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HOT ON THE TRAIL

In her latest Land Rover column, Helena Douglas discovers the visceral thrill of a traditional English hunt ...

Special to MORE INTELLIGENT LIFE

I am at Uppark, a 17th-century National Trust-owned property in Sussex, amid a scene of energetic equine activity. Horses thump down lorry ramps; a rusting tractor tows vehicles stuck in the mud; riders wrestle with jackets, hats and gloves. Those on their mounts gather, some already knocking back glasses of port doled out by friendly faced women in wellies. A rider in a beautifully cut, silver-buttoned, dark-blue jacket sits astride a big grey; behind him a pack of hounds wait, quivering with intent. On the sidelines I notice a man sporting a huge moustache and gold earrings sitting nonchalantly on a quad bike smoking a squashed roll-up. Groups of people, most with dogs, stand chatting. In the middle of it all the Uppark landowner, in baseball-cap and ripped jeans, is shaking hands and smiling broadly.
 
It is a Saturday meet of the Chiddingfold, Leconfield and Cowdray Hunt, and I have come along to foot follow. Despite spending a lot of time in the saddle, my jumping technique—more hit than miss—is not ideal for hedges and hard fences, so a-hunting on horseback I have yet to go. Foot following—a bit of a misnomer really as much of it is done by vehicle—is a way for non-riders to follow the huntsmen, hounds and mounted followers, and lends unique insight into how the hunt works.
 
The Chiddingfold, Leconfield and Cowdray (CL&C) hunts over a wide swathe of countryside—around 300 square miles—in West Sussex and Surrey. In spite of the 2004 Hunting Act, which outlawed hunting with dogs in England and Wales, the hunt is flourishing as a registered business. Traditional fox hunting has been replaced by trail hunting, or scent lining, where a scent trail is laid across the countryside for the hunt to follow. A trail hunt ends when everyone is back where it started, or when the hounds lose the scent, or simply when it is time to call it a day. While it is still legal to use two dogs to flush a fox to a gun, the CL&C foregoes this as it does not want firearms involved. Two full-time hunt staff—the huntsman and his assistant, the whipper in—look after the hunt’s 34.5 “couple” of hounds (hounds are always counted in pairs; it is quicker to tally them two at a time), and hunt membership numbers are up. There is a busy social programme, a thriving supporters club and newcomers are welcomed.
 
That welcome is immediately apparent when I meet Deborah, the warm hunt secretary I had spoken to the night before. “I’ll be riding a coloured cob with a hogged mane—you won’t be able to miss me”, she warned. She is right. Her magnificent piebald with white feathers is easy to spot amid a field of bay and chestnut hunters. He stands solid and still as Deborah gives me an overview of the day.
 
The huntsman, whipper in and hounds set off first. The riders or “mounteds”, as they are known, are managed by the Master and follow behind. Those on foot follow the whole thing by car through country lanes, stopping to watch the hounds and horses working. A team of quad bike riders—four, on this day—backs up the huntsmen. They help if the pack splits, assist in keeping hounds away from roads, fix broken fences and keep in touch with everyone via radio and mobile phone.
 
After my chat with Deborah I survey a scene that, barring the presence of mobile phones, hasn’t changed in decades. The field is elegant, the horses clipped and brushed, hooves oiled, tack shining, tails washed and manes plaited. Riders wear traditional hunting dress of black or blue hard-hat and hunt jacket, white stock (hunting tie), gloves, pale britches, boots and spurs. A couple of men stand out in hunting pink (red) coats, showing they have been awarded their “hunt buttons”, an honour given by the Master. Children wearing tweed “ratcatcher” weave in and out on hairy ponies. A striking woman on a chestnut, riding side-saddle in long blue skirt, top hat, veil and pearl earrings, sits lost in thought. Animated voices carry though the cold air, the accents more plumber than plum. Once stigmatised for its elitism, hunting is now a sport for anyone with a love of horses and the countryside. Today’s meet is notable for the diversity of those taking part. 

After a short address by Elizabeth, today’s Master, who stresses the need to avoid riding over crops and not to overtake her—a mortal sin on the hunting field—the spine-tingling sound of the hunting horn rings out. Immediately the atmosphere changes; the hounds switch from calm to keen, the horses jig and jog as their riders gather up the reins. And then with a leap and a bound the hunt is away, off down the hill towards the bottom of the valley, the hounds running hard, noses down, tails up, already on the scent.
 
For the 20 or so foot followers, it’s back into our vehicles and the start of a day of haring through the narrow Sussex country lanes. We stop on the top of hills, at the bottom of valleys, or on the edges of muddy fields, and peer into the misty distance eager to catch a glimpse of the action. It is all tremendous fun, if rather chaotic, with the hectic driving interspersed with a fair bit of standing in the cold. But each time I start to think about my warm car and flask of hot tea and other foot followers mutter about being in the wrong place, we are rewarded. The sound of the hunting horn echoes hauntingly through the damp air and there is the huntsman on his grey, his hounds bursting out of the woods and through the fields, followed by the glorious spirit-lifting sight of a fast-moving pack of horses and riders.
 
At around 2pm, things wind down. With the rain setting in I call it a day and head for the car and a long-awaited sandwich. My mind races with images and impressions: the friendliness of the hunt members and their affection for the countryside; the passion for riding and the willingness of the horses; the bond between the huntsman and the hounds. But what resonates most strongly is the primal thrill of the chase, which, even as a first-time foot follower, I felt with intensity. As I drive away, passing mud-splattered horses and tired, red-faced riders wending their way back to their lorries and horseboxes, I put my hand in my pocket to check that I still have the piece of paper I was given earlier. It is a form to join the hunt supporter’s club. I will be filling it in the moment I get home.

Helena Douglas is a writer based in the depths of West Sussex and the author of the Land Rover column for More Intelligent Life. The pictures are hers.