Date: Tue, 01 Dec 1998 15:06 EST
From: [email protected] (MULHERN, FRANCIS)
Subject: COMING SOON TO THIS SPACE!
The serialized, itemized, pasteurized, and fully authorized account of
the Thanksgiving Week FOL Irish Expeditionary
Hunt!
THRILL at the 7 foot drops off the bank and
into the river!
GASP at the horse swallowing banks and ditches
as we fly over them!
SOAR over the barbed wire fences and stone
walls!!!
SHUDDER IN HORROR as Rosie dodges the speeding
lorry!
LAUGH UPROARIOUSLY at the antics of the local farmers as they purposely
set up jumps in front of the hunt as we pass
through their farms!
WALLOW IN THE MUD as we, umm, wallow in the
mud!
Follow the antics of GroRo, Rosie, Jeff and Major Mark as we ride, drink,
ride some more, drink some more, ride a whole bunch, drink still more,
our way across the Magnificent Irish Countryside!!! Coming soon, Episode
One - "Booted, Spurred and Jet Lagged"
<well, actually, ummm, Jeff will have to write that episode since I did
the sensible thing and slept all day the first
day>
Major Mark <well, yes, I am a wuss, but
a well accomplished one. . .>
by Jeff
The "Jet-Eyed Knights" took on the ditch and bank territory of the County Tipperary Hunt after a five hour trans-Atlantic journey on the parsec eating Aer Lingus line.
Following the wise teachings of GroRo (of the curious multi-personality), the young "jet-eyed knight" Jeff the Wide Eyed (or was that whites-of-his-eyes) attempted to beat of the mind numbing jet lag by jumping in the saddle of a strange hireling horse. He and about sixty of his fellow foxhunting enthusiasts.
In this manner he was introduced to some of the prettiest hunt country around with some of the most demanding obstacles his Wide Eyes had ever seen. The wise counsel of Rosie and Grosvenor, that of hunting before sleeping, stood Wide Eyes in good stead as the bank is encountered and conquered. Nothing like fatigue poisons to dull ones fear at sending your horse crashing through the brambles overgrowing the top of a bank.
The curious dual personality of GroRo and the young apprentice, Jeff the Wide Eyed, blithely (and some times not so) sailed around fields and slogged through muck, crashed through bramble and leapt over an honest to god "Jesus Christ" ditch (pronounced Chayzuss) for just under five hours.
They pursued perhaps four different fox, viewing several, in fairly tough conditions that included scent tumbling wind and refreshing rain in the face. The huntsman for the "Tipps", Simon the Tough, ran through two horses to end his day attempting a five bar farm gate only to flip his horse and smush himself. He's still not right, and lesson to the kiddies and the young "jet-eyed knight", "Don't Jump a five bar gate that's leaning towards you!"
As with most Irish hunts, a dark pint of the mystic "Guiness" awaits those who've been lucky enough to survive the day and talk about it in the Pub at the Meet. The three "Jet-Eyed Knights" repair back to Inch House, their lair, to meet up with the fourth member of the coterie, Major Mark the Sleepy, for a well earned meal. A delicious one at that.
And all were serenaded until 3:30 a.m. on their first night in Ireland by drunk Irish office workers who were having a Christmas party. Sleep was a precious commodity on this expedition, but all four coterie members were present and accounted for in anticipation of Episode 2 "The Quest for a Pack That's Hunting."
Respectfully submitted, Jeff the Wide-Eyed
p.s. Mark, plane grabbed me before a handshake
and a goodbye. "You're a good egg, Danny" (Caddy Shack)
Till we ride again. JBE
by Major Mark
Whilst Jeff the Wide Eyed and associates were hunting with Tipperary, I indulged in physical pleasure. I took a hot shower, put on the ol' PJ's and took a delightful nap. Later, I jumped in the rental car and explored the local area (finding the nearest store, gas, etc.), then came back and settled in next to the fireplace with my pipe, a magazine and a drink (Lord of the Manor and all that).
Quite a while after dark, the hunters returned from Tipperary. They got cleaned up and we all met for dinner in the library. "Would you like to hunt hounds on foot tomorrow?" Grosvenor inquired of us. "What!?" "Well, I've been making calls, and Golden Vale called off their meet tomorrow, but we could go down to the kennels and walk the hounds. . ." "Wellll. ." At which point GroRo and Rosie start naming off hunts, (a good indication of how well these two are plugged into the Irish hunt scene) "What about. . ." "No, they don't hunt on Sundays, but we could go with. . ." "Can't get horses for that one. . ." This went on a while. Then Rosie says, "what about that farmers pack in Kilkenny?, We've got a phone number somewhere. . ."
Sunday morning found me mounted atop "JohnJoe", a big bay Irish 'unting 'orse and heading out with the Kilkenny Farmers Pack. Met at a pub (of course), gawked at the little bitty horse trailers pulled by little bitty cars (later in the week I saw a VW Jetta pulling a two horse trailer, really!) First, a civilized walk out of town to the fields (none of that cavalry clip-clop clip-clop forced trot down the road for 20 minutes), then the hounds were cast. Then ensued a leisurely hunt consisting of waiting, a bit of running, a bit of waiting, a bit of running, etc. No walls to jump, just banks and wire. Leap the ditch, crash into the brush on the bank, wiggle through as the branches claw at you, then leap again across the second ditch. We did this many times. As the day went on, two members of the Irish Expeditionary Hunt were scraped off their horses on the banks (not I, heh, heh).
The hounds spoke a bit, got well out ahead of us, and put a fox to ground, according the locals I was talking to. Then the terrain opened up a bit, we were going up and down some hills, culminating in a climb up a beautiful pasture on a hill, followed the hounds to the top of the ridge (I'm on top of the world!!!) and drank in the scenery. You could see rolling hills for miles. I was quite happy, since I like to Hunt for Scenery. The hounds noodled around and lost whatever they were following (bit of a breeze up top). We swooped down the hill, went through an unharvested sugar beet field (I felt quite the vandal, but I guess that's part of being in a farmer pack, you get to trash your own crops). Cast a few more times, wandered about, and the lorry came to get us so we didn't have to hack back. Got a ride back to the pub, started drinking lotsa Guiness (it's Good for You!), and we ended up in a Chinese restaurant, mud splattered but still magnificently attired (you want rice wit dat, Nimrod?).
Thus endth the second day.
Coming Soon! EPISODE 3 - "I am Wearing John Wayne's Pants"
by Major Mark
'Twas a fine Sunday hunt, and we slept well that night, lulled to sleep by the other house guests in the living room singing 'til the wee hours <hey, this is Ireland!>. We slept in, since Monday was to be our off day. Gro and Ro had a full day planned. Visits to Tack shop, bank, tailor, eats at various places and finished off with Real Irish Music at a favorite pub of Gro's.
After a basic Irish breakfast - eggs, sausage&bacon, toast, blood pudding <I think, sounds vaguely like Klingon fare> toast with BUTTER, my usual pint of milk with lots of chocolate Quik, we were off to Tipperary Tack Shop. And yes, it is a long way to Tipperary 'cause the Welcome sign on the outside of town says "you've come a long way". So there.
At the shop, Rosie dropped off a saddle to get fixed and we poked around the shop a while and Jeff got a nice pair of Aigle rubber boots because they much cheaper there (80 pounds or about $120, plus you get the VAT tax rebated back, so they're tax free). Then off to the bank to change some money <lots, actually, to cover all the caps and hireling fees>, lunch at some pub where Irish revolutionaries use to plot their plots, then off to Hospital.
The town Hospital, that is, where Michael Frazier, custom tailor, has his shop. A tight little shop, with a creaky wooden floor, bolts of tweed, tattersall, melton, etc. piled everywhere, old fashioned sewing machines, old fashioned wall paper and just when you've decided you've stepped into 1920, you spot an IBM ThinkPad perched on the shelf.
When we blew in, there was this big Brit guy, with a couple of short cronies, between us and Michael. "You'll have to get in queue, we going to be taking a while" the Brit said to us in a booming voice. He was wearing a loud yellow tie, nice shirt, dark jacket and a pair of faded, torn, throughly worn out jeans. The knees were open, the shins showing through and the edges frayed. Oh, getting some pants made, we inquired. "No, d' you see these pants? They're John Wayne's. I bought them for five thousand pounds at an auction in California. I am wearing John Wayne's pants!"
The two cronies, short, young, Irish guys started casting furtive glances at the Brit, at us, at Michael. Gro sidled up to the guy. "Really, that's nice. You know, I think I once loaned John Wayne a pair of jeans". Some awkward silence. The Brit and his boys retreat to the back room with Michael. We settle in to wait. A couple minutes later, the Brit and his associates come bustling out of the back room, "Bye all, Good Bye" Out the door they went. Michael enthusiastically greets Gro and Rosie, shares some confidential hunt gossip, gets out the breeches he made for Gro, descibes the repairs he did to Rosies' coat, sells Jeff on getting a hunt coat made and measures him up. Meanwhile, I'm examining the wall. It's covered with pictures, Thank You notes, fixture cards, bills, etc. There's a picture of some bear-like guy who looks like Gorbachov in a red hunt coat mounted on a big horse. "Oh yes, a nice russian man, I made him a coat for his first hunt" Michael says. Beneath the picture, a Bull Run Hunt sticker. And so on. After a while, we leave, to return later in the week to pick up Jeff's coat.
Next, a visit to Mickey Dunn's house to see where Mickey was going to be playing that night. Mickey's a musician, plays the Irish pipes, sorta like a bag pipe but instead of blowing into them, they're operated by a air bellows strapped to the arm and pumped while playing. Watched a really funny tape made by some Irish comedians who watch this really strange TV channel that only they can get because they built some weird antenna that picks up the channel. Before we got out of there we got advance copies of Mickey's (with Martin Byrnes) latest CD (courtesy of Gro).
On to dinner (Duck) at a nice place in Limerick. Then on to the pub where Mickey's playing. A bunch of other musicians show up, and soon we were immersed in traditional Irish music. We drank lots of Guiness that night, and listened to lots of the finest Irish traditional music I have ever heard. What a pleasant evening! We did not get back till after midnight. I wuz wasted.
The East Galway Hunt was scheduled for the next day. I couldn't answer the call. I didn't go. Gro, Ro, and Jeff did. Hunting Gods, they are. They will have to relate Tuesday's events in Episode 4 - "Hunting Without a Checkbook". Or "Wire in the Afternoon"
Sometime after our quaint and only pub lunch of the trip (where I was introduced to Smithwick's, a stablemate of Guiness and quite good), Gro found his checkbook/address book had gone missing. Unable to locate it by using barely understood mind powers (memory is the second thing to go) we had to scramble a bit for our hirelings. Actually, the beasts had been booked weeks ago, but reconfirmation in this venue is a healthy habit to form. We arrive at the meet, which is not at the ubiquitous pub (but near enough) to find our horses waiting. The sun is out, no rain threatens, the wind has died, it looks like a perfect day for hunting.
(As an aside, Ireland has had rain non stop since last February, which we heard often as a reason why hounds were having a tough time hunting.) The three horses hired to us looked likely enough, and we were treated to Ireland's version of Jim Meads and Janet Hitchen to take photos of our days hunting. A few snaps at the very beginning of we three Americanos should have been serious, the rest of the day, eh. . .
The first cast produced a fox who ran straight at some wire fence, the kind we're used to here in the States. A fellow jumped off, threw a branch over the top, and the huntsman, Michael Dempsey, Jr., jumped over to get to the hounds. He rounded a copse, disappeared, and next thing we saw was Michael's horse coming back our way, minus the Master. Seems horse and rider had a discussion and parting of the ways at another fence, or was it a drain?
Remounted, the huntsman lead us away from that part ogf the world and back to the other side of the woods where the first cast was made. Again, hounds find and we're off. THis time in the other direction. IT's at this moment that I realize that the noseband on my horse had rotted off. It stayed that way the rest of the hunt.
As the field is trying to make it's way toward hounds we who were out that day are finally confronted with our first real jumping test of the afternoon. A standup section of barb wire fence. This one started out with a branch atop, but the field master knocked that off first thing. Nothing for it but to follow, another lesson in my apprentices quest to become an accomplished foxhunter. The horse I'm on is certainly big enough, fit enough, and athletic enough, so here we go. I do all the classic fence taking routines. Bring him in square, lots of leg, deep seat, and most importantly, a mental determination to get over. We clear the wire in front, but the two hind feet hit it square. No real bother, other than the fact that I knew we hit it. I believe there was a fall at that fence, but for the most part, over we all went.
This jump let us into the back of a farmyard eventually that included opening gates while standing in inches of cow manure. That's the reason for the purchase of the Aigles on my part. We were fortunate to be excused gate duty that day.
Hounds were collected on the other side of the farm buildings, and then back through the muck. As my parents own a cattle farm with a feed lot, I can authoritatively say that that farm yard had some serious muck.
We recst again, and this time, third time, was the charm. Hounds got going, and we had to scramble to keep up. The field got terribly strung out at this point because of a particularly soggy drain. There was a choice of jumping out over a wooden pallet covered wire fence, which in hind sight should have been the chioce I made, but over the drain we persevered. Rosie got off her horse and sent it across, but I was not in the mood, and gave mine a huge shove and told him to do his best.
We cleared that drain fairly well, watching Rosie's horse canter off into the sunset (nobody caught him on the other side of the drain) and were set with the daunting task of catching up. I had no idea where hounds were. There were a few more tricky parts, but only one worth mentioning. We came to another drain, this one rock lined and full of black water skimmed over with duckweed. Could have been inches or miles deep. In the middle of this water, which was actually about knee deep, was set a post and rail to keep cattle from using this drain as an escape hatch. The sides were steep, and the only way out was over the jump, from black water, into black water. After three attempts and refusals (the horse I was on turned out to be green AND a liar) we negotiated this test with me hanging on the horses neck, dangling over this black, slimy mess.
Distance wise, this day was fairly tame, horsmanship wise, it was one of the most demanding I had had to date. The kind of day you feel really proud of because you learned something. The East Galway hounds were some of the best working I've seen, and were certainly the best out of the four packs we rode behind. We tired three repaired back to a pub and hashed the day out with the huntsman and a few of the local lads who were visiting from the Ormond. Bless me if I can remember what we did for dinner that night. Was it Salmon back at the Inch House?
Next Episode - "Golden Vale and the River that Time Forgot"
Interlude - To address some of the plot presented so far by my eminent colleague from across the aisle. In Episode 2 - the two members scraped off were myself (horse fell over on his side and trapped my leg) and Gro (horse tried to brush through two top strands of barbed wire and stumbled a bit). Gro would have kept his seat had he not laughed at my exebition and invoked the justice of the horse gods (fate).
In Episode 3 - not everyone slept well. Some knocked themselves out with Nyquil, others endured singing and other nocturnal noises that were sleep inhibiting. Our loud "Englishman" was not English at all, Australian or American (GroRo, help?), and he was an interior designer from New York along with his two sons. Still one of the oddest birds around who definitely needed a dinosaur in his pocket.
by Major
Mark
Whilst the Hunting Gods were cavorting with East Galway, I drove to Tipperary looking for Gro's checkbook (didn't find it) and later stopped in Thurles to try out one of them thar automated, self cleaning pay restrooms I saw along the way. Fascinating technology <I'm an engineer, dammit, I'm drawn to this stuff!>. It looks and operates sorta like that disintegrating machine (without the disintegration) in that episode of Star Trek where they fight electronic wars and then step into the cylindrical machine with the curved sliding door if they lose and get disintegrated and. . . . . (what? Foxhunting? Oops, oh, yeah, right. . .)
Another bright morning, another full Irish breakfast (condemmed by the American Heart Association) and off we went. We meet at a roadside stop near Thurles, no pub (ewwwww!), whereupon the horse lorry driver there said he heard the meet was at a farm on the other side of town, so we all zipped over there, whereupon the nice lady at the farm said why no, the meet isn't here, it's over where started from, but would we like to come in for a nice cup of tea? No ma'am, we have a hunt to catch and we peeled back to the original meet, passing the lorry who was headed out to the farm and. . . .
It was eventually sorted out, and we got ourselves assembled with the hunt and hounds and mounted and underway. I was on a nice black and white horse named "Thunder". We then fast trotted for twenty minutes back to the nice farm with the nice tea lady and I was fuming. We coulda mounted up at the farm and saved ourselves that freekin' leg killing hack! Auurrgghh!!
Finally, peace. We head down the road from the farm and jump off the road and head into the fields and cast the hounds. The hounds noodle around, spoke some, ran some, we alternately followed, jumping assorted wire, small walls, ditches, or waited, as the hounds swirled around a bit. We were in a pasture on a hill, and had to move to a lower field. The way to go was this nasty brush jump with an ugly drop on the other side. Jeff flowed over it, m aking it look easy. I plopped over it, banging into the saddle at touchdown. In retrospect, 'twas an easy jump compared to what awaited us later in the week.
We head downhill. There followed a curious interplay with a river that went on all afternoon. We come to this river and cross it. It's deep. As we cross, the water gets higher and higher, halfway up my boots and please don't go over the tops and my-my, look at all the horses slipping and stumbling on the rocks in mid river ahead of me and that water certainly looks cold and. .
Good ol' Thunder gets me through. We would cross this river a number of times, the hounds would swim it several times (I actually used my horse to block the current a bit so the hound downstream of us could make it across).
Then, my moment of Glory! The hounds open up, Thunder gets me over this bank that most of the field was having trouble with, and I'm right behind the pack and the huntsmen as the run begins. Ditch? no problem! Fly it! Wire? Do what the locals do, aim for the post holding up the nearly invisible strand of wire. I was way ahead of Jeff! Way ahead of Rosie! I'm the Man! Problem was, Thunder had one speed. A servicable canter. Not as fast as the ones ahead of me. A steady canter, but not quite fast enough. The pack pulled ahead. I saw them exiting the field ahead of me. What was between us? The river. I looked in vain for hoofprints to see where they crossed. None found. I look at the dark, swirling water. Nope, not gonna do it at-this-time. . . . .
The rest of the field catches up. I figure I'll let the locals figure out where to cross. I point to where the pack went. They gallop in that direction, can't cross the river, come back to where I was, and cross the river at the exact same spot I chickened out. Damm!
at this time your correspondent has to leave
the office and fly to Portland, Maine. Back online thursday. Stay
tuned.>
(addendum by Jeff)
I'll just chime in and describe some of the interesting bits from the runs we had that day. The rest of Mark's narative was spot on, especially the part regarding the actual meet. What good is having a Jt.Master in your car if he can't get you to the right spot? <Huge grin, with mucho tongue in cheek
We slopped around for half an hour, and I do mean slopped. Remeber the reference constsnt rain since last Feb. Hounds trailed a fox for a bit, noodling is a pretty good descriptor, and we took a few fences for practice, like.
One of the field masters helpers (of which there were probably two or three) and also a Jt.Master got his horse so wound up in wire he looked hog tied. Word to the wise, let a local go first! Farmers and followers are screaming for wire cutters, of which none are produced, while this horse and us field wait patiently. THe horse was extricated with very little muss and fuss, no cuts, and apparently no damage. The same horse was out again two days later. Amazing.
After this little set to, hounds started running a fox around in a covert, and the field was made to line up along one side to keep him from bolting out our way and into tougher territory. We made little noises and banged on our saddles with whips, and got a view of him as he scooted off in the intended direction. Unfortunately, he really didn't want to play and ran back into that covert and found a hole. that was fox number two. On our way to the third fox, we were treated to one of those famous hunting scenes that take your breath away. Picture if you will the huntsman wearing his black frock with maroon collar and his level pack, enough difference in coat color to make it interesting, drawing along a green spikey hedge. In the background is a green mound of a hill, cropped grass all the way to the top. Where the hill meets the sky is another hedge, wild and a bit over grown with a whipper-in, also in black and maroon, on a striking grey horse on lookout for Charlie. The fading blue sky and well placed sun combined to frame the scene in quite literally breath taking fashion.
And then, to top it off, we jump over an adjunct of that hedge on the hill, down into a field with a modest, yet pronounced, drop. Just as Mark described. Those of us who haven't shown very much are sometimes treated to taking a fence in the hunt field when everything works perfectly. I was awfully thankful to Mark for metioning how well Archie and I negotiated that hedge because it felt wonderful. It was the first time that I felt I was in command of the obstacle rather than just getting through it. And, it wasn't the easiest of hedges either. At a check later on we noteiced a well turned out young lady who was head to toe covered in mud on her dorsal plane. She and her horse had not done such a good job there, and off she came. Nothing hurt, thank goodness, but the sight of her upped my rating of the difficulty of the jump.
fter this episode, fox number three got on his walking shoes and took a jaunt. He lead us on perhhaps our best run of the trip, and the field would have kept up nicely but for one ditch and bank combo that unhorsed the same Jt.Master that got stuck in the wire. I could have read his shoe size off both pairs of boot soles. THe field decided to find another way, and that was our undoing. We managed to strike off in the general direction of the hounds thanks in no small measure to the gentleman who hired our horses that day. At one point we were snaking through an over grown lane, ducking branches, crashing through brambles, and having to get off to get under a eally nasty bit of low hanging thorn. Problem was, getting back on my tall horse, (didn't look that tall when I got on him at the Meet). I finally hauled myself into the saddle by main force (strained a bicep doing it) and lots of cursing. Too many of Mark's Irish breakfasts. A little kid on a pony asks me to clear trail through brambles on my tall horse, and away we go.
Jimmy, the hireling man, with some running room, decides to catch up to hounds at whatever cost. Since he knows the way, and I'm on his horse, I had nothing to do but follow, and a merry chase ensued. We flew over hedges, wire hidden by packing pallets, and ditches, slowing only to get over the swollen "River that Time Forgot" (time didn't really forget this river, but we needed some name to give gravity to its importance). He looks back every now and then, sees me grinning in his hip pocket, and charges on.
At one point, as we're haring down a black top road side by side, he asks if I wanted this horse for the rest of the week. Not one to be outdone in the nonchalance department, I ask the horse's name, consider some merrits, and say why yes, Archie would be great for the two more times we'll be hunting with Golden Vale. All done at a gallop, on the road. Mind you, I was leaning all my turns so Archie didn't fall over, but can you imagine conducting business in the middle of a rip-roaring run?
If memory serves, that fox was blown to ground, and we moved on soon after. Back over the swollen river, but having taken pretty much all the jumps we were going to that day.
To those who are enjoying reading these accounts, your most welcome. It sometimes doesn't seem like it actually happened, and writing it down helps fix the events recently lived more firmly in the mind.
If I may be so bold as to suggest the next installment's title It should be - EPISODE 6 "Gone with the Wind in Tipperary"
Jeff the Wide Eyed
by Major Mark
Thought I'd take a break from tormenting the barn cats and the Labs with a laser to munch some froot loops and relate Episode 6. . . . . .
T'was not a bright morning when we woke on Thanksgiving day, 1998. A bit overcast. Turned on the only news I could find on the three channels we got at the house. Ah, found a short weather report. These people don't seem all that concerned about weather. No Williard Scott. No Al Roker. Just a voiceover and some quick graphics. The key? Find out where the weatherfront will be during the day. So far, the only front to come through did so overnight. Today, the graphic showed a front right on top of us during the day. Hmmmm, a wet day. Usually, a Melton coat and breeches keeps one comfortable in occasional showers, but steady rain makes one miserable. I decided to go with a lightweight hunt coat and a waxed cotton raincoat.
We had our usual heavy duty breakfast and headed out to the meet. We were hunting with Tipperary. For years, when people heard I hunted in Ireland, someone would invariably ask me if I've hunted with "The Tipps". Must be some hunt, I thought, maybe even better known than the Blazers. Today was the day!
We get to the meet in plenty of time. We stop in the pub (of course!). At 11:00 AM, there's a small group there. Couple of drunk old farmers singing.
One approaches me, hand out in greeting. We shake hands. He doesn't let go. "So you'll be 'unting then, will you?" he inquires. "Oh yes, we'll be going out with the Tipps today" I reply pleasantly. He doesn't let go. "Well, you're welcome, I just want to say you're welcome" he slurrs. Still not letting go. . . "Well, thank you, we're reallly happy to be here. . . ." Gently I pry my hand out of his, he grabs again, ("You're welcome") I pry again, "Well, gotta be going. . . ."
We get back outside, walk to the lorry with our horses, get mounted up, walk through town to meet up with the rest of the hunt gathering at the opposite end of the town, and the hunt commences! An easy clip-clop out of town, jump off the road into a pasture, through the back yard of a nice looking farm house, and then uphill. A nice English lady member of the field takes note of my raincoat, "enjoy your sauna" she says. I point out the lightweight coat. "Oh, well not all of us are fortunate to have two hunt coats" she says. Yup, that's me, your basic profligate American. . .
. . We get to the top of the hill. It's not looking good, folks. Constant 30 mph breeze. Clouds getting darker and lower. But the hounds find something interesting, follow it over to another field, we get to jump a nice, clean, honest to goodness stonewall. The rain mist begins. We watch as a nice, fat fox runs up the hill toward us, pops over the wall we just jumped, and heads down and across the valley. They lift the pack, bring them to the wall, they still can't pick up the line, so they bring them down the hill and up the other side. We, of course, have an unobstructed view of the whole thing. The hills are bigger than the ones at the Kilkenny Farmers pack meet, and they're all pastures, no woods, so you can just set back in the saddle and watch the show for a mile around. We eventually ran down and up to get to the other side, then they moved the pack from one small brush covert to another, casting and waiting, moving on, occasionally a fox would stick his head out of the covert, zip back in. There were some good jumps, nothing terrifying (the terrifying stuff came later in the week). We covered a lot of great, scenic territory as we tried, but the wind was relentless and the hounds couldn't get a good run going. As the rain continued, I was insufferably smug and self-congratulatory about my rain coat ("would anyone care to make any smart comments about my raincoat now, hmmmm?" I inquired at a check). And so it went. We cast as we worked our way back to the village, I skipped the last cast and had a nice leisurely walk back to the lorry. Then to the pub with the singing farmers. Then we visited with another friend of Gro and Ro. Then, we were off to another pub in Tipperary, where they had this cute little JRT that moseyed around the place as if he owned it, liked to snuggle with you as you drank your pints, graciously accepting tid-bits from your sandwiches and just adding to the cosy, gone back in time, agrarian, laid back feel of the place. Peat burning, pot bellied stove and walls covered with pictures and paintings of real horses, and real events, not generic hunt prints, complete the tableau. And there you are, still in your hunt clothes, hand wrapped around a pint, feeling quite satisfied with oneself for surviving yet another day in the hunt field, and knowing full well that you belong precisely where you are.
On to the restaurant attached to the pub for Thanksgiving Dinner. Yours truly had the steak. First time I wore boots and spurs at a Thanksgiving meal. After dinner, back to the pub. Tipperary Hunt was having a fund raiser. The place was packed. How the JRT avoided getting squished is beyound me. He waddled around between ankles completely content. They had actual, but obscure, horse races on film that only the event organisers knew who won. The horses were auctioned off, the film would be run, the "owner" of the winner got the prize, the hunt got the profits, etc. Grosvenor's horse lost, unfortunately.
Gawd, it was late. And the smoky air in the pub was thick enough to walk on. I wandered out in front of the pub to detoxify. Shortly afterwards, the rest of the crew popped out and we climbed into the car to go home. Rosie was the designated driver. Got out of Tipperary, then cut through another town on our way back to Inch House. We come to an intersection in some town, Rosie stops, looks, starts to ease out when this 40,000 lbs.lorry (that's TRUCK to us Americans) comes blistering through the narrow main drag of the town at about 50 mph on our right. Rosie floors it and zips past the front of this truck, dodging it by a few feet and sparing us all the novel experience of getting T-boned by a truck. It was very nearly curtains for the FOL Irish Expeditionary Hunt.
That stirred up enough adrenaline to keep us awake long enough to get back to the Inch House (after midnight). I informed the Hunting Gods that I was definitely sleeping in the next day and they could go on without me. So for the next chapter, Jeff, Gro and/or Ro will have to relate their adventures with the Golden Vale on Friday.
COMING SOON! Episode 7 - Muck and Moonshine in the Afternoon
As a prelude to todays episode, to Beverly H's comment on #6., there were several ladies that day in the field dressed in their lovely fitted blue and black frocks who were complaining bitterly about the weather. Though we never got the true soaking downpour, Mark was well equipped to buck the elements and enjoy his day. Wimpy-ness was not in evidence, and your mild jealousy (dimmed down from sour grapes) is duly noted.
Friday saw us again out with the Golden Vale. What more would you want when you've got a Jt.Master of the pack directing the tour? The meet was at a place called, if I have it right, Fairy Hill. And aptly named. Your other co-author, Mark, gave hunting a pass this day, but turned up with us at the meet, thus gathering first hand knowledge and the right to title this installment "Muck and Moonshine in the Afternoon". He'll have to explain about his day, but ours (Rosie, Grosvenor, and I) went thusly.
Weather was not a factor, so our turnout was classic. Black frocks, white breeches for the gents, tan for the lady, and Aigle rubber boots with the spanking tops to round out the gear. My boots were brand new (I know a huntsman who would NEVER wear something new in the hunt field, superstitious) and donned so as to make the life of our wonderful hostess who took on the job of boot washer some time at night a bit easier. Did I or Mark mention the mud previously?
We pull up to the home of John and Marianne (sp? Rosie) Ryan and their three children, two of whom were to be on their first hunt that day, ever. We arrive early to socialize a bit before the meet and were greeted as warmly as long absent relatives (which is what Rosie and Grosvenor sort of are, now that I think on it). We're invited into a sitting room and presented with a glass of punch.
Now, up to this point, on every day's hunting, the custom has been to fortify with a hot whisky or port. As the punch was warm, it felt only right to continue the ritual. Here's where the "moonshine" enters the picture. The first taste of punch would have done a prize pugilist proud (nice alliteration, huh?) In Ireland, "corn wickey", or moonshine, is called Pot Sheen (or some such spelling, pronounced po-sheen) and this punch had more than its fair share. It went down well, however, and as more people filled up the sitting room, combining with the heat from the fire, and as another glass of punch finds its way to my hand I found myself beating a hasty retreat to the out of doors for fresh air. Wouldn't do for the guest to flop over out of the saddle before the horse had taken more than two steps. But don't worry, the punch bowl was of truly classic hunting proportions, the kind you only read about (much like you all are doing now) and was patiently awaiting our return.
A sort of signal went out, and people started making their way towards horses. John Ryan, who greeted us so wonderfully with hand and punch bowl, had intended to travel the country by car and foot to help his two daughters around through the tricky parts of the day. He had on a lovely silk tie, button down shirt, wide wale corduroy trousers, and a wax jacket, looking every inch the country squire. I lose sight of him for a few moments and the next thing I see is himself with his feet shoved into knee high green wellie's, a maroon collared black hunt coat on his back, topped off by a hard hat on the back of a horse. He had been talked into riding. We were ready.
Horse flesh was the same as we'd had on Wednesday, you know, the horses lined up at a gallop down the road, but Archie was in a bit of a mood that day. Our first cast, after a bit of a hack up the road, ended blank, but everyone was well pleased. Seems that particular bit of ground had recently been reacquired, and not charging across the rain soaked turf, tossing divots in the air with every stride really made a good impression on the land owners, who were watching with keen interest. PR in full swing.
We had a few warm up obstacles, mostly drain and bank combos, and as I said, Archie was a bit put out. For me, it was my first test of riding ability to see if I could force a horse over this unfamiliar topography. As I put archie to at least two drains, he sat on the edge, dancing around and trying to figure his way across. People behind giving advice and yelling "Go if you're going." Fortunately, I had been paying attention to the horsemanship of my fellow hunters and had a few learned moves to make.
Yelling to motivate, kicking on with spurs, and finally, and a good reason to carry one, a slap with the hunt whip on the rear convinced Archie to get on with it. Now, all these motivationaly techniques applied at the same time did not, as one might suppose, produce a blind leap into the unknown. It was the strangest sensation, but I could actually feel the moment Archie made up his mind to go across. We sat for a second more before leaping, but there was absolutely no question that he was going to quit, though it still seemed to onlookers as if he was stuck. The second time we tried this there was old wire strung across on the other side of the obstacle. It never hung Archie up, but when we made it out to the street (Yes, the drain jumped from the bank had a blacktop road for a landing zone) there was a lot of yelling, and I kind of had an idea what the commotion was about. Rosie was directly behind me in the que for that jump, and as I turned back I thought she and Hillary were messing with wire. It could have started with me, but the conventional wisdom for wire is to kick on out of it. Don't stop because the horse will start to turn and get tangled up. So, I kicked on, letting the road followers and Rosie deal with her wire, only to discover that Archie had a yard and a half of old, rusty barbed wire hanging from his tail. Of course, as I realize this and look around for help to get the wire out (Archie is a devil to get back on from the ground) Staff and hounds are back tracking down the road right at us. That's when I discovered a use for the numerous pon's in the field. They can be annoying at jumps, but they're easy to dismount. A kind young man jumped off his pony, yanked the strand of wire out of Archie's tail, was back on the pony, and we were both in proper position to let hounds pass unmolested in a trice. Whew!
Settling down from our brush with wire, and still wanting to get after some fox, hounds were cast in the Bog Woods. I didn't see much of a bog, but the woods were pretty evident. It was a nice big covert that had seen recent occupation by Travellers. The evidence of that fact was all over the ground in the form of trash and discarded, broken, and useless personal items. One of the reasons the Travelling People in Ireland are looked at with disdain. They foul wherever they've been. Apperently, though, the discards of the Travellers were grounds for a fox convention because there were around ten or twelve of the suckers hanging out in the Bog Woods. And they didn't want to leave. Hounds ran around after one or the other for about 45 minutes, with the field trying to interpose itself in ways so as to deny re-entry to any that ventured forth. But they were sly as foxes, and though we did get a run out of one, he headed right back in a tight loop to join his brethren. So endeth cast number two.
Our last attempt to get a fox to move took us up the hill and into a serious forest. We passed by centuries old ruined watch towers into what I liked to fool myself into thinking was a primeval Irish forest. Transported back to ancient times, as it were. To discourage the desecratio of this forest by the trash leaving Travellers, steel pole barriers meant to keep wheeled vehicles out were installed at the entrances to this wood. As we approached the verge of the woods, I glanced up and made note of the beams, but chose to fix a glove or something, thus having only one hand on the reins, and near the buckle at that. Well, wouldn't you know that at that very moment the field increases speed and flies over the steel beam one by one in succession. I'm introduced to jumping yet a different type of barrier with leg and knee pressure only. It sounds worse than I make it, because even though Archie was sticking at drains, he's a fly fence horse from the word go. We sailed over pretty as you please, and went on to sail over several more barrier poles, as well as toppled pine trees on the trail. Pretty cool, and jumping like I'm more accustomed to.
In the woods the hounds worked very well together, settling out after the melee in the Bog Woods. Fox one got up and ran about a hundred yards before denning up. Fox number two didn't even run that long. In between foxes one and two, the punch caught up with me, and I felt obligated to dismount Archie and answer a call of nature, or risk ruining a saddle and a nice once white pair of britches (mud speckled best described their color, or colour, at this point). Remember I said Archie was tall? Well I managed to crawl back on just in time for the hack back home. All in all, an instructive day from both a horse and hound perspective.
We meet again at the home of John and Marianne to find what I think was high tea waiting for us. At least, there was tea, and cakes, and coldcuts, and salad, and a whole lot of food to fill up the empty spots in our middles that breakfast hadn't quite reached. Marvelous.
After the tea, we repaired to the sitting room to marvel at John's silver trophy, just won on the merits of a rather on the small side grey TB steeplechaser. It was a big old trophy, and we were treated to a video tape of the race. The horse wasn't the fastest, but he ended the best. We were also re-introduced to the punch and several of John and Marianne's neighbors and hunting buddies. What followed wasn't a "rare old session" as it didn't last until the wee hours of the morning, but singing and stories, conversation and punch with as much warmth coming from the fire in the firebox as from the smiles on the faces of those gathered made it an evening to remember. The room was twenty by thirty, but Grosvenor, ever one to count up and see how many hounds are on, put the body count at somewhere around 27 at the hight of the party. All with the host and his family trooping sandwiches, chips, cake, and the ubiquitous punch around the room at diminishing intervals. An empty glass was an invitation for more.
The party included dancing, and at one point an idea was put forth for carefull consideration to relocate to a nearby hotel to really start swinging. Calls of "who's in" were bandied about, of which I was entreated several times to join the caravan, but that seemed like a perfect time to make our escape. Most of those gathered could sleep off whatever mischief they got into that night, but we had a date with East Galway on Sat. and collectively decided discretion was the better part of valor. I actually hope the crew made their way to the Hotel to dance inspite of us.
Geez, I can't believe I wrote all this. If you've made it this far, as our Aussie colleague would say, "good on'ya."
I'll end this episode by suggesting a title
for the next. "Episode 8 - East Galway, The Land of Tall
Horses." I will defer to the originator of the series to
bring that story to the fore, but I think I may have to take up
the ball for him in a lateral move. And to Eileen O, it gets better!
Submitted for your approval, Jeff Foxboro Hounds Spring Creek
Basset Hunt
by Major Mark
Today's the office Christmas party, so as I sit here in red shirt, green pants and spurs with dingle bobs (so I jingle), I know that no work is going to happen, so it's time to relate Episode 8, East Galway, The Land of Tall Horses.
Leaving early from the po-cheen (moonshine) fueled festivities at Ryan's farm, I got a good night's sleep and reported for hunting duty Saturday morning (I know, I know, the drudgery of having to hunt day after day). The meet was with East Galway, and we were meeting at the village of Gortymadden. What's this, Major Mark actually remembering the location of the meet for once? Uh-huh, this was the place I took a dive off a horse onto the paved road last year with the Galway Blazers. It made an impression. On my posterior. We meet at another Ryan's pub (of course!). "No, no drinking for me, thank you. Gotta ride."
We get on our hirlings. The man says about my horse "just stay off his month and let him do his job". Warning bells begin to chime softly. Master Michael Dempsey Jr., son of the legendary Michael Dempsey Sr., Master of the Blazers, leads us out of town. My horse is jinking around a bit, threw a little tantrum, settled a bit. After clogging up some road traffic for a while, we jump off the road into the fields. I put a little leg on the horse and he sails over cleanly. OK, good. We're in classic Galway wall country. The loose stone walls are about 4 foot high, great footing, I'm happy. We went on a few runs to keep up with the huntsmen and hounds, did some nice wall jumps. Slight problem though. Can't seem to find this horse's brakes. I'm riding a jetski. The only time I can get the beastie to let some space open up between me and rider going over the wall in front of me is to S-turn or circle. Worse, he's beginning to cat-leap the jumps. Even without leg, he's charging the jumps, then coming to a dead stop, then leaping straight up. Not good.
The hounds aren't finding much, so we come
back into town, then head back out on the road leading to Lough
Rea. A short distance out of town, we jump off the road, over
a 4 foot stone wall and into the fields. I force the horse out
into the road, make a jug handle turn and head into the jump.
He runs up, stops, makes an almighty leap straight up. I'm with
him up at the peak, then lag behind as he drops. He hits the ground,
I hit his whithers off center and Bam!, I'm pitched sideways.
Graceful somersault into clean, wet, soft grass, then I roll upright
onto my feet, retrieve my cap, a wonderful person in the field
grabs my horse as he runs off, brings him back, I jump back on
and go. Entire episode - 60 seconds. It amazes me that I could
fall off a 17 hand horse with absolutely no bang - if I'd been
carrying eggs not a one would have been cracked. But I figured
this horse out by now, leg, leg on the jumps, even when he's charging
the jump. Of course, Gro, Ro and Jeff are having no problems at
all. The hounds strike, we run a while, jumping various walls,
then check on a bit of high ground as the hounds put Charlie to
ground in a covert in a corner of a field. Then, back to town,
to head out in the opposite direction. This horse was wearing
my arms out. Not that I was in all that great shape to begin with.
The last straw was when we're trotting down a paved road, turning
off onto another paved road, with a car going around the corner,
I try to slow the horse down, he responds by ignoring me and charging
between the car and the edge of the road, slipping, scrambling,
almost sliding under the side of the moving car. That's it, that's…
IT! I canter up to Gro, tell him I'm having too much trouble with
the horse, I'm going in. He says HIS horse lost a shoe. "Great!
Take this horse!" We swap, he goes on, I bring shoeless back
to the lorry and put him in. I jump in the car, drive over to
Lough Rea, drop in on the Leahy clan. I know Willie's not going
to be there, he's out hunting. But Brendan and William are. We
talk a bit, watch a horse race on the telly, then I head back
to the meet and got into the lorry to keep Shoeless company. What
had been a bright day had suddenly turned dark, and as the far
off clip-clop signaled the return of the Hunt, the heavens burst.
T'was a damp field that rode into town. We spent some time at
the crowded pub, then headed out for chinese food. I'm sure Jeff,
Gro or Ro will fill in the details of the hunt after I left whilst
I prepare the final chapter, a tale of seven foot drops, muck,
horse swallowing ditches, muck, wire, rivers, muck and maniacal
farmers in Episode 9 - "Apocalypse Drop - The Horror"
(addendum by Jeff)
To finish the days hunting which Mark started so well. And, to help in an editing capacity, the intrepid Rosie was not with us this day, opting for shopping instead. Christmas IS coming ya know! The day started as Mark described, and we were indeed confronted with classic stone wall country strait off. Mark was also not the only one to have a sticky horse. Mine came to the first wall, was all set to take it when he noticed a line of white painted rocks on the other side. Land mines! So he ducked out. The top of this fence was set with stones sticking sharpest side up, not razor sharp, but it was not something you felt goos about landing on minus your horse and I was happy to have had a deep seat.
Put him at it again and didn't take no for an answer. As we canter on to the next wall a lady asks me which horse I was riding. I was actually able to answer (I knew about half my horses' names) "Billy, why?" She replied that that sort of behavior was not like old Billy, which gave me a bit of a clue to his character. Billy was not to get out of any more jumps!
We did indeed watch a bit of a pack split, but all hounds eventually got put right, and a merry little chase ended down a dirt farm lane. I looked over my shoulder to find Grosvenor on a bay horse, where before I think he'd had a chestnut. The switch that Mark had described had taken place. Guess Grosvenor's toes weren't in such bad shape. (He'd been kicked in the foot practically back at the Meet.) Let's go find another fox. Off we go, sticking behind the field master so as not to be left too far back. The sequences get confused, even after so short a time, but we took a really nice hedge jump, old Billy and I, where a vine hooked my foot and about pulled me off. We had some more wire to cross, as well as a bank or two (wire down before we got there) and all in all a tidy little chase. Hounds put that one to ground, and we had time to get off our horses and drain off some of the hot whisky's we taken in before mounting.
Thus refreshed, in body and spirit, we went off after just one more fox. We jumped a yellow nylon rope that was blocking unwanted vehicles (aka, Travellers) from a lane and watched Michael draw his hounds through a patch of low covert. Just the place for fox to hoel up, but no one was home there. It was a treat just to sit and watch hounds work, though.
On to the next draw, and this time we the field didn't get much off the road. We did have a tricky passage bewteen a six foot stone wall and a tractor, where our clearance was about horse width, or narrower. As we sat and watched hounds draw along a hedge row/ fence line, (watching intently, mind you, because that's the sort of thing we do) a hound opens and a few more start feathering on a line. Grosvenor and I were placed perfectly to watch one of Ireland's wine dark colored foxes scoot out of covert, cut a corner, and make for the verge right in front of our horses. He was beautiful, as many of you reading and have seen fox close up hace seen. The rich, full coat with the stark white tip to his tail and the black feet were layed out for us for mere moments, but long enough for me to pull my cap.
Then there ensued a round of shouting where the huntsman, we later learned over a pint of you know what, wanted the field to move and let the fox cross the road, and the field thought he wanted us to line the road and turn the fox. Well, turn he did, and we had a short but merry chase that left the field in perfect position to see the hounds run up to and start marking at what we assumed must have been an earth. Unfortunatley, we were all stuck on the wrong side of a tightly strung and brand new wire fence with a drain on the other side bigger than even the Irish wanted to chance. We were stuck, but that turned out to be the end of the day, anyway, and hounds were picked up for home.
The hack back was a bit on the average side, probably fifteen or twenty minutes, though no one who had gotten off their horse at the long check was complaining. Some of us had even snacked on carefully hoarded breakfast sausage at that self- same check and were without the usual hunger pangs as well. (To give you a hint, there were only two left from the Irish Exp. Hunt at this point, and I did not partake of cold, congealed, and possible turned sausage.) As we neared the Meet, we could see horse boxes and lorries in the distance, a squall line swept over and gave us a dose of stinging rain. Mark was caught up, we downed Guiness, and then off to meet Rosie. When leaving Inch house that morning we tried to finagle a seat for dinner with the proprietoress, but she had way more than she could handle, suggesting another place out by where we were to be hunting that day. Gro, Mark, and I embarked our conveyance from the pub at the meet and set off for a place with a half remembered name. Gro knew the town, but couldn't quite get the establishment, but we figured we'd "know it when we saw it."
We arrive at the cross roads, locate an eatery with a name close to what we half heard ten hours ago in the lobby of our B & B, and settled in to wait for Rosie. We got some libation, in the form of Guiness, and learned that we were in a place that looked real cool, but served no dinner. Okay, where are we supposed to be, and how put out will Rosie be when we arrive. Turns out we needed to be in a place called "Goosers" pronounced "da gooozzerss" by the publican who set us straight. We were only a hop, skip, and a jump from our rendezvous with the tolerant and patient Rosie, and made our way there mere minutes behind that worthy (okay, could have been twenty minutes, but she had reading material).
We enjoyed a pleasantly surprising dinner by candle (I think) and fire (I have pictures) light. Mussels and oysters were cracked, duck and other tasty bits were consumed, and champagne flowed (again, I have pictures courtesy of Mark). "Da Gooozzerss" was charming as one could want, if perhaps a bit contrived. But who cared, we bought into the whole scenario.
Personally, the day had been the best yet. Rosie missed hunting, but ate well. Grosvenor hunted, and ate well, but got kicked in the foot. Mark hunted, ate well, but had a horse that about did him in. I, on the other hand, tally-hoed a magnificent fox, lifting my cap in time honored signal, maneuvered my sometimes reluctant horse over strange new obstacles, and dined in excellent company by firelight. And did I mention there was Guiness in there as well? To paraphrase a line from Nat'l Lampoon's "Vacation", I think I needed a plastic surgeon to remove the smile from my face. We're ready for Episode 9 - Apocalypse Drop - The Horror. Jeff Foxboro Hounds Spring Creek Basset Hunt
by Major Mark
So sorry for the delay in writing, I lost my muse (it turned up in the laundry). I can't believe I forgot to relate dinner at Gooser's, especially since I took pictures of the evening. It's not often you get a nice table in a little cubbyhole with a nice fireplace all to yourself. It was a very pleasant evening, spent in good company, truly living the life of an Irish Country Gentleman. Ah well, when we last left our heroes . . . . . .
Sunday morning. "Once more unto the hunt field, dear friends" I thought as I stood at the huge floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the dining room, checking out the morning sky. It looked like it was going to be a dry day, hence no raincoat. Behind me, the usual heavy attack breakfast was being served. In front of me, a quarter mile of open field between Inch house and the road. T'was the last hunt of the '98 FOL Irish Expeditionary Hunting Trip. All holodeck safety protocols were disabled today, since there were no more hunts on this trip to lose. Today was the last chance for hunting glory. No holding back ("It's broken? No problem, Throw a splint on it, I'm flying back tomorrow. . .").
We meet the Golden Vale Hunt in a little town just a short drive away, near the Golden Vale Hunt kennels. The town is at the bottom of a hill; a river runs through it, dammed if I can remember the name of the place. Of course we go into the local pub. Of course I run into the local old drunken farmer (nick-named "Box Car Willie"). Outside, the lorry with horses for Gro, Jeff and myself is there. Rosie's mount Hilliary shows up her usual way, standing backwards in a two-horse trailer with her head sticking out the back. If she hung her tongue out she'd look a giant dog out for a joyride. We all mount up (I'm on Thunder, same horse I rode Wednesday), ride out of town, up the long slope we just drove down, toward the hunt kennels. No spectacular hills today, just rolling farm land on the slope above the town. Bright blue sky. Very promising. Decent sized field (about 40-50), with quite a number of kids. After a 10 minute hack on the road, past a soccer field with a game in progress (the 50 of us clip-clopping past didn't faze them), we turn off into a farm field. We wait a bit until the hounds strike, then head across the fields to keep up. There are big, deep ditches in the fields. Nice ones you can fly across! We circle the field, hopping ditches, end up back on the high ground. Hmmmm, what's that down in the field? A couple riders and horses standing alone in the field. . . .and next to them, a horse head and/or a person's head would occasionally pop up out of the ground. Oh yes, of course, the ditch must've swallowed someone. They'll work it out. Ride on, ride on. . . .
We entered a period of casting hounds, moving from field to field, and plodding through some serious mud. Spluck! Spluck! Spluck! We passed by an electric fence knocked down in the mud, and even from 8 feet away, enough current was flowing through the muck to zap the horses. Poor Thunder's hindquarters were jerking and quaking as we got past the fence as quick as we could. Ugh. We moved on. Not much jumping so far, a few good banks, though. The hounds couldn't seem to get any runs going, so we moved toward the river. Across the field, then into the woods. We're on a forested hill, going down toward a lower pasture. From my high vantagepoint, I see Jeff zipping through the pasture below. I start down.
I'm following about 20 feet behind another rider, down the steep hill, ducking tree limbs, when I see the jump. (NOTE TO READER: THE FOLLOWING IS NOT AN EXAGGERATION) Your basic telephone pole jump, 8 feet long, set about 1 foot above the ground. Hmmm, no big deal. Then the ol' depth perception kicks in. . . what's that behind the log?. . . . a six foot vertical drop? <gulp!>. The rider in front of me makes his approach. . .he's up. . .he's over. . . .long, graceful arc as he separates from his horse in mid-flight, then he ricochets off his horse's ass as his mount reaches earth first. The hapless rider lands face down in the mud. "Man down! Man down" I shout as I abort my approach. Good ol' Thunder obeys, sparing me the embarrassment of squishing a fellow foxhunter. I circle back up the hill, intending to make another approach, my courage hemorrhaging by the second. I look around, the whole area is ringed with barbed wire. No way off this freeking hill except over that damn log! I'm at the top of the hill, starting back down, but already there's a backlog at the jump. I hear the chatter of locals: "I'll not be jumping that fookin' ting!" " 'ere, come on den. . ." I experience a flood of relief as a couple of them dismount, work the log loose from its mounting and pull it aside. Me and Thunder walk up, he clambers over the edge and hops down 6 feet. Cake. We gallop on with the field. . .
Across the pasture we hurtle at Thunder's Standard Speed (a loping canter), and ahead I see riders coming to an edge, and dropping straight down from sight. Hmmmm, another drop, no problem, we slow to a trot, come to the edge, and then a shock as I look down and see the seven foot drop WITH A LOG AT THE BOTTOM set out about four feet from the bottom of the drop. Thunder was on the case, and was already dropping over the edge. There was no time to second guess or abort, I was committed. All I could do was sit back and imagine what it was going to feel like to have Thunder hit the log, tumble, and land on me. Thunder broadjumped straight out, we sailed through the air, easily cleared the log, touchdown, I slammed into the saddle and almost bounced off, I saw a blue-white flash (there was a group of people off to one side taking pictures and video, jeez! I almost became a Blooper!) and we hurtled forth.
We get to the river. Time to cross. A rider ahead of me takes the 4 foot drop into the dark, swirling water. Promptly falls off. I head further down the bank. Ah, here's a three foot drop into dark water. In we go. OK, water comes up to just below my boots. Good. Splash, splash splash down the river with the rest until we get to a spot where we climb out into another pasture. Hounds are on a run! We rocket forth, crash through some banks as we head uphill. At the top, hounds go blank. They circle around the brush at the side of the field. Nothing. Huntsmen want to go back across the river. We come partly downhill to another spot on the river. Here the bank has a seven foot vertical drop into the water. None of the horses wanted to go. Thunder's owner said "G'wan, Mark, Thunder will do it" Sure enough, I bring him to the edge, nudge him, and down he drops. I lean alllllll the way back. The horse is vertical, my should blades are flat against his hindquarters, and I can feel his front dropping further, and I am just a hairbreath away from falling forward (can't lean back any further!) when Thunder launches and out we go into the river. I am still on! Yesss! We cast a few more times, then decide to move on. We ride out of the field and into the barnyard of a farm. As we approach the gate leading to their drive way, we notice we have an audience. A bunch of guys, a couple with drinks in hand, have set upright two 55 gallon drums in the gate opening and laid a thick wood pole across the top of the drums. They weren't letting anybody ride around them. We had to jump! We were, you see, the Entertainment. As the field queued up for the jump, occasionally someone would crash into the jump, the guys would hold up the line while they set the pole back up and then cheer us on "Come agi'n, come agi'n!"
Me and Thunder got over (flat, gravel footing, what a treat!) and headed down the driveway (which they had strewn with still more tree branches and other things to jump!). We got to the road, hacked over to yet another farm, went through their farm yard, crossed the top of a small waterfall, went to the crest of the hill overlooking the town, and cast the hounds again. By now it was getting dark. If the hounds struck, we'd be coming back in the dark. I wasn't too hopeful about their chances, so me and Thunder went back out to the road and joined others for a easy walk down the hill and into town. The hounds didn't find much so by the time I got back to town, put Thunder away and got a pint o' Guinness in my hand, I could stand out in the road and welcome the hounds and huntsmen back into town. I was feeling pretty good. I had survived yet another hunting trip to Ireland. Done some interesting riding, seen some wonderful scenery, really didn't give a damn whether we "accounted for" foxes. Quite happy to have seen them running and listen to hounds and spend hours on a horse riding through the countryside. I was content.
We gathered in the pub. The Guinness flowed, platters of sandwiches got passed around, the telling of tales got underway, an English gentleman was demonstrating some calls on his hunting horn. I sat in a corner with my pint and enjoyed the show. Later, we arranged to meet a few of them (an American nutritionist and a couple of Englishmen) for dinner at the Cashel Palace in Cashel. So we went back to Inch House, got cleaned up, put on the coats and ties and off to Cashel Palace. It's an old mansion/"palace" that some Catholic Bishop lived in and ruled from years ago. In the bar, the wall is painted with the names of all the "notable" people who dined there, ranging from Jonathon Swift to Michael Collins, to Hollywood types (the usual suspects, plus Martin Short?!). We were seated for dinner, the wine steward was the very image of Alfred the butler, it was all so verry, verry refined. One of our English guests (an RAF Major!) recounted a rather bawdy, funny story in an impeccably aristocratic accent. What a delight! We finished the evening with a few rounds of Port. How civilized!
What a week. From sipping moonshine in Irish farmhouses, to apres Hunt Chinese, to enjoying port in fancy restaurants, music til the wee hours, riding all day, gallons of Guiness by night. . . . what a week. Great horses, great company. Gro and Ro are a real high performance couple. One must get into shape, in multiple skills, to keep up with them. This was the best week I ever spent in Ireland. Next time, I'll be better prepared. . . . .
Major Mark
Glad to see you got your "Muse" back, Mark. I was itching to get the last episode out, but held myself in check to let the honor of the deed fall to the creator.
I must add on, however, as it was perhaps the most memorable of all the hunts we attended. I'll preface my remarks by saying that this was indeed our last go, and I was determined to take all of the knowledge gained during the course of the week or so past to be up and in the race until the end. My goal was to be, at the most, four or five horses behind the field master all day.
> town. Bright blue sky. Very promising. Decent sized field (about 40-50) , > with quite a number of kids.
Actually, according to the field secretary, we had 60 - 70 out on horse back. Plenty of kids and Mums to mind them at the back of the field. I noted this mix at the outset, and was further determined not to get out of touch with the front runners. Kids and ponies with mothers screaming at them are death at a jump or drain in terms of keeping up with hounds. I was back with them in previous hunts and had learned my lesson.
> There are big, deep ditches > in the fields. Nice ones you can fly across! Oh yes, of course, the ditch must've swallowed >someone.
This particular ditch was fairly narrow across and a bit overgrown with grass. Kind of like a waterway in an alfalfa field can be deceptively deep. My horse and I cantered this drain, and as we left it I looked back (a rare occurrence for me over there, once I left an obstacle I felt I was tempting fate to glance back) to see what it was like. No big deal I thought. But, at the next check, I saw the same group as Mark milling around a portion of the drain. To my surprise, a horses head would pop out briefly every now and then, completely hidden the majority of the time. It turned out to be a pony, not a horse, but this was a fourteen hand pony if it was an inch. Amazing.
Pony got out alright in the end, but this sight did send off an Englishman whom we had met at Inch House the previous night. Thought he had more bottom than that. At least, he talked like he did the night before.
> We entered a period of casting hounds, moving from field to field, and > plodding through some serious mud. Spluck! Spluck! Spluck! We passed by an > electric fence knocked down in the mud, and even from 8 feet away, enough > current was flowing through the muck to zap the horses.
This was by far our muckiest day. Dodging mudballs was reduced to an art form. Several caught me full face, necessitating some furious blinking and crying to clear the grit before I had to do some real riding and help my horse make some decisions.
The downed hot wire was a bit tricky, but the old maxim of kick on through wire held true in this instance as well. Funny thing, if the field had waited a bit on the front side of this wire, which had been knocked down fairly early on, there was a gap just a bit upfield that we could all have zipped through without any "shocking" experience to horse or hound.
Poor Thunder's
> (NOTE TO READER: THE FOLLOWING IS > NOT AN EXAGGERATION) Your basic telephone pole jump, 8 feet long, set about > 1 foot above the ground. Hmmm, no big deal. Then the ol' depth perception kicks in. . . what's that behind the log?. . . . a six foot vertical drop? > > Me and Thunder walk up, he clambers over the > edge and hops down 6 feet. Cake. We gallop on with the field. . .
That bit of discretion may have been the better part of valor, but remember my vow to stay up with hounds? I had no choice but to follow Hillary, the best hunt horse in Ireland, and Rosie over this drop. And it was more like close to eight feet down. I looked at that one as we galloped away, too. It was not to be believed. Jumping it felt most like floating in the air, and kicking my horse over it was one of the hardest things I've done on horseback. Also one of the easiest as I had made up my mind to go before actually coming to it.
> Across the pasture we hurtle at Thunder's Standard Speed (a loping > canter), and ahead I see riders coming to an edge, and dropping straight > down from sight. Hmmmm, another drop, no problem, we slow to a trot, come to > the edge, and then a shock as I look down and see the seven foot drop WITH A > LOG AT THE BOTTOM set out about four feet from the bottom of the drop.
The distance was as I remember it, but the log at the bottom was not like that when I got there. It was more like a stake abbattis placed there either to keep cows in, or make us jump out over it. The field master comes up to this drop on his green horse and kicks him over the edge after looking for an alternative for perhaps fifteen seconds.
The field master may have chosen to avoid the brush pile and angled left, or the greenie may have chosen to twist in mid-air upon seeing the sticks underneath, whoever chose chose poorly. Off comes the field master, and here I come. I saw the whole situation from right on his tale, and hoping to avoid the mistake I give Archie (my Irish friend) a hearty squeeze and a firm rein so as to kick out and leap over the abbattis works and into the level green field beyond. Worked like a charm and off we were after the hounds. Field Master left to scramble as best he may.
My tale deviates from Mark's here a bit as the last two jumps, the log drop and the abbattis works happened in such close succession that they scraped of 90% of the field. We were flying after hounds who were chasing a pretty straight necked fox . . The group of amateur photogs that surprised Mark were part of a larger group of foot followers, a really big group, who, in their zeal to witness the action, turned our fox and sent him to ground. They stopped the potential run of the week just when things were getting good.
As Tom O'Meara, huntsman to the Golden Vale, pulls hounds back to see if they can get this fox going again, the rest of the field make their way back into touch wit h the hounds.
> We get to the river. Time to cross. A rider ahead of me takes the 4 foot
> drop into the dark, swirling water. Promptly falls off. I head further down > the bank. Ah, here's a three foot drop into dark water. In we go.
At this bank, the field master on his greenie asks for a lead into the inky rill. A lovely young lady clad in dark blue frock coat and blue hunt cap, riding a springy cob maneuvers quickly to the fore. She had been trying for this all day and this was her chance. She kicks her horse forward in a non-chalant way that suggests smugness and puts him at the lip of the bank. The cob jigs a bit , but jumps in to the black, unfathomable water with little hesitation.
The only way to describe the next sequence is to say that there are some bodies of water, usually to a depth that comes up just below the points of the hip, that are so cold that they induce a certain involuntary reaction. Males are particularly susceptible to this reaction, especially pronounced in colder water. The reaction goes as follows: jump into water, hit up to just below waste, immediately rebound in the vain hope that you can escape the terrible sensation assaulting a region that was only meant to be treated nicely. This horse hit that cold water and instantly jumped sideways out from under the nice lady. Her smug attitude was doused quite literally by the chilly brook she found herself suddenly sitting in.
As my turn came to brave the water hazard, I quickly realized that my gloating was probably a prelude to my own fall, and I got real humble, real quick. Arc hie took off like a champ, landed like a trooper, and set off like no tomorrow after hounds. The egress from this little river was a nice gentle slope upward, kind of disappointing after all the trouble to get into it.
> A bunch of guys, a couple > with drinks in hand, have set upright two 55 gallon drums in the gate > opening and laid a thick wood pole across the top of the drums. They weren't > letting anybody ride around them. We had to jump!
They were indeed not letting anyone through until they jumped, and a surprising number of horses were refusing. It was pretty straightforward, and I got a bit impatient waiting for the rest to get over, so I bumped up in line, put Archie at the rail, and over we went, cantering to catch up with the field on the road.
Prior to this passage through the farm yard, the hounds had done a fair bit of hunting with many people viewing fox. Unfortunately, the fox kept running in tight little circles around the muddiest part of all Ireland and the field got strung out and in the way. Archie and I almost bought some patches of proto-Irish bog several times.
> We got to the road, hacked over to yet another farm, > went through their farm yard, crossed the top of a small waterfall, wen t to > the crest of the hill overlooking the town, and cast the hounds again. By > now it was getting dark. If the hounds struck, we'd be coming back in the > dark.
This last draw was a part of the Golden Vale that Grosvenor had been looking forward to all week. Since the last time he'd ridden it, however, new wire had been strung and made it into one of the trappiest bits they've now got. You could look down in this little valley and see good fox covert and brilliant little fields for miles. It was a shame we had to leave it alone.
Tom, the huntsman, drew along the side of this once nice territory and hounds did find. But the fox didn't want to leave a gorse covert and kept creeping around in little circles. The field gave up after the huntsman decided to lift hounds and head back. I had a feeling that hounds were not going to be that easy to bring out, hearing a few voices off in the distance as Tom was blowing for home. Turned out that they chased around after a couple of foxes for another forty minutes as the daylight faded and the temperature dipped. A lovely party was brewing in the pub at the meet, but for some reason I decided to wait outside until the hounds made their way back. Didn't seem right to come in before the hounds.
> We gathered in the pub. The Guinness flowed, platters of sandwiches got > passed around, the telling of tales got underway, an English gentleman was > demonstrating some calls on his hunting horn.
This same English gentleman who was dissuaded from continuing hunting wit h us at the first drain. He asked for a horn to blow in the English fashion, whatever that was. He blew a nice horn, but it wasn't special. I think he wanted to get in on a bit of the fun he missed that day.
> We were seated for dinner, the wine steward was the > very image of Alfred the butler, it was all so verry, verry refined. One of > our English guests (an RAF Major!) recounted a rather bawdy, funny story in > an impeccably aristocratic accent. What a delight! We finished the evening with a few rounds of Port. How civilized!
This same Englishman, not the "windy" horn blower, but the jolly jokester , was treated to yours truly to the first round from the bar before. I say this only because he asked for red wine to drink, learned that I had hotel training in college, and proceeded to cajole and maneuver me into picking wine for the table for dinner.
I have only a rudimentary knowledge of wine, and my training in college was confined to charging $12 at a banquet for a $2 bottle. So, I endeavored to steel a march on this fellow by picking an Australian wine rather than the ton of French reds offered. I made my choice, endured comments of "interesting," "very brave," and
"we're in for an education," and buttonholed the garcon at the first opportunity. "Tell me I picked a pretty good one?" I asked. "Oh no, sir, first rate, won an award." When the first dram was poured to see if the bottle had turned, I told everyone to wait a bit to let it breath. Which, when allowed to stand, turned into a really nice wine, and pulled my chestnuts out of the fire.
The port later on, also at my suggestion as a result of needling from the English contingent, was a Dow '75. Not a vintage year, but a pretty good after dinner wine. We had two rounds of those.
> What a week. . .
Let me echo those sentiments. Every moment of every waking minute (and some non-waking moments as well) had a story in it. Some weren't very profound stories, but at every turn we were confronted with a view, a sensation, or an idea that was worthy of note and comment. That's never happened to me before.
I dearly hope that I haven't given any impressions that were untrue. I'll be the first to admit my mere adequacy on the back of a horse, and this trip was a stretch of my abilities. But we need to stretch to grow. To put this in perspective, the very next horse I got on to hunt upon returning from Ireland took the bit in his mouth at the two hour mark and hauled me across the countryside of Northern Illinois at his whim and pleasure. Running out of arm strength, and options, I put this thing at a tree line, much like the tree and bush/bramble combos I'd been through in Ireland, and proceeded to get dumped as I thought he would brush through. He cut out at the last second. I ended up upside down in a tree and thanked my lucky stars that I wasn't crippled. The challenge and growth did not stop upon my return to our shores.
Thank you to all of you who've read and related your enjoyment of Mark's and my attempts to put our experiences into words. It was as much, or more, fun to write as it was to read. And special thanks to the "tour guides" who brought me to it.
Respectfully submitted,
Jeff Eichler Foxboro Hounds Spring Creek Basset Hunt