possible amount of time getting my clothes on (no extra
layers or time searching those layers' whereabouts.) No one else in the
house was stirring, not Eric, not Grosvenor, not Rosie, and no Egan's nor
the English Hare Coursing fans who were also in residence. I figured I'd let
the alarm go to get wake Eric, resolving to let him make his own sleep
decisions and popped downstairs for a round of coat brushing.
I turned the deadbolt lock and swung open the massive, white painted Inch
door, stepping outside to the most gentle and warm of mists. Gosh but that
felt good to my over used body, but it made brushing the dried Tipperary mud
off my black frock coat a bit of a problem. I stole back indoors and tried
to get as much mud off as I could given that it was just before dawn and I
had no idea where the light switch for the front entry hall was located.
I'll tell you now that I didn't much care if I got every speck off. I
figured I'd effect a trailworn look for the day and hoped I'd knock the more
major chunks of mud so as to be less than downright disgraceful.
My cleaning task completed, coat and horse brush replaced, I went back
upstairs to assess the readiness of anyone else. Gro and Ro were stirring,
Eric was showering, so I put some more hunting clothes on and made my way
downstairs to start breaking fast with Rosie. Ro was in civilian clothes
that day. She was headed out to meet with John Joe Richards, whom several of
you in Virginia and Dallas, Texas, of all places, know to look at horsy
prospects. She needed to leave actually even earlier than we did, and I felt
a little sorry for that.
Breakfast was strict poached eggs and toast, and not much of that. Supper
from last night was still very much with me, and the thought of choking down
a great quantity of fried or sausage anything was more than I could bear. Am
I painting a sorry enough picture yet? Eric and Gro came down and were
looking actually better than I felt. How was that possible when we'd all
been through the exact same endeavors? I had no spare energy to ponder that
turn of events and so gave up all speculation, concentrating on putting one
foot in front of another so as to be ready to go when everyone else was.
Rosie left on time, and soon after her departure we three lads were kitted
up, fitted out, and ready to roll. Our destination, apart from Rosie's, was
(as the subject title indicates) the Vale of Aherlow and a day with the
Black and Tans of the Scarteen Hunt. Scarteen may be the first Irish hunt
that I had ever heard of, and could successfully remember that they were
Irish, and I'd heard enough of and read enough about the hunt, and
particularly the Ryan family who hunts those hounds, for this to be special
day. I'd also heard that they can be a hard riding crew with some tricky
country, and can thank my lack of energy for keeping my nerves at the
prospect of a tough day from getting the better of me.
The drive was a bit longer than usual, and we'd allowed an extra hour so as
to arrive on time. Our destination was the town of Lisvernane, remembered
that name because I looked up on a map where the Vale of Aherlow and the
rest of Scarteen hunt country were located. The mist that had driven me
indoors in the morning staid with us throughout our drive, and let up only
as we dropped down into the Vale, and I do mean dropped down into it. The
route Gro chose took us up and over one of the high ridges that flank the
Vale, and a conifer lined, switch back riddled road twisted it's way down to
the flatter portion of the Vale, much like a reverse of what we went through
in Maddy Ryan's apartment. I was glad I was conscious enough to look out the
window as we made our way down that decline.
We traveled a fair way down the Vale before we hit the little town of
Lisvernane. We were early, thank goodness, and were able to duck into the
pub for a little pick me up before hunting. I admit to feeling a little
punky at that particular point, so you won't be too surprised when I say I
headed for the restroom directly upon entering, and forwent any beverages
while waiting for horses. Shoot, I'm making myself tired writing this stuff.
The three of us stood around in the pub, kept company only by the publican,
and gathered strength to ourselves for the unknown of the coming hunting
day.
The door to the pub opened after a while and admitted a stream of smiling
faced, happy, energetic, bubbly, talkative, happy, energetic (oh, I'm
repeating myself) people to dispel our isolation. And, they were like us,
Americans. It's almost a sort of reverse culture shock for me to see
Americans hunting in Ireland, I don't know why it should be, but it is.
These folks, not all of which were garbed for riding, were from Michigan and
hunted with Metamora. One of the Michiganders was a retired Metamora MFH,
(forgive my poor memory for not naming him, ) and a girl named Jody (?) who
has begun whipping-in for that club. Jody was perhaps the bubbliest of that
bunch, and I hope she'll forgive my poor reception upon their arrival. She
had a slew of questions about the hunt and what she was likely to encounter
that day, and I hadn't the energy to answer properly. Thank goodness Gro and
Eric were able to make the effort and hold up our side.
Jody explained that she'd trained for months, actually set out a riding
routine and schedule so as to be in shape to chase after Scarteen hounds,
and she sort of got me wondering what I was in for my own self. I hadn't
done any training for this. In fact, I was surprised I wasn't a lot more
sore than I was as I had stopped continuous hunting somewhere around
December, and the last two days of Irish hunting should have made me feel
like my muscles were on fire. Good thing I hadn't the energy to worry about
that, either.
I excused myself to visit the loo one more time, trying to cut down on the
number of dismounts during the day, and feeling much more human, I came back
into a completely empty public room. Not a soul, not even the bar keep.
Meant someone had spotted the horses and I'd best get my butt outside to get
a horse before they were all gone! I stepped out to a much more crowded
scene than when I'd left the street. Cars, horse boxes, horses and people
were everywhere, and I had no idea what our horse hirer looked like at all.
How to choose the right person?
As I stood at curbside to the pub, I saw Eric standing nearby but across the
street, talking to someone who could possibly be the jobber, so I quickly
stepped over to see what the scoop was. A man held a horse near Eric and
possibly our man, a tall, fit, chestnut gelding of mixed tb and Irish draft
ancestry, heavy on the tb, with his head high in the air, his nostrils
dilated, and the whites of his eyes showing all around. He had a four inch
band of something black on his ankle which turned out to be electrician's
tape, and as I gazed at this beast in trepidation I thought to myself that
someone was going to have their hands full with that one and I hoped it
wouldn't be me. I Approached the little group surrounding Eric, and was
possibly identified as one of Gro's crew, though I'm more inclined to
believe that they could see I was just another visitor in need of a horse.
The man who looked in charge looked at the older man holding the horse,
nodded his head, and the reins of the skittery chestnut were handed over to
me. I never asked the reason for the tape. Could my luck have run out on
this trip at long last?
Not knowing what kind of hand I'd just been dealt, but not a complainer
either, I graciously, though somewhat fearfully, accepted my new lot in life
and made to climb aboard. I've carried a hunt whip on every ride I've had in
Ireland, had one with me then, too, but the man who was transferring this
horse eyed up my whip and suggested I didn't need it for this animal. As I
got close to his head I could see that this semblance of a stick in my hand
was indeed worrisome to him, but I assured the horse handler that my whip
was there primarily for branch fending duty, and would be used on the horse
only at great need. He looked askance but said nothing more about the whip,
and I actually asked for a leg up to get on. First time I ever asked for
such help, though by far not the first time I'd ever accepted a leg up.
As I swung a leg over and settled myself into the saddle, the Chestnut,
never knew his name, became a little animated, maybe from the whip, but
probably from the convergence of people, horses, horse boxes, and whatever
other distraction you might care to name. His head was still in the air, and
he kept turning his body to meet head on any new perceived noise or
potential boogey man. It's always those first few minutes when you're trying
to figure a horse out that are the most disconcerting, and this big gelding
was doing nothing yet to unjangle my nerves and let me trust him. I made
sure not to make any sudden moves, and made darn sure that I never made a
gesture with my whip, keeping my body centered and my hands quiet, willing
myself to relax so he would take the hint and settle down as well.
After a time this program seemed to have the desired effect, I believe I
heard a few sighs escape my steeds body, always a good sign, and the man who
gave me the horse came up, I asked him if I should know anything about the
horse, and all he said was he'd take me anywhere I wanted to go. I could
imagine many places I might want a horse to take me, so I trusted the old
guy and set my mind to be where the action was all day. Eric rode up after
that, again on a big paint packer, and pointed in horror somewhere at my
horse behind where I was sitting. He got my attention on his second gasp,
and I looked back to see a silver dollar sized chunk of skinned flesh on the
point of my horse's hip, probably garnered in the horsebox and possibly what
had made him spooky early on. I glanced at the rub, determined I could do
nothing about it, and shrugged it off. I'm not sure what Eric made of that
display of nonchalance.
Most people mounted by then, I was in a good spot to watch the Scarteen
Kerry Beagles unbox and come marching down the street at me and my gelding,
a laughing, whipcord thin Chris Ryan in confident charge of his pack. There
were perhaps twelve or thirteen couple of dog hounds out, some of them
looking rather gray in the muzzle. Aside from the hounds, Chris was
surrounded by a coterie of three or four helpers, and I could never get a
good idea if anyone in particular was out whipping-in for him, those riding
the fringes changing fairly often.
Our day started with the usual trotting hack up the road, but not so far a
distance as some we'd taken before. Chris and the hounds ducked off the hard
top and made immediately for a smallish looking covert., and the field
followed in his tracks. So far the gelding I was on had decided to be a good
citizen during hacking up the road. He possessed a not too terribly
uncomfortable trot, and listened to the bit when I asked him to back off
from the horse in front. He was quick with his feet, and handy in slop as we
dodged breast high pricker bushes and ankle deep boggy places, and I was
becoming more and more at home with my mount rather than fretting that I'd
been stuck with a potentially rank nag.
Our first obstacle was a little stick filled gap sort of hedge thing, and I
believe he gave it one look. That's all he was allowed. I made as if to give
the next rider behind me a chance at the fence, she told me to go on and try
again, and I made sure this character was going over. We popped that hedge
in the classic sense, i.e.. he stopped, looked , got goosed, and jumped
close
in on take off and landing, but he knew he wasn't going to be allowed to
slack off that day.
We must have drawn three or four little coverts before getting a fox up to
run, and the Kerry Beagle live dup to its deep throated reputation. The
hounds sent up a deep base note, and off we went after the pack, driving
alongside a creek that flows through part of the Vale. Scenting must not
have been too spectacular there at the start, because the chorus soon
dwindled down to a quartet, then a solo, then silence as the hounds cast
about looking for the line of this fox. Chris and his helpers drew back and
forth along the last known position of Charlie, but no luck and on to the
next draw we went.
Parts of that early afternoon were spent along this deep creek, the Field up
high along the bank, slipping and sliding in some serious deep going as we
followed the path of the hounds. It seemed as if we were neglecting large
coverts in favor of small ones, a plan I wasn't understanding until I was
told that the country we were riding hadn't been hunted in over fifty years.
Everyone was feeling their way slowly about the territory, and being careful
about putting hounds in to places that no one knew how to get out of easily.
Thus the drawing out of the dog hounds, and some older, apparently steadier
ones at that. The plan made manifest to me, I was more than content to let
it unfold without complaint.
There were the usual amount of loose horses and spills, but I think all of
them occurred behind rather than in front of me, so I can't comment on an
juicy involuntary dismounts. Out that day along with the crew from Metamora,
a contingent from Howard County- Iron Bridge, lead by one of the Jt.
Masters, were keeping with the program, but (I later learned) were unhappy
and untrusting of their horses abilities. By this time, I had faith in my
gelding to take me where I wanted to go. Going to show you can't always tell
by first glance or first impression.
We met up with the ladies from Maryland in Hospital (the town, not the
institution! don't jump to conclusions) at the tailor shop of the world
renown Michael Fraser. (sp?) One of that foxhunting trio had been awarded
her colors and had just had a lovely new blue formal coat created. Gro was
in for a fitting on his new scarlet hunt frock, thus our reason for being in
the same place at the same time though we were about an hour away from the
Vale of Aherlow. We were to meet again two days later, we from Inch and they
from Maryland, for our last day of hunting and again with the Tipps. I hope
I have time to describe that day.
Towards the middle of the day, Chris Ryan took the pack and hauled them
further into the countryside than we'd been doing up to that point. Previous
draws had been fairly close to the main road running down the middle of the
Vale, but for this area of covert a hunt supporter had created a number of
hunt jumps to get the horses quickly over wire from pasture to pasture. The
Field Master held the field back a bit to allow the hounds to get a lead on
the mob of horses should anything unforeseen happen and some maneuvering
room
be needed. It was needed.
I remember watching the hounds and huntsman crossing an open field and
wondering why in the world they were making for what looked like a cross
country jump stuck out in the open. Why didn't they all just ride around.
What I couldn't see at that point (and I know now what Rosie means by
invisible high tensile wire sneaking up on you, sympathies on the busted
wing Rosie) was the wire strung up on little wands separating parts of that
pasture from other parts. We had a line, then, of obstacles to pass before
we
caught up again with hounds.
The first jump into that series was a solid old log jump, fairly high, but
pretty wide and I thought inviting. Horsy took it with no problem and on we
went to the next challenge, which was a deceptive little drain. The drain
was a bit deep, but level on both sides, and you didn't notice it until
really close to the edge. When you're coming at speed and don't know
something must be jumped, you have to take your departure zone as you find
it. I was fortunate to figure out the ditch a little further out and set up
for it in a decent spot. Others were less fortunate, as I saw one fall and
several stops.
With the drain behind us, the next fence came up quickly, and this one
sorted out several people. It was a board strung along the top wire of the
high wire livestock barrier between a few wooden post uprights. Horses were
refusing that thing left and right in front of me, and my chestnut, seeing
this nonsense, stopped on me twice. Fortunately the field was so strung out
at that point that putting him right back at the fence was no problem, and
we eventually got on the same page, that of OVER, and took a very pretty
jump. We had one more of those high wire acts to accomplish before the line
of fences was completed, but the second such jump was old hat to my gelding
by that time and we sailed the second board. Got the blood flowing, I will
admit.
More than my blood was flowing after that display, apparently, because once
the field had reorganized and we'd gotten onto the scent of a fox, charging
away down the headlands of a few grass fields, my pony decided to let fly
with one of those mighty two legged back kick buck combinations. A lady from
Michigan was next in line behind me, and I heard her excited yell as my
horse tried out his rodeo tricks. My first instinct was that the horse I was
on was unhappy about tailgaters and was kicking back to warn or to strike.
Second instinct was that he was trying to get rid of me, testing me again. I
moved him up forward some more so as to keep his rear away from those coming
from behind, and watched for any more such displays of unneighborliness at
the check at the next bank as we qued up to pass through. No back kicks were
forthcoming, so I ruled out kicking to clear space for himself. First
thought put to rest.
That left me then with my second thought, that the horse was trying to rid
himself of me. But at the next check he stood around with no complaints. If
he was tired of having me on his back, I would guess he would be dancing
around, mincing and jigging, biding his time until he could heave around
again and try and unseat me. He was good as gold, so what was the cause of
the bucking? the answer came a few gallops later when he ripped a couple of
those maneuvers off in a row, never taking advantage to follow up from one
heave to the next to rid himself of me, but stringing a series of kicks and
bucks along in the sheer joy of being able to run. As long as I was staying
in the saddle, I guess I didn't mind, and I was shown that my horse had
depth and stamina as well as scope. I was warming up to him more and more.
I'll admit now, too, that I asked one of the Scarteen regulars if they knew
the horse and was there anything I needed to know about him. The person so
queried did indeed know the horse and said he was a champ. Good enough for
me.
The last run of the day, the proverbial four o'clock fox, proved to be our
best. We had been busy during the day, much busier than our first attempts
had indicated, and several fox were hunted and viewed, most slipping away or
being holed. We in the field were paralleling the action of the hunt at
perhaps a distance of a quarter mile, watching as the hounds and the
huntsman and staff, on foot, worked a covert and eventually put a fox to
ground behind a house. When the foot people finally rejoined the ranks of
the mounted people, hounds were put in to a covert that I vaguely remember
was swampy. And they hit, producing some really great cry, but quickly
getting away from the horses into pastures that no one knew the tricks of.
We rode hard across some fields, getting into some old gravel farm lanes,
and riding even harder to stay in touch with the hounds. The field was right
up with the huntsman, and all strung out to the back as we could sometimes
just see, and sometimes just hear where the fox was taking the hounds. And
he was definitely making for somewhere other than where he got up.
Fox and hounds made it across another hard top road at a place we couldn't
and slipped into a series of sheep pastures way uphill from where we stood
on the road. I remember catching a glimpse of the pack strung out and
running hard in a line and thinking how small they looked. We galloped as
hard as you want to go first one way and then another along the pavement,
looking for a way into the fields beyond that would put us closest to the
hounds. Many car followers were out, giving the huntsman and Field advice on
where to go, Jody from Michigan being one as she'd taken an earlier
opportunity to head in. Gro had pulled up alongside my horse just as we made
it onto that hard top and then took his shoeless horse in, and Eric was
riding somewhere behind on his slower, steadier mount, presumably with some
of the other folks from America. At one point I was in danger of passing the
Field Master, I remember jumping some wire right behind him, and also a few
cattle guards not yards of his flank. That was one wild ride, and I saw one
horse put a hoof through a cattle guard and come up leaking blood.
We had a bend of about twenty there at the end, more coming up from behind.
A gate was opened into a pasture, and Chris Ryan and a few others scooted
through and made straight up the side of the Vale. We in the Field followed
along as close as possible, but eventually our horses started to slow the
pace as the way became steeper and steeper. When I saw Chris off his horse
and blowing for hounds, seemingly aiming the cone of sound from his horn up
into the thick forestry three or four hundred feet above where we were
standing I knew we were at the end of the day. The Field Master confirmed it
as he explained the hounds had gotten into the planted pines and Chris would
have a long job getting them back out again. We had a few older hounds
coming on from behind with us, but I felt a twinge of guilt at turning for
home to leave the staff to the rest of the work. Not my place to offer,
though.
Tired and smiling, we made our way back down the hillside to the road below.
I geared myself up for a nice long hack back to Lisvernane and the meet when
the smiling face of my horse jobber hove into view and held out his hands
for the reins, stating he'd arranged for me to get a ride back to town. I
popped off that horse quick as you please, paid and praised the man for his
fine horse, it did take me everywhere I wanted to go, and piled into the
same car as the Field Master, Jody from Michigan, and two other lads who
were generally up at the front all day long. There were some objects sharing
the floor of the back seat that I occupied that looked suspiciously like fox
scat with raspberries in it, but I didn't look too closely lest I confirm my
suspicion and spoil my ride.
A pint or two in the pub waiting for Eric to arrive and a long chat with
Jody (I keep calling her that and I hope that's indeed her name) later, we
were treated to a videographed account of our day. A tall drink of water
named William Buckley had literally run around with a digital video camera
and caught a fair amount of the hunt, including spills, and a great record
of the final hunted fox with hounds behind. We laughed as riders parting
company with horses were shown in slow motion replay and then again
backwards, and I'm glad to say I've copy of that day due to arrive in the
mail any day now.
Our time there was fleeting, and you know we had to stop off at Hospital. We
were engaged for dinner at Inch house with both John Joe, who'd been out all
day with Rosie, and with the Ryangerry's, Marion and John. We had a lovely
meal, great conversation, and I'm sorry to admit that I had to turn in
earlier than our guests departed. My humble thanks to Eric, Rosie, and
Grosvenor for dissuading John Joe from stealing upstairs and pulling some
sort of prank on me while I slept. The next morning Eric told of a different
bedtime caper John Joe had instigated on a different night that had me
chuckling for quite a while. But that's also not my story to tell.
Our cool day with the Scarteen hounds was to be followed the next day by an
equally anticipated outing with Duhallow. Grosvenor, Rosie, and various
other members of their hunting groups over the years, and I do mean years,
had heard of the proficiency of this pack and had been trying repeatedly,
with no luck, to get a day in with them. We'd tried the previous hunting
season to no avail. Either the days we had available they were booked up, or
freak natural occurrences kept the hounds kenneled up. Not so this February,
and the day dawned bright, a little cool, but Sunny and happy, and all
systems, even our own abused physical selves, were go.
I'll dispense with breakfast and the preliminaries. We ate enough, and drank
sparingly, having arrived at the proper fueling proportions to get us by in
the fields. Our goal was the Duhallow Hotel, I think that was the name, and
the instructions on how to get there were fairly straight forward. We'd
discussed the route the night before, polling three native islanders and
receiving two different paths and time estimates. Having some experience
with the direction and driving ability of the lone dissenting descriptor,
John Ryangerry, who is notorious for both for underestimating time and for
planning strange routes, we chose the advice of John's wife, Marion, and the
concurring opinion of John Joe Richards. We chose the path most traveled by,
and that made all the difference.
Meeting in a hotel car park sort of guarantees a few things. First, a pub
attached and ready to serve whenever one arrives, and readily available and
accessible restroom facilities. We piled out of our automobile and I made a
bee-line for the loo, taking advantage of the facilities while I could. Made
a difference and I don't believe I got off my horse all day for any
necessary stops. Almost got off involuntarily, but that's later in the
story.
Finished with the accommodations above, the hotel sits uphill from it's car
park, I redescended to horse procurement level, garbed myself in newly
brushed and mud free coat and cap, and awaited the arrival of our horses and
the famous Duhallow hounds. We'd gotten to the meet early (always a good
thing in my book,) and had a chance to chat with some hunt members. A
transplanted American gave us a brief history, and it turned out the last
draw of the day was across his property and the surrounding countryside that
he looks after for the hunt. we weren't able to speak with him too long,
however, as our horses had arrived.
We'd hired from a German man last named Ott. Turned out Herr Ott had
subcontracted for the day, much like the routine with the Black and Tans,
and Rosie and I were on horses owned by another fellow, don't know his name
(if I ever did,) while Eric and Grosvenor were mounted by Ott himself. Eric
and Gro's horses seemed to be standard Irish hireling fare, big and drafty
looking. Rosie and I had drawn something a bit different, with horses that
were much more thoroughbred typey. I was on a mare, Rosie on a gelding (who
I thought was a mare for the longest time, very observant am I)(the horse,
not Rosie you evil minded so and so's) and it was clear we'd be riding
together pretty much all day. They seemed to be the biggest of barn buddies,
looking around for each other and content to stand in proximity while the
rest of the Field mounted up to be off.
As our horses looked on with disinterest, even while being filmed by the
same videographer fromt he day before, we had to relocate our standing spot
several time to make room for descending horse box ramps and late running,
parking lorries, waiting for the hounds to be let down. The Duhallow hounds,
I think we had the dogs out that day, were my first encounter with the Old
English, type of hound. Who's got a bunch of them in England? The Duke of
Rutland? Anyway, they were a little smaller, stockier, but I can't say they
were heavier or slower looking. They were marked in the classic tri-color
patterns, black saddle, white legs, and brown patches strewn about at
random, and I defy you to find a more happy looking and acting pack of
hounds anywhere. They came off the lorry in two waves as two doors were
opened in succession, and without further ado we were off.
My first impression of the day once we started was how smooth my mare was.
She had a trot and canter that were a joy to post and or sit. I can't say
the other more draftlike hirelings I'd had were uncomfortable, but this
horse was like glass. I readjusted my stirrup leathers several times before
hitting upon the optimum length, pulled up the girth strap once, and settled
in for maybe the most comfortable ride I'd had over there.
Unfortunately for you all the readers, and us the hunters, not much really
happened that day. We were out our typical five hours, but foxes seemed to
be scarce in that area, possibly due to trapping and shooting. The first
draw saw hounds find within mere minutes, the hunted fox briefly circling in
some furze before breaking covert not ten yards in front of the field, the
first hound an equal distance behind, and we had the makings of a great
chase going. We ate our share of hoof flung mud, jockeyed for position at
gaps, gates, and drains, but this fox took a line straight across a closed
off piece of property and the field had to take a detour that threw us right
out of the race.
We spent a considerable time waiting wile hounds were recollected, passed by
the neat looking hunt kennels (which had me thinking hounds were in one area
that turned out to be the left behinders howling their displeasure on the
day,) and generally cooled our heels for half an hour or more. Happy to be
on an animal who was content to crop bank grass and be a good citizen while
we waited so long. Other horses, less exercised or less patient, or less
mannerly were swinging around, nipping, and even kicking out at their
neighbors while we waited. If this reads like it was slow and a touch
boring, well, it was.
With the last hounds back with their buddies, we made for other fox places.
We were still being filmed, but there wasn't much to my mind that was worth
the effort. On a personal note, one hedge jump off of a paved road, and I
mean the takeoff was the blacktop, almost did me in. The opening selected
was pretty narrow, and a sturdy looking scrub tree placed its bole in such a
way that a jump at the wrong angle would cause knee problems to both horse
and rider. I wasn't the first one over, so I had time to figure out my plan,
and we weren't on a run so their was time to execute whatever I came up
with. My turn came, I trotted the mare up to the hedge, put leg on and
attempted to take a line that slanted away from the tree bole but towards
some brushy, maybe thorny, yet infinitely more forgiving vegetation, say
left to right. The mare decided she could squeeze through closer to the
tree, perhaps a thoroughbred reaction to avoiding prickly things when
possible, and took the hedge slanting towards the tree bole, say right to
left, and even away from the direction of travel for those who'd made the
jump already.
I had a split second choice to make. Keep lots of leg on the horse and kick
her back over, or give her her head, she was going over no matter what, and
shift my body around so as to take a glancing blow off my knee and leg from
the tree bole. I chose to shift, the horse made a great leap, I twisted half
out of the saddle to the right to avoid permanent kneecap debilitation, and
my left foot came out of the stirrup. Not only did the foot come out, but my
balance was such that I about went off the right side of the horse. I
remember a tight, direct line of a rein between her mouth and my right hand,
left rein was dropped to grab for the saddle, and I think the only thing
that kept me aboard was the fact that she turned to her right to follow the
rest of the herd and came up under me just enough to help my scrambling. If
she'd have ducked left after the hedge, I'd have been on the ground.
I got myself back to rights, looked down at my saddle and solved the mystery
of why I couldn't get my left foot back in the stirrup iron. The Iron was
slapping against my right thigh having caught the tree bole and snapping up
and back across the pommel of my saddle. The stirrup was a lot dirty, but at
least it was still there, and I flipped the leather back over, reinserted my
foot, and thanked my lucky stars for avoiding an embarrassing dismount.
Again with the good luck and happy karma on this trip.
We hunted around some more after that leaping episode, I remember drawing
behind a chicken barn, dead chickens decomposing in the vicinity, with no
signs of fox feeding to be seen. Bad sign. We took some pretty big double
banks, a few people falling off, and passed by some truly monster drains,
the kind that had been redug with a back hoe and were effective chasms.
Didn't have to jump any of those.
The film maker caught pictures of all of us that day, I think, crossing
various and sundry jumps and drains. The mare I was on was pretty handy, but
seemed kind of goofy at a drain. She'd take off fine, but would land in an
unorthodox manner, seemingly nearly burying herself on the other side each
time. I got a look at myself on video at a particularly hair raising drain,
where I was sure she was going in head first to the other side. I remember
uttering the word "excellent" upon safe arrival to the other side because I
figured she was going to wreck, but when I saw it on the screen afterward
she made it look effortless and flawless. I think she knew exactly what she
had to do to get across those things and relied on her scrambling ability to
make up any surprising shortfalls. Tricky.
We eventually maneuvered ourselves around to the last set of draws, some of
which belonged to the American transplant from the hotel car park. The
hounds drew blank in places that had never before failed to yield up a fox
when consulting recent memory. We came down to a set of cow pastures,
looking like the last place to be drawn, but the way was barred by wire such
as we would expect to see over here in America. There was a gate, but some
of the cut and thrusters decided they'd not had enough excitement and took
on the wire, no pole, board, brace, or flung coat anywhere to provide a top
line. We watched some staff, including the huntsman, go over, and then gazed
in wonder as another staff-like fellow attempted to follow. He put his horse
at the wire maybe four times, kicking like mad until a stride out and then
sitting down hard and pulling back on the reins. Anyone else see the
problem?
The poor horse finally jumped over, why I have no idea, but he jumped like a
stag and came down with his back feet trailing the top few strands of the
wire. More lads followed in his wake, catching their horses up in the downed
wire that the first horse was attempting to get clear of, and eventually the
entire fence was down, top to bottom, for a good hundred yards. There was a
gate in the corner.
The day was finally called at a sort of road side commemorative plaque, or
shrine, or something, The staff and Masters were gathering around it for
pictures so I never got an idea as to it's true nature. The usual questions
as to where we were and what was the quickest way back to the meet or a
place to wash off went round. A little confused, I had Eric calling me from
one direction, the direction Herr Ott had discerned was most proper, and
then had Rosie handing me her horse as she said she was going to catch a
ride back to the meet to get the car back to where all the lorries were
pulling up to. A lady who had been out all day swung by me with her own
horse in tow, indicated Rosie was riding back with her brother, and I was to
follow her, the horse ponying native, me towing Rosie's horse. Eric and
Grosvenor lost in the distance.
Not the most auspicious ending to the day, but this lady seemed to know a
thing or two, and so we followed. I believe I ponied Rosie's horse for close
to four miles, passed by cars on my right, and once cut off from the front
by a fellow hunter who claimed his horse had thrown a shoe. Why he felt it
necessary to zip directly in front of my and my two charges I have no idea.
Perhaps he was having some fun at my expense, not funny to me, and he
disrupted our little mule train for about five minutes as I got reoriented
and caught up with my leader.
We ended our roadway hack in a town called Kanturk, right on the Ahllow
River, and the route we two horse leaders took was the shortest one by far.
The fellow that handed Rosie and I our horses in the morning was parked on
the side of the road near access to the river, and I handed him his other
horse and he hopped up in the saddle as we both made for the river to get
rid of as much mud as possible. Turned out the lady I was following was his
sister, so I was not going to get out of her sight with those horses even if
I wanted to. Would have been nice to know that ahead of time. Lot's of
things in Ireland happen on a need to know basis and I don't seem to need to
know much of it.
Finished washing and looking forward to getting off the mare and catching a
ride back to the hotel and sip of something wet, who should ride up but
Grosvenor and Eric behind Herr Ott. They hadn't taken the most direct route
after all. And I don't believe their horse box was anywhere close by,
either. The hack they had that day after hunting was unenviable. They did
make it back to the hotel, joined us for a drink, watched the video
recounting of the day, and listened to the hunt secretary as he recounted
the hunting action as hounds ran for us. There we learned about the four
mile unassisted point for the first run and the lack of foxes later on.
Though our day was a bit disappointing from an excitement, run around and
hunt point of view, I will say that the Duhallow folks have a pretty good
operation, an excellent huntsman, and a happy pack. The huntsman had
formerly had a pack of beagles in the country that he was after fox with,
had caused some consternation to the Duhallow powers that be, and rather
than do away with the man they dealt with him, taught him to ride, and made
him their huntsman. I hunted his hounds in a very uncomplicated, yet
knowledgeable way, mostly leaving the hounds to do their job, a manner of
hunting that I would like to emulate. I'd go back if I had the chance.
We downed one or two drinks in the hotel bar only, and shipped out back for
Inch to quickly change for dinner and then it was on to Lismacue. If Rosie
is up to typing, I'll let her describe the dinner with her friends at
Lismacue. The Merle-Smiths lived in an adjacent building for a year, and
both Rosie and Grosvenor would do that evening better justice than I. Plus,
I haven't got time to describe that evening properly.
I'm still waiting for Rosie to describe dinner at Lismacue House, and have
decided to skip on to our last hunting day in Ireland out with the County
Tipperary on a Thursday.
For me, this was our best day of hunting, but alas some of the details have
faded away into my hind brain, or been buried by new memories piled on top
of my fore brain, or the neural pathways that some say are memory chains
from that day haven't been strengthened enough to engender perfect recall of
that hunt. However science wants to explain it, I can't give as much as I'd
want, though an overall memory impression says the day wasn't an absolute
burner, either.
I will say this much about Lismacue, it was a good forty five minutes from
Inch house, we ate very late due to the late arrival of a group of English
Lismacue guests, and we were a tired set of hunters who finally found their
beds way too late on Wednesday night. But, there's something about the last
day of anything that will perk you up, and a smiling, healthy, and even
energetic foursome that were we the compliment of that trip gathered for
breakfast at around 8:30 on Thursday morning, February 3rd.
I personally tanked up that breakfast, going for the whole enchilada, as it
were. Eggs scrambled, toast browned, mushrooms saut�ed, puddings fried,
bacon seared, tomato braised, and sausage was cooked to banger-like
perfection. Juice and tea both went down the hatch (not together,) and a
well satisfied and fortified quartet gathered up assorted gear, slid into
slightly clammy yet outwardly clean rubber boots, shook off dried mud
droplets from hunt coats, and made our way to yet another Tipps fixture that
I can't remember the name of.
The English visitors from Lismacue the night before, one was a doctor named
Rupert, one a classic English country lady named Ursula (maybe?) and another
fellow who retired early from dinner because he felt ill, were all there at
the meet in the morning, even the under the weather fellow. They'd hired
horses from Noel Walsh and Danny Burke, as had we, and the request I'd had
of Noel for old Taxi Cab for that day was redirected in deference to Ursula
who'd never hunted Ireland before. Taxi would take care of her, and I had no
qualms about shifting my saddle, so to speak.
I believe Gro was again riding Rye, the hunting machine from Danny Burke,
and Eric was given a horse that several of us who've been on such trips had
hunted, a horse named John Joe (no relation to John Joe Richards who is
definitely human even if he does have a fantastic way with equines.) I'd
ridden John Joe last year with the Kilkenny's on our water logged soaker of
a hunt. Dick Askins called John Joe one of if not the best hunt horse he'd
ever sat on, and I'd requested John Joe the Monday before but was told he
was lame. Turned out not lame, just having a day off, and he was ready to go
that day. I told Eric he was on a fine animal, probably one most like he was
used to from home, and I think he had a good ride. Rosie was seated on
Hillary, and looking smug doing it.
I drew a white mare, a good solid draft cross, who had been William's horse
of choice from the previous January trip. I think William hunted that horse
three times that last season out of eight hunting days, and she was fresh
and raring to go each time. I was sort of in the mood for a run that day,
and was prepared to trade off some quiet check standing for get up and go,
and she provided it. Noel explained she was his favorite horse to hunt off
of, and I believed him. He also figured he should get her in foal, which was
another sign of her competence.
I guess everyone was feeling fairly loose and relaxed, out with a familiar
pack, with familiar people, on fairly familiar horses. It was do or die time
as well. Tomorrow we rejoined the world of airplanes and intercontinental
travel, subject to the whims and vagaries of travel and the headaches the
pixies of missed connections and storm cancellations could dole out. I was
ready to spend energy in pursuit of thrill.
We met at eleven in this little town, I've heard that phrase before. Hounds
moved off smartly, the bitch pack again, and we were on our way. I'd hazard
a guess that the field numbered fewer than thirty, slightly larger than the
previous Monday which is a switch for the Tipps. For some reason they had
been having a slow year visitor wise which was unfortunate for such a really
well run and organized, as well as good hunting pack. The four of us from
Bull Run were joined by the three English visitors and the Howard
County-Iron Bridge trio we'd met in the Vale of Aherlow. The English lady
figured Taxi was lame, I never felt it when I rode him, but our American
compatriots were all more or less happy with their horses. I never heard
that they were fearing for their lives because of poor horse flesh at any
rate.
I somewhat remember that day being busy for hounds, but never providing any
truly long runs. One of the first draws I can recall produced some hound
music, with the huntsman choosing to follow a certain group in one direction
to no useful end while we in the Field could hear hounds speaking off in the
distance back the way we'd come. The whipper-in was eventually dispatched to
figure out those hounds activity and deal with them, eventually electing to
bring that part of the pack back to the rest rather than taking whatever
line they'd found. Could have been a hare, or it could have been a fox
traveling in a direction the hunt didn't want to go that day. I never found
out, but the interim while hounds were called in provided the perfect
opportunity to water a bush with the rented tea and orange juice from
breakfast.
We hacked around a while to other coverts, jumping a drain or bank here and
there. Our horses got kicked into a gallop a few times, with me finding
myself and the mare pushing up close to the Field Master, a Tipps Jt. Master
named Tom Ronin (I think it was Tom) and passing said worthy a time or two.
It has been ingrained into me since I was eight that I was never to pass the
field master, and can count on two fingers the number of times I've done
that in the States, but things are a bit looser in the Irish hunting field.
Thank goodness. Many a halt was accomplished with me standing in my stirrups
to get leverage to bring the mare under control. She wasn't wild, she just
wanted to go forward and took it a bit personally when told she had to wait
for such trivial things like the Master, the Huntsman, or the hounds. No one
complained so I didn't worry.
Two runs that day sort of stick out on the hazy plain that is my memory
bank. The first run saw the fox away from a hedge row, running hard but
taking a typical fox-like circular route. The field stacked up at a large
double bank with a knife edge middle portion, backing off timid riders and
green horses. I'd decided not to let the day pass me by and allowed the mare
to barge her way to the front of the pile up in order to get away and gone
so as to stay in touch with the Tipps bitches. The mare and I cleared the
hurdles well enough, meaning I didn't fall off, and I recall looking up and
ahead just in time to see the fox break covert from around the corner of a
grown over fenceline to the left and head out across a large expanse of
green sward not fifty yards to my front. Jeez but we couldn't ever have been
in a more perfect position!
The mare took some super pulling back to avoid running over the line, but we
managed. Hell, I'd have sat the horse on her butt if it would keep her from
foiling the line. We waited with the Master off to the side of the fox track
as the hounds worked out the jink the fox had thrown them, the Huntsman
retracing steps already taken to get back with the doubled back pack. As we
waited not too patiently for the pack to sort themselves out, I looked back
over my shoulder see if the fox had doubled back around for another attempt
to shake the hounds by foiling its line by running through horses. Instead,
I saw four loose horses charging up towards us, unaware of the scent line
they were streaking across in their mad dash for unfettered freedom. Rosie
came up to the front of the field amidst this herd of unregulated horseflesh
with an irritated look on her face. Seems some horse had stopped on the
knife edge bank, bad decision, and Hillary had decided her turn was due and
jumped up next to and then past the indecisive one, knocking the rider out
of the saddle as she passed. That accounted for one empty saddle, of which
there were six or seven from that one drain alone.
The hounds streaked off on the new line, the horses were eventually caught
up, riders reinstalled, but the fox had found a hole and the run came to an
end not very long after all the fun started. The man Rosie dumped even came
up to apologize for causing the mishap on the bank. How's that for you,
Hillary muscles someone out of the way then garners an apology from the
fallen rider? That horse has an aura!
The second run came at the end of the day, say 4:30 or five o'clock. We had
hunted right over toward Cashel. Rosie and then Grosvenor pointed out the
Rock of Cashel and a cool old stone structure they had seriously thought of
rehabbing and calling home in Ireland. I small lake (complete with swans a
swimming) bordered a low gorsey/furzey place with pasturage up slope from
the water and continuing right along the bank of a small river. We'd had
another small spin on a fox, taking us round a set of fields with gaps in
fences a couple of times, and that fox, too had gone to ground, leaving us
with a very whetted appetite. The field had thinned out a bit, but not as
much as one would think. There was a group of five or six lads out for a
hard go, constantly passing the Master in their zeal to tear away after a
fox, and they were still of a mind to stick it out. No quitters here.
I took advantage of a lull in the action to dismount and rid myself of the
last vestiges of tea and juice, taking care not to despoil any latent fox
lines in my immediate vicinity. Prior to that little interlude I had been
thinking longingly of the pub and the end, but after putting myself back to
gether in more or less a tidy fashion (my comment to Rosie who shielded my
off side from view was that you'd think practice would make one perfect in
this one endeavor at the very least) I remounted just in time to hear
Grosvenor respond to some barely discerned query from the Master. Gro told
Master Ronin that we were with him to the end, leading me to deduce that the
question regarded going in or hunting on. After my brief rest stop I was
ready to the bitter end. And not long after the bitches found their last
fox.
We lined up along a fenceline bordering the waste area around the small
lake, the shadow of the Rock cast over the landscape to our right (no idea
if it was N,S,E, or W.) The whipper-in positioned himself on point but in
view of all of us, and only our reluctance to interfere with staff work kept
us back from the very edge of the fenceline and a perfect view of the entire
proceedings. The staff man raised his cap, no need for a holler yet, and a
certain energy was transmitted from that gesture through our collective eyes
and brains to our mounts, and without any vocal signal the horses we were
riding picked up their heads in readiness and anticipation of an ensuing
chase, my mare coming particularly alive.
The fox made for the hedge rows that ring round the gathering of sheep
pastures we found ourselves in, and took us on a brief circle, the field
jockeying for position but unwilling to commit to any one specific direction
until the fox should incline itself to a more straight running path. We
circled back to the lake at least once more, maybe twice (fuzzy memory)
before it at last felt the pressure and took off in a straight line.
I viewed the fox away from the lake side, along with most everyone else I
would expect, and watched as it hit another set of overgrown fencelines
further up stream from the ones we circled. The fox was making a straight
line along our side of the river, heading for only the fox knew where, and
showed itself frequently on it's harried journey. The field became hampered
by tall standing wire in the pastures along this stream and by an
unwillingness to jump any of it possibly causing damage thereby. Even the
hounds found it tough going to struggle through fox sized openings in the
hedges.
The pack checked briefly but often along this river, each time one of the
bitches able to put the pack right, and they were fairly streaming along the
river's edge. We the field had caught up to the Huntsman and made for a road
that paralleled the river, taking the quick yet distant route in favor of
getting stopped by wire. A mad gallop down the roadside stopped at a farm
track leading into yet another sheep pasture, hounds not in evidence and the
staff went in country to figure out the situation. Thus ended the last run
we had, I presume the fox went to ground somewhere along the river from
where we stood as the huntsman came out with his helper and the pack all
looking well pleased with themselves.
We'd had a somewhat shorter run than I had been hoping for way back during
the wee hours of the morning as I'd readied myself for the day, and our ride
lacked any really spectacular horse challenges. In that regard it was a bit
of a bust, but the sight of the hounds running in the open on foxes I'd seen
take those lines mere moments before was well worth the cost of the entire
trip. The Tipps huntsman, like the Duhallow staff, let the hounds do their
job, giving aid when necessary, but being careful not to cause a stoppage by
being overeager. As a result, we were treated to watching his hounds really
work, and as you can tell by what I've written, it was a sight to see.
Not long at all after the last hound was brought back intot he pack, our
horse handlers arrived in small auto's and instead of arranging a rendezvous
to pick up their charges and get us quickly back to the meet, they pointed
out the way back to the lorries still parked at the original village,
indicating we'd have a lovely little hack back in the lowering gloom.
Peachy.
We traveled in company back to the horseboxes, trotting at the mile eating,
kidney jarring, butt flattening, back breaking pace that sees you home
sooner than you expect but physically worse the wear. Our cavalcade became
somewhat strung out the closer we came to the little meet village, and a few
nervous glanced were cast astern as several of the less enthusiastic
trotters lagged. Not to worry, though, as all hands reported back for duty
at the meet.
We stepped off our horses at quarter after six in the early evening. Light
hadn't quite yet failed, but we'd been in the saddle and more or less on the
move for over seven hours. Strangely enough, I wasn't a complete wasted
wreck. Either the mare had been deceptive in the roughness of her handling
or I was more fit than even I knew. Either way, I surprised myself by not
collapsing to the ground when I finally stepped off for good. Which was good
because the evening wasn't over yet.
We bid adieu to our native and translocated hunting companions, a few phone
numbers were exchanged and plans made for rendezvous stateside, and headed
back to Inch for yet another quick change and a run to Fethard for dinner.
Fethard, the very heart of thoroughbred racing in Ireland, the home of
Coolmore Stud, and location of McCarthy's Pub.
Stopping off at the home of two of the Merle-Smith's Irish cronies (read: I
forgot yet another set of names and can't be bothered to fill in the memory
lapse just now, yet I can remember the name of a place that serves hooch) on
the way to dinner, we picked up a friend of Eric's over in Ireland to learn
a bit of the horse business on a crash course homestudy program. This girl's
name I can pronounce, and even remember, but could not spell for the life of
me. Her hosts in Ireland (one is English) couldn't wrap their tongues around
her name and converted her to a "Mary" for the duration of her stay with
them.
Now a quintet, we waited in McCarthy's for our two resident dinner guests to
follow us to the restaurant by imbibing in a drop or two of, what else,
Guinness. I've described McCarthy's before. It's an unlikely place to be the
center of the center of racing, but the pictures on the walls of both the
famous and infamous in the County Tipperary racing world are only a small
measure of the hunting and racing that permeate the very fabric of the
building's construction.
We had a lovely meal at the restaurant next to the pub, the name of which is
completely overshadowed by the watering hole down the hall, and returned to
the tap room for a possible night cap. The pub was packed to the gills with
last callers reveling in each other's company. Many of the regulars in the
Tipps field had turned up, and a word was had with various and sundry as we
made, in some cases, our reluctant way toward the door, the car, and Inch
house. But I for one was finally wrecked from exertion, second hand smoke
(Jockey's are a smoky bunch,) Guinness, and a steady succession of nights
just like this one had been. My bed was calling, loudly, and in no uncertain
terms. But one fact kept intruding itself into my blurring consciousness. No
more hunting in Ireland for at least another Season.
I'll tack on a few concluding remarks to the end of this segment by way of
wrapping up a bit.
We ran a few errands on our way back to Shannon Airport, Gro picking up a
new scarlet hunt coat (his old one being so far gone along the trail to the
rag bag as to be disdained for use in covering a wire across a fence out
hunting one day,) Rosie and I purchasing tack for various Stateside horseys,
Eric embarking upon a business relationship with Michael Frazer and a wager
with Grosvenor in the same morning. Anyone know of a really good restaurant
in Washington D.C. that I, as witness and arbiter, could choose as
settlement for the bet? Our plane left on time with a comfortably sparse
passenger list and no crying babies. The connection to Dulles from JFK was
delayed a trifle, though not delayed as much as the flight just before ours
that had to turn back because some girl got on the wrong flight. Plane was
going to Boston, she wasn't, and a plane load of fellow passengers stepped
out of the gangway with murder in their eyes.
We parted company with Eric in New York, with a joke. He had business in
Philly. We had a brief layover in D.C. in which Grosvenor ingested some bad
bean burrito, affecting his gastro-intestinal fortitude for the next several
days and making meal time an adventure.
Good luck held out for us in almost all ways and in almost all things. Sharp
contrast to last January's trip, though the luck, as such things go,
couldn't string along forever. There was the small matter of the lingering
effects of a pretty severe snow storm leaving snow on the ground and
stopping hunting for weeks on end. I was aced out of two days with Bull Run
due to crappy footing, but beggars are told not to be choosers and I
generally acquiesce to those types of demands.
submitted by Jeff Eichler
Step 3 .. New York to Ireland
A Day with Golden Vale
County Tipperary and Maddy
Scarteen Black and Tans and the Vale of Aherlow
Duhallow
Last Day in Ireland - County Tipperary