OUTFOXED
by
Mike Huskisson
Published by Michael Huskisson Associates
83 Union Street
London SE1 1SG
First Published in Great Britain by
Michael Huskisson Associates
1983
It was April 28th, from a grassy hedgerow I looked across the grey, misty Devon fields, my binoculars trained on the pink coats of the huntsmen and tri-colour patches of the staghounds. Ahead of them, heading for cover in a wood was a small stag.
It was my first day out with the Devon and Somerset Staghounds, in my guise as a full supporter. To mingle with the regulars I had adopted their way of dress and their way of talking. My car was covered in hunting stickers including the most important sticker of all, the British Field Sports Society roundel.
I wore the traditional tweed cap, and waxed 3/4 length shooting jacket that is the prime indicator of the genuine hunt supporter. This "uniform" alone was one of the main reasons why so many hunting people accepted me.
My earlier hunting experience now came into its own, I knew the jargon and knew other hunts well enough to pass muster.
The one thing I lacked was staghunt stickers, which could only be obtained by attending the hunt and paying the "cap." This is collected before the meet by supporters with armbands, standing on all access roads. In return for a donation a day sticker is put on the windscreen of your car. Anyone who does not pay is severely hassled and their car is blocked. I collected my first staghunt sticker that day.
The staghunters and their supporters had gathered an hour before the meet. I arrived some twenty minutes before the off. I was friendly but avoided too much discussion as to my identity.
Lengthy conversations could have been dangerous, as I had not at the time decided on a false name, a false address and background. I was simply an observer. From past experience I knew that this gossiping time before any meet was a chance to hover and learn from other people's conversations.
That day, as in the days that followed, I listened to horrific tales of deer threshing about entangled in barbed wire, of stags swimming reservoirs only to be attacked by hounds as they emerged exhausted. I learned to hide my feelings and join in the uproarious laughter that followed.
When the hunt moved off I joined the long crocodile of motorised traffic that trailed after them. Cars, Land Rovers and motor bikes roared around narrow country lanes, for an occasional glimpse of the hunt and the stags.
It went on and on from morning until five in the afternoon, when I found myself with four cars and their occupants gazing over flat empty fields. Other supporters began to filter past us. I stopped one and asked where the hunt were. Pointing into the distance, he said: "They killed about 20 minutes ago, in the brook over there."
I jumped into my car and headed in that direction, but found my way blocked with double parked cars. I pulled hard into the left hand side and got out. I pondered about my camera. I had made a point of taking plenty of pictures at the meet and during the hunt saying I was a budding Jim Meads, a well known hunt photographer. Could I risk taking my camera in to photograph the kill on my very first staghunt?
Recalling the old ALF maxim "Once decided, it is as good as done," I ran ahead, camera at the ready.
I must admit though that seeing the alarming bunch of thugs gathered around the carcass, my heart did miss a beat.
I was a late arrival, they had already sliced up and shared out the liver to the following throng. Children were running everywhere clutching pieces of steaming liver, often in their bare hands, sometimes in handkerchiefs, or carefully wrapped in empty crisp bags.
As I arrived the huntsmen tipped out the stomach and entrails and were helping the dead stag to his feet to shake out the last remaining drops of blood. People looked menacingly at me when I aimed my camera and reeled off some shots, but no-one said a word.
With the stomach removed, the carcass was dragged aside and the hounds called to it, as their reward. Before they were allowed near the steaming intestines a strange, almost primitive ritual took place. Huntsman, Dennis Boyles, shouting and waving his whip over the remains, goaded the hounds into a frenzy, holding them back all the time. When they were judged to be sufficiently excited he stepped aside and allowed the hounds to tear at the stomach, ripping it to shreds in seconds.
In close-up to get pictures, like the rest of the supporters I was showered with blood and the foul smelling, part digested grass, the contents of the stag's stomach. My discomfiture clearly showed and the rest of the supporters laughed at me being caught in such a fashion.
Attention then turned to the main carcass. The skin on each leg was cut just above the knee and peeled back to the ankle. The ankle was then broken, twisted off and the resultant slot, or hoof, with a glove of skin was offered as a souvenir to anyone prepared to pay a small donation.
When all four slots were taken, the carcass was left to the inquisitive supporters. The hunt staff moved away to joke and chat with the Masters, accepting coffee, soup and sandwiches from other supporters. Those around the stag poked it and prodded it, examined its teeth to try and gauge its age, and pulled tufts of hair from it to tuck under the flaps of their caps. Some favoured hounds were allowed to move in on the carcass, to lick the blood off its legs, or stick their heads inside the torn belly and lap the blood within.
After about 30 minutes, the riders began to drift away, the foot followers shuffling behind them. The carcass was left on the ground, I was told that someone would come to collect it in due course. I lingered to take a photograph of the dead stag with the supporters disappearing in the background and when they saw me most turned round and smiled, pleased at their success.
I followed the subsequent and last hunt at the end of April, but there was no kill.
Though it is called staghunting it does in fact vary throughout the year. From August till the end of October the big old males with the full spread of antlers - the Autumn stags - are hunted. Then from November to the end of February the females - the hinds - are hunted, usually together with their young calves. During March and April the Spring stags with their very short, newly formed antlers, are hunted.
This separation of sex and age range is in no way designed to help the deer. Red deer rut in early Autumn, during October.
AUTUMN STAGHUNTING
Autumn staghunting starts for the Devon and Somerset and Quantock packs early in August. The Tiverton, whose country covers the lowlands south of Exmoor, have far more problems with crops so they start considerably later, usually well into September.
The autumn stags are creatures of habit and accordingly are harboured. The harbourer employed by the hunt checks their location the previous night and reports on their whereabouts to the Masters at the meet. All the hounds are paraded at the meet and are then returned to a horsebox. Only five or six couple (10 or 12) of the most experienced hounds, known as Tufters, are selected.
The tufters are also the steadiest and the most responsive to commands. Once they are started on the selected stag they can be expected to stick to it and not riot after any other deer. Their job is to find the deer and hunt him for some time. Once the deer has been running for a while he begins to emit a distinctive scent (caused by fear) which can easily be tracked by the remaining, inexperienced hounds, that form the bulk of the pack.
In August 1981 I returned to the West Country, and started the new season at the meet of the Quantock Staghounds at Volis Cross on August 19th. This time I was in a hired Ford Escort, which avoided the problem of my having to use my own extremely recognisable car. Little happened that day of any interest other than having a marvellous view of a beautiful stag running at speed through high corn. All that was visible was his head of antlers. Of course the tufters piled in behind him and together they cut a great swathe through the corn, which seemed ironic considering that the chief reason given for hunting deer in the first place is that they damage crops!
The day was hot, the scent was bad, and even though the main pack was released, the hounds were never able to get on terms with the stag, and fortunately he escaped.
Next day I was with the Devon and Somerset Staghounds, meeting at Potters Cross. I soon learnt that one of the biggest problems with staghunting was to find the meets. The country for the Devon and Somerset covers a massive area and it is possible to spend hours scouring Ordnance Survey maps looking for obscure crosses and gates. Unlike fox and hare hunts, staghunts more often than not, meet on the open moorland. The easiest solution was to phone the kennels and ask them for directions. Though these were usually readily given, one was vulnerable to being asked for name and phone number, so I was reluctant to do so. The best way to find meets was to ask the experienced supporters at the end of the previous one.
Again there was no kill, but the hounds stuck very close to the stag and pushed him extremely hard. He saved his neck by running through sheep foil to lose his scent, just north of the main A361 and then crossing this busy main road. The most interesting incident occurred when the trailing hounds entered the field of sheep. The sheep flocked together and charged the hounds putting them to flight, looking almost as if they were on the side of the stag. It caused astonishment to the staghunters; almost invariably it is the hounds chasing the sheep.
On August 22nd the Devon and Somerset Staghounds met at Mounsey Hill Gate, right in the centre of Exmoor. With the morning misty and wet I knew the scent would be good and when one of the Joint Masters, seeing that it was the turn of the doghounds, commented, "These are a right bunch of killers," it was clear that the deer were in for a hard time. The stag was quickly away. Riders were directed to try and prevent him reaching the safety of any League sanctuaries, and the main pack was laid on. The hunt progressed into the afternoon with the tiring stag twisting and turning. When he tried to run in amongst thick gorse and lie down for safety the hounds checked, but the riders moved in cracking their whips to evict him. Eventually in late afternoon the stag arrived near Marsh Bridge, west of the B3223. This tiny, winding, downhill road was soon completely blocked as the supporters strained for a closer look.
I parked and ran down the line of cars, hearing whistles and shouts from the river below. The stag was only just in front of the hounds. Then the traffic moved on and downwards towards Marsh Bridge. This isolated, seemingly innocent bridge, appears totally insignificant to tourists stopping to stare at the waters below, or to eat their lunches in the shade of the nearby trees, but for many deer it represents the end of the hunt and the end of their lives.
That summer's afternoon the whole area was packed solid with Land Rovers, cars, motorbikes, horses and milling followers. The hounds were heard baying frantically nearby, the horn was blowing triumphantly. It was all mayhem and confusion. No-on really knew where the deer was, only that it was approaching the bridge, along one of the small tributaries.
Supporters lined the bridge and peered over the hedgerows. I followed a group into a grass field adjacent to the tiny stream that formed the tributary.
The baying rose to a crescendo to herald the coming of the stag. I removed the lens cap on the camera, checked the aperture and shutter speed and noted with alarm that I had only a few frames left. Those closest to the trees lining the brook were holloaing, and screaming that the stag had passed them. The hounds were following through the undergrowth and on the grass alongside. The bridge ahead was too low for the stag to pass under, and with so much shouting and screaming on either side he was headed back.
He saw the hounds ahead and jumped left handed into the grass field where I was standing. I reached for the camera, but he had jumped back into the undergrowth before I could even focus. The supporters around me, many of them young kids screamed "We've got him now!" Hurriedly I changed the film.
I ran down the sloping grass, climbed through barbed wire and fought my way through the undergrowth surrounding the brook. The terrified stag crashed just passed me, antlers missing me by barely a few feet. I knew the end was near. The area of marshland was full of supporters and hounds, there was no escape. I circled right handed towards the bridge thinking that the kill would be there. Then the commotion shifted to an area behind me.
The hounds were now baying their blood-curdling cry of death. All hunting hounds will speak to a scent, and they will bay even more excitedly when they close on their quarry and can see it. Fox and hare hounds will go straight in and attack their quarry and for them the baying is soon replaced by ripping and tearing. Staghounds are different, fearing the stag's antlers they hang back, baying. The sound at such a time is chilling. The baying rises to a whole new pitch of excitement and the sound of some 40 hounds growling in this fashion is truly menacing. Once heard it is never forgotten.
Hearing this sound for the first time I fought my way towards it. Other supporters were struggling along narrow footpaths, but I knew that I had to be first. I went straight through the marshes and ended up wading up to my waist, camera held high. As I closed on the dreadful cries, my only fear was that it would all be over before I arrived. I knew that I could not help this stag, but if I could record what happened it would help others. I punched my way over and through some flimsy barbed wire, pulled aside some bushes and encountered a scene that haunts me to this day.
There was a small pool no more than 20 yards in diameter, surrounded by encroaching foliage. In the centre the stag was swimming frantically, with his head twisting from side to side, looking up and staring with fear. In the pool with him and swimming after him were the bulk of the pack, while other hounds stood on the margins of the pool baying viciously.
Knowing that seconds counted I swung the camera up, focused on the staring eye and captured the frame that I will never forget, One hound was on the stag's back and 16 others almost on him. There was shouting and commotion behind me as other supporters arrived. Moving round the right hand side of the pool ahead of the stag they caught his antlers when he reached them. The hounds closed in, tearing at his flanks and back. The supporters tried to fend the hounds off kicking out and beating them back with their caps.
I cracked off some photographs, but unfortunately the head of the stag was concealed by the dense vegetation on the pool margins. The hunt servants arrived and I knew that it was time to make myself scarce with the camera. My experience with the Border Counties Otterhounds had taught me that hunting people will readily seize valuable pictures, and both they and I knew how valuable that photograph was.
I moved back as crowds of supporters swept in. It was difficult to make out what was happening, but eventually after minutes that seemed to drag on interminably I heard the crack of the pistol that indicated for that proud stag at least suffering was over. The stag had been dragged out onto the bank and the pistol pressed to its head.
After the kill, I felt safe returning to the scene because hunting people are less wary of dead animals being photographed. I adopted the attitude that I had only just arrived and they gleefully told me how they had caught him in the pool.
The ritual I then witnessed was unlike anything I had ever seen previously in all my hunting experience, The whipper-in had hold of the stag's antlers and was feverishly banging the head on the ground and screaming to the hounds like a dervish. The hounds responded by baying, barking and snapping. Blood, oozing from the stag's gaping head wound, was spraying everywhere.
It was gruesome and darkly satanic, a blood ritual designed to whip hounds and supporters up to a passionate intensity. When it had subsided a path was cleared through the undergrowth and the body of the stag dragged aside. There was a pause whilst a Land Rover was summoned to collect the body. In the delay curious children crowded round the carcass and some of the adults peeled off the tattered velvet from the antlers and gave it to them.
The Land Rover took the stag to a clearing at the top of a nearby hill. Dubious about following and not wanting to risk losing the pictures I had, I eventually trailed along behind them. There was the usual crowded huddle round the body whilst the liver was shared out.
I was surprised when the huntsmen wrenched the stag's mouth open and started fiddling with its teeth. I had seen supporters do this to the spring stag in April, I presumed to try and age it, but what was Dennis Boyles up to this time? The answer was not long in coming, taking out a pair of pliers he began pulling the teeth out. These 'tushes' are revered trophies sold to supporters to wear on neck pendants.
The last staghunt meet of that particular trip of the Devon and Somerset Staghounds at Wheddon Cross on August 25th. The League have a sanctuary right in the middle of their woodland draw at this meet, and with increased patrols by John Hicks, the League Warden, the hunt have to be particularly careful. On that day they were also concerned to prevent the deer heading too far south, because of further League sanctuaries in that direction.
It was a scorching hot day and with the scent poor it seemed unlikely that the hounds would kill, particularly as the stag was content to run round and round the first draw. But eventually, late in the afternoon, the stag, made the mistake of coming away from the protection of the woodland, crossed the main A396 at Sully Corner and was soon in dire trouble.
Once again I was caught up in streams of single file traffic on the narrow lanes. When all the cars stopped and the occupants ran on ahead, I did likewise. The action moved further downstream and three other supporters ran back to bring up their cars, I left mine where it was and ran ahead on foot. Vehicles could just squeeze by me, but it would certainly hold them up. I may be posing as a supporter, but there was nothing like a bit of inadvertent sabotage!
I was moments too late. Running alongside the woodland I heard a shot. The stag had come out of the brook and stood at bay in some slight cover - then it was all over. I returned to the car to find some mighty irate drivers behind it, but the usual profuse apologies were enough to convince them of my innocence. The carcass was taken right back to the original meet. I was there in good time to see and photograph all that happened. I had by that time made some good friends in the hunt and they were kind enough to hold back the swelling throng to enable me to photograph Dennis Boyles cutting up the liver.
After the hounds had been given their reward and the slots taken, they then went to work to remove the teeth. These were sold to a group of keen young children from the Pony Club, whom I also photographed. A middle-aged man then proudly shepherded forward his two young daughters and asked Dennis to blood them.
The practice of blooding children is a barbaric ritual. Its aim is to form a satanic bond between the new aspiring hunter, and his or her chosen sport. People are only blooded once in their entire lifetimes, but it is an initiation ceremony that is still regarded as essential by the old school of hunter.
When it is done in foxhunting it is traditional for the blood and faeces stained stump of the fox's severed brush to be daubed across the child's forehead and possibly down each cheek as well. The child is then given strict instructions not to wash the blood off.
In staghunting there is obviously no bloody brush, but after reaching inside the stomach to tip the contents out and cutting up the liver, the huntsman's arms are running in blood from the fingertips to the elbows.
Knowing that there was a valuable picture in the offing I watched Dennis and prepared to act. I had anticipated some kind of formal ceremony and consequently when Dennis simply reached across, smiling, and dabbed each child on the cheek, I was too slow. However, when I asked one of the kids to pose for me she was happy to do so. The looks on the supporters faces in the background made it quite clear that they were aware of the potential danger of a blooded child being photographed, but I smiled disarmingly at them.
When I reported back to the League, Dick Course and the committee were well pleased with the photographs and I was instructed to continue the work, and to try and take some movie film as well.
I was back in the West Country on October 3rd at the meet of the Devon and Somerset at Cuzzicombe. It was a day of torrential rain and though the hunt were persistent, carrying on right up until 6.30p.m., it was clear that the stag had the better of the hounds. October 6th found me with the Devon and Somerset at West Buckland with Ena Kendall from the Observer. Ena had glimpses of deer running hither and thither, but saw nothing of any consequence. There was no kill.
The next morning I followed the Quantock Staghounds from their meet at Seven Milestone, on the fringe of the Quantock hills. I had both movie and still cameras with me and was able to get some excellent film of the hounds rioting after young stags, known as prickets. The stag they wanted was most reluctant to leave the thick woodland of the first draw, but when he did he went away at speed towards Holford. The usual hectic chase ensued, with the stag at one point crossing the road some 50 yards behind my car, forcing other supporters to swerve to a halt.
The tufters were sticking tight and the scent was evidently good. The stag was viewed crossing a grass field heading towards Holford and he was clearly tiring. The full pack was then brought up in their trailer and released. Sensing that the end was near I sped round to the League's sanctuary at Alfoxton, just outside Holford. The stag never made it there though, instead he was headed in the village by a large group of followers and turned back in the direction from whence he had come. The supporters were muttering and cursing about the attitude of the villagers - some of whom had even had the audacity to order them out of their gardens!
The near exhausted stag returned through the Quantock Forest, but even that Forestry Commission conglomerate of undergrowth could offer no sanctuary. The scent was excellent and the hounds were screaming. On and on the chase went, columns of cars tearing through the forest, stop, look, race forward, stop, look, race forward, clouds of dust ahead and behind like the frantic forward rush of the allied armies after Alamein.
Out of the forest and on towards the village of Aisholt I found a small group of supporters who told me that the stag was in the valley below. The hounds were baying frantically. I leapt in the car and screamed on down towards the reservoir. I was now well to the fore of the hunt. I stopped just past the bridge and ran back, with other supporters running in every direction around me.
Then there was that sound, the dreaded menacing baying of hounds that can strike at their quarry. I looked upstream from the bridge and saw the stag struggling pitifully in the mud. I whipped up the movie camera and through the viewfinder saw the last desperate struggles of the once proud beast.
The hounds were all around him, snapping, barking and biting at his flanks. With every struggle he sank ever deeper into the clinging mud. Vainly he twisted his great head to present the formidable antlers to the hounds, but to no avail. With the approach of a man from the left hand bank the pack cleared and the merciful shot rang out. The stag keeled over.
At that instant there was a jarring thud in my back and I was barged towards the river. My immediate thought was that they knew who I was, and anger was replaced by fear, but it was only other supporters sliding down the bank who had bumped into me accidentally.
I regained my composure and ran upstream to photograph the stag being dragged away. It was hard enough to get the stag out of the mud, but then the supporters faced the awesome task of dragging him up a steep, heavily wooded bank, through brambles. Ropes were tied to either branch of the antlers and tug of war style teams formed to pull on them. With the stag dead I saw nothing wrong in helping.
Sweating and swearing we dragged the carcass to the top to a grass clearing that turned out to be someone's back lawn. Having helped with the work I felt that I had gained sufficient cover to enable me to move in and take some really close up shots of the cutting up. The heart when ripped out was so warm, I almost expected it to beat. It was given to the wife of the landowner, standing nearby holding a young child on her hips. The liver, the slots and the tushes were disposed of amongst the other supporters.
The following morning, October 8th, in pouring rain, I joined the Devon and Somerset Staghounds for their meet at Webber's Post. During the morning the stag managed to evade the hounds, but in the end they locked onto his scent and after brief circling, the stag ended up running to water at Luccombe, just south of Porlock.
I had lost contact with the hunt and was roaming ahead. Even by that time in my undercover career, I had learned from supporters that in such circumstances it is best to head for the nearest water. Some of the hunt refer to this practice derisively as "bridge waiting." Seeing a group of supporters crowding the riverbank I stopped and ran to join them. The stag was standing in midstream surrounded by half a dozen hounds. They moved in at every opportunity snapping at his flanks. The bewildered deer was shifting his position, looking left and right, fearful of the baying hounds and the supporters who were laughing, pointing, and jeering.
One of the few supporters with a conscience began to scream for the gun - "Where's the gun, get the gun. For God's sake get the gun and put him out of his misery." But there was no gun. Most of the riders were far away up on the moorland. Normally four or five guns are out - some carried by riders and some carried in appointed vehicles, on this occasion there was none at the scene.
Shutting my mind off from the horror of it all, I shot some movie film and took some stills. After about five minutes, with a second wind, the stag came out of the water and ran upstream on the far bank. By now more hounds had arrived and their baying forced him back into the water. He ran upstream for several hundred yards, only to see approaching riders.
There was no escape. I had dashed frantically up and down the bank to try and keep up, but I was some 50 yards short when a group of supporters waded in and wrestled and manhandled the deer over in midstream. I heard no shot.
The carcass was taken to a nearby field for the ritual breaking up. This was notable for two incidents. Firstly, a vicious fight developed between the hounds, and secondly, the curiosity shown by a very young child towards the body of the stag. When children are indoctrinated at that age to killing, is it any wonder that staghunting continues?
No-one has ever been able to explain why stags run to water, but two theories spring to mind.
When deer are first found by the hounds, they go away with mighty leaps at tremendous speed, clearing 6ft fences with ease and making light of steep hillsides. Chased by hounds who are not bred for speed, but for stamina, the deer are worm down remorselessly, and when exhaustion begins to tell they inevitably run downhill. In the rolling valleys of Devon and Somerset there they will find rivers and streams.
It is reasonable to assume that the deer are intuitively aware that they lose their scent in water. Certainly, they would find the water soothing and cooling to their bodies, cut and torn from the rigours of a long hunt. Perhaps they even find a degree of security in mid-stream, up to their flanks in water, where they can use their antlers to ward off hounds that are out of their depth and have to swim.
The following Saturday, October 10th was a memorable day in the annals of cruelty. The Devon and Somerset had met at Morebath and their first draw was in nearby Skilgate Wood. The stag was away quickly heading east and there was a mad chase to keep up. Catching a brief glimpse of the beast I took some movie film of him running some 200m ahead of the hounds. At the time he was still fresh and was able to clear the hedges and fences with ease. The chase went on and on, winding its way to the north and east. The stag ran in amongst other deer to try and lose his scent amongst theirs, but the hounds were not fooled. The rabble of car supporters moved ever onwards - no-one wanting to be stuck at the back of the traffic crocodiles.
The hunt headed towards Roadwater and Luxborough and it was expected that the stag would go to water at picturesque Kingsbridge Gorge.
I was with supporters crowding around a stream when a hunt servant galloped up excitedly and told us that the stag had been twisting and turning upstream, now he was coming and we should try to grab his antlers. It seemed foolhardy advice as those antlers are fearsome weapons, but the supporters were not dismayed.
Next, I heard some holloaing behind us indicating that the stag had crossed out of the river and circled round. I walked back to the car, knowing that I was then well behind the hunt. A supporter came up and asked who I was taking pictures for. I said for my own interest, and he said, "Oh I knew you weren't anti - because you've got a B.F.S.S. badge, I thought you might be working for the Horse and Hound!" I breathed a sigh of relief.
I drove towards Dunster and stopped to ask where the hunt was. I learned that the stag had just gone downstream with the hounds in pursuit. My sense of urgency was rekindled and I dashed on. Finding supporters at a bridge within sight of Dunster Castle I stopped. They told me that the deer had just been headed back upstream. By now it was 4.15p.m. dull and overcast. Grabbing the still camera I ran over the field beside the river.
I saw an old bridge with supporters crowding round, pointing underneath. The deer was standing under the bridge, with his back to the curved arch. There were just 2 1/2 couple (5 hounds) baying him from either side. Again he had the wide eyed look of complete bewilderment. Here was a wild animal trapped, terrified and exhausted and all my fellow humans could do was laugh and gloat.
There was no sign of the hunt staff, anyone with a gun, or any other hounds. After a few minutes the stag moved upstream pursued by his five tormentors. He turned downstream and came back again to lie in the water under the bridge. The hounds moved in snapping at his flanks while supporters tried to beat them off. The deer ran off again upstream for the last time, a car follower with a gun arrived and there was the crack of a single shot. Much struggling ensued to get hold of the carcass in midstream. The time was 4.35p.m.
From Morebath to Dunster is some 20 miles as the crow flies. As deer and hounds ran it must have been more like thirty. That hunt had lasted some five hours. The stag's carcass was broken up in the usual manner in a riding stables at Timberscombe.
I was back in the West Country at the end of October for the last meets of Autumn staghunting. In August and September the stags are fit and healthy after a summer of feeding, but by October the situation has changed dramatically. This is the time of the rut, and the stags are preoccupied - fighting for hinds, and defending their harems day and night. It is not surprising therefore, that when the hounds find them in late morning, they are already tired.
I was told by supporters that the end of October was the time to see kills and that if I was lucky I might see one of those rare celebrities, the stag that won't run! Sometimes the stags are so determined to defend their hinds that they simply put their antlers down and stand their ground. The riders having paid for a good gallop, do not pay tribute to a brave stag, but pull the hounds back and send the hunt staff in cracking their whips, to make the stag run. I was told of one such incident with the Tiverton Staghounds some three seasons back. The stag simply would not run. Apparently the hunt was stopped three times and he was given three chances of being whipped on. He went another field and stopped. The hunt gave him up as a bad job, shot him and went to look for another.
It was to witness an incident like that that I arrived at the meet of the Tiverton Staghounds on Wednesday October 21st. A lengthy hunt ensued with the stag twisting and turning in a vain attempt to hide amongst other deer, but in the end he was killed at about 4.30p.m. I had some excellent film of him running out of woodland some 20 minutes before he died, but even at that late stage I was unable to keep up on foot.
The next day was memorable, it was a meet of the Devon and Somerset at Pitcombe Head, near Porlock. Attempting to follow on foot I was left behind so I returned to my car and headed towards Exford. Descending the hill towards the river Exe I knew that something was happening, there was an air of excitement and urgency. I drove on until I heard the hounds. They were running and baying along the far hillside. It was difficult to pull in, in the maelstrom of horses and cars. Bumping up on the verge I grabbed the movie camera and dashed towards the river. The stag had clearly just passed upstream because the hounds were baying their cry of death. As I splashed and scrambled forwards the stag burst from cover on the far bank heading towards me, with the hounds in close attendance. I whipped up the movie camera. The stag ran past me barely 30 yards away on the far bank. To the left he was headed by riders and crossed into the stream with the hounds all around. He then ran back towards me on my side of the bank. I should have been fearful of being gored by the antlers, but at the time I was too concerned with keeping him in focus. As he went by I was low on film and I opted to do a lighting change and reload. He was headed on the right and ran back past me to the left. He returned and the hounds were all around him snapping at his heels and biting at his flanks. The hunt always swear that the hounds never touch the deer, but my film proves the lie.
As I was shooting I was aware of hunt servants to my right, ahead of the stag, one of whom was bellowing loudly, "He's a photographer from the Daily Star, he's a photographer from the Daily Star, stop him!" and gesturing towards me. I carried on, knowing that the thugs were approaching.
The stag had passed me for the last time. As he crossed the river the hounds, supporters and riders moved in; he stumbled and fell, alone. He was wrestled and manhandled in the water, a shotgun brought up and the crack that signalled the end echoed the length and breadth of the valley.
The thugs were on me then and I thought that the best defence was to become really angry, "What kind of Fleet Street photographer would use a f...... movie camera to take still pictures?" I assured them that I was not working for any newspaper and that my film was for my own interest. They seemed persuaded. I filmed the carcass being carried back to be cut up.
Afterwards the hunt Joint Masters all tackled me, asking who I was and why I was filming. I used the same story , flashing my B.F.S.S. badge and they seemed convinced, but I knew that from then on I needed a proper cover story.
I did make one stupid mistake. A supporter had been chatting to me about my camera and lens and was so impressed that he wanted to take down details of the lens combinations. I reached in my top pocket and offered him my biro, and only remembered at the last instant that it had "League Against Cruel Sports - Help Write Off Bloodsports" written along its length.
I stopped with it in my hand and hurriedly put it back, saying - "That one doesn't work, I'll get you one from the car." It was a close shave.
There was another time when I pulled a film carton from my pocket, whilst standing among a crowd of supporters, and a bill fell to the ground. Fortunately I picked it up first. It was for vegetarian pizzas - not exactly the expected diet for the brutish, macho staghunting image.
To guard against similar incidents it became a habit to completely check the car and myself, inspecting every pocket and my wallet before every hunt. I could never tell when I might be giving a supporters a lift, as I did on several occasions, and as one pre-check revealed a carrier bag blazoned with the name of a well known health food shop under the seat, and a League leaflet, it paid to be careful.
I decided to stick as close to the truth as possible - my Christian name would remain the same. No matter how proficient one becomes in the art of subterfuge, it is hard to shake the habit of a lifetime and ignore one's own name - or respond to someone calling to you across a crowded bar by a different name.
For my surname I chose Wright - appropriate because I was on the side of right.
My cover was simple. My father was an ex-army officer, with pots of money, and I was a wealthy young gent living in London, dabbling in stocks and shares, with a passion for huntin', shootin' and fishin'"!
I had two accommodation addresses in London. The first I gave to anyone who wanted to post letters or hunt literature to me. From there, the mail was posted on to the second, from where it was forwarded to me.
Once I had established my background I felt more confident to face any inquisitive hunt members.
On October 27th, the Devon and Somerset met at Culbone Stables, near Porlock. I did not see the kill, but two supporters who were returning told me the stag had been shot at bay, on a road in woodland just outside Porlock. They were quite upset and said: "It was terrible, I don't think we'll be coming again."
I could not question them without risking arousing their suspicions, but I found that a lot of car followers in ignorance, genuinely believe it is a clean kill. Faced with the grim reality they are deeply shocked.
Many car supporters rarely see a kill. Only the experienced followers, steeped in the ways of the hunted deer, anticipate his movements and make sure they are there when it happens. For them death and the following ritual is all important.
Staghunting is not all action - often it is long, drawn out and boring, crawling along country lanes not seeing a thing. The following day, October 28th, with the Tiverton Staghounds was like this. In torrential rain the tufters were only able to hunt spasmodically, and the day ended early with the hunt giving up without even getting the main pack out of the box.
The next day, the 29th, from the Devon and Somerset meet at Bratton Fleming, there was a short, sharp and bloody encounter. It was right at the end of the rut, a time when the stags are at their weakest. I had a brief view of the magnificent stag as he made a short excursion from one wood, before he turned back into it and headed back for Loxhore. By 1.30p.m. the hounds had closed right up on the tiring quarry. He battled through some woodland heading towards National Trust land at Arlington, from which the hunt are banned. There are also League sanctuaries in the area. Not to be outwitted and desperate to score again before the switch to hindhunting, the hunt decided to shoot him.
As the stag emerged from the woodland, on to the road, a man jumped out of a van and fired. The shotgun pellets smashed into the right side of the stag's skull knocking flesh and fur off, bursting his right eye and bowling him over. Rising shakily to his feet, the stag stumbled over the road through a hedgerow and in to the grass field below. The gunman leaned over the hedge and fired again. Once more the stag went down, but again his wounds were not fatal. He staggered up, carried on through a water meadow and trickling stream, and up into the cover of a small copse, followed by baying and barking hounds. Torn, battered. bleeding and half-blinded the tormented beast turned to face the pack. The third shot rang out, the pellets striking the deer full in the chest and ripping through to the massive heart. The breast tottered, and fell dying into the pack. Even in death the stag inspired fear and the hounds backed away cowering. The small stream now trickled red with blood and the supporters, who had gathered in force, rejoiced.
The carcass was taken back to Bratton Fleming and subjected to the usual indignities in the scramble for souvenirs. I watched the supporters laughing and joking as they poked and prodded the carcass. Knowing the suffering that stag had endured it did nothing to enhance my faith in humanity.
For the one and only time during all my days staghunting, huntsman Dennis Boyles posed with a young female supporter by the head of the stag.
The last day of Autumn staghunting that year was on Saturday 31st October, when the Tiverton Staghounds met at Chulmleigh Beacon. At the meet two police officers had words with the master and we were subsequently warned to keep off certain farms. In that part of their country, the Tiverton are hated by the farmers and are banned from many areas. The hunt pay token heed to this by asking their followers to try and prevent deer heading for banned land, but in the final analysis they happily carry on - a point borne out by the fact that many farmers now have to mount shotgun patrols to protect their land from hunt trespass.
That day the hunt quickly found a stag and pushed him around down by the river Dart. I was running up and down the riverbank trying to see what was happening and had the infuriating misfortune to continually meet riders who had just seen the stag, without catching a glimpse myself. Close to the river it can be very difficult to detect the baying of the hounds, a sound very similar to fast flowing water tumbling over rocks.
A supporter told me that the stag was dead-beat and would not last long, so I opted to stay by the river, but that was a mistake. The stag somehow summoned the strength to come up out of the valley, clear the hill, and head north. He did not get far and fought his last battle in dense, matted undergrowth around a small stream just south of Brookland Farm. Just before he was shot he managed to deeply gore one of the hounds. I learnt this, when I saw a tractor trundling down the road with both victor (gored bitch) and vanquished (gutted stag) in the back.
The following year - 1982, I was out with the Devon and Somerset Staghounds from their meet at the Froude Arms, Anstey on Thursday August 26th. The hounds latched onto a very big stag that was clearly too heavy to go far and he was duly killed near Chain Bridge in Tiverton country at 2.30p.m. The notable thing about the cutting up was the presence of a whole team of French staghunters, who gleefully rejoiced in the kill. Seeing me taking pictures, they and a number of tourists asked to post by the body and for me to send on their pictures.
Wednesday October 6th, found me with the Tiverton Staghounds at their meet at Witheridge Moor. A stag was soon away and, with the scent good, he was tightly hunted by the hounds. At several points he was only just ahead as he ran near to and crossed the main road just west of Bampton. He circled back and when he was seen to swim the Exe in a reportedly dead-beat state, it seemed that the end was very near.
However, where were the hounds? From being hot on the trail at the top of the hill they were suddenly way, way behind. Waiting supporters grew ever more frustrated as the chances of a kill appeared to dwindle. A few straggling hounds started to appear and there was a sickening thud as one hound was hit by a vehicle on the road. Eventually, after a delay of some 60 minutes other supporters arrived and we learned that the pack had fallen into a quarry. Many hounds had been injured, some with broken legs. Even so, the hunt tried to continue. The surviving healthy hounds were brought forward, but the stag had had too much of a start. Despite a prodigious effort the hunt eventually had to give up at 6.45p.m. in the approaching darkness.
The Tiverton Staghounds met at Chittlehamholt on October 9th and spent a boring day. The hounds repeatedly drew the covert in which two good stags had been sighted for three solid hours, but found nothing. Supporters stood at the hedgerows and gazed intensely through binoculars at nothing; I sat in my car, bored stupid, consoling myself that no deer would suffer that day. The hounds were taken on to draw the nearby woodland at Great Odam Moor, but that too was blank and at 4p.m. "home" was blown - with no action at all.
Hunting people are always keen to criticise a "drag" hunt, but one thing is certain - in that humane sport there are no blank days.
My last days of Autumn staghunting in 1982 was with the Tiverton Staghounds from their meet at Kissing Gate, Stoodleigh on Saturday, October 30th. The stag was quickly away from the first draw, heading towards the River Exe. I encountered some colleagues from the Three Counties Minkhounds and was grateful that I had the foresight to use the same name and cover at both hunts, as they immediately recognised me.
The stag criss-crossed in woodland around the river, but it was plainly tired. The gun shot rang out at 3.00p.m. The river was wide and deep at that point and the carcass floated on down, to the consternation of the followers. By slipping and sliding on the far bank the young lads managed to guide it round obstacles and it was eventually pulled out when it stopped at a weir.
It was dismembered in the usual way on the riverbank and the teeth pulled out with pliers. One interesting feature of this episode was that a supporter asked for and was given the tail - he said he wanted to use it for fishing and the followers joked, "What are you going to catch - a shark?"
So ended my two years of Autumn staghunting - the type of staghunting that attracts the most support because of the spectacular spread of the stag's antlers, the near certainty of a hunt and, even more, the certainty of a kill.
The season is short, but with one or more of the three hunts out on four days of each week there is plenty to see.
During those two seasons I saw the hounds tearing at the flanks of stags, and climbing on their backs; I saw stags surrounded by hounds with the hunt staff miles away, messy kills necessitating more than one shot, children being bloodied and deer being whipped to make them run. However, the only unlawful aspect was the willingness of supporters to brazenly trespass on private property.
HIND HUNTING
By November 1981 I was an accepted follower, no-one bothered at my stepping in to take pictures or asking questions. To put them more at ease I made a point of giving some of the innocuous pictures taken at various meets to eager hunt followers who featured prominently in them. I used this increased cover to great advantage during the hind hunting season, when female deer take over from November to the end of February as the staghunters' prey.
Hind hunting is particularly upsetting as it nears its close. This is the time when hinds, heavily in calf and unable to run, fall easy victims to the hounds. Often they have last year's calf at their heels as they try to escape. Refusing to abandon it they seal their own fate, The mother, her unborn and the calf carefully nurtured during the last few months are slaughtered. It is a pathetic and sickening sight, a grave indictment of the callousness of the hunt.
Less distinguishable than stags, it is hard for the hunt to select one hind and pursue her all day. If one runs into a wood and four come out the other side it is difficult to pick out the real quarry. Some of the supporters jokingly suggested that the hind should first be caught and painted red to make her easily spotted!
My first experience of hind hunting was with the Devon and Somerset from their meet at Twitchen on Saturday 14th November 1981. The first two creatures to pop out of the undergrowth were two beautiful stags. Hinds then came out in all directions and the hunt was on. Hinds will usually run as a group and often with their young from previous years. The first task for the hunt is therefore to split a hind from this family group and get her running alone.
On this particular hunt the pack screamed on ahead and after a frantic dash I ended up in that notorious killing zone - Marsh Bridge, with the hunt swiftly approaching. A group of five hinds and a pricket (young stag) came by. Three went on to the river and three circled away left handed. Not surprisingly when the pack arrived they split. There was some confusion collecting the hounds together but, when they had, they cast on again. This time they put up a stag and a hind, running together. Both were hunted back towards Hawkridge and Tarr Steps, the famous tourist attraction.
Here the two split and the motorcycle followers were at fault, because they directed the hounds onto the stag. They roared away at great speed and by the time the hunt realised their error, checked and returned to search for the hind, darkness was approaching. Sadly however, the scent must have been good because they quickly picked up her line, pushed her on towards Shircombe and were close to her when, exhausted, she swung for Willingford Bridge. Mercifully, darkness intervened and reluctantly the hunt gave up soon after 5p.m.
When I commented to a keen supporter that, with the readiness of the pack to split, it was surprising that they ever caught any hinds, he explained the truth of the matter. With the rut occurring in October, the hinds in November although pregnant, are still very light and not in any way incapacitated. They remain difficult to catch until about Christmas time, but from then on matters change. By the end of February the kills are more or less certain. Hind hunting used to continue until the end of March, but when reports started to appear in the media of the most gruesome grallochs, (disembowellings) in which fully formed calves were cut from their mothers wombs, public outrage grew to such an extent that even the insensitive hunting people thought it wise to change their ways. Nevertheless, I encountered many hunt supporters who would like to see hind hunting continue for another month.
November 17th, I was out with the Devon and Somerset from Nutscale Drive, high on Exmoor, south of Porlock. The whole area swarmed with deer. I counted one herd comprising an old stag and no less than 20 hinds. The hounds got in amongst the hinds, splitting them up in all directions and at one point I saw them pressing one particular hind very closely indeed.
Against hounds, the hinds are particularly defenceless because of their lack of antlers. When baying stags the hounds hold back out of sheer fear of the awesome antlers, but even then if they can attack they will. I saw it happen. They will dart in to snap at his flanks and if hunt supporters are holding his antlers, as in the pool at Marsh Bridge, the hounds will even climb on his back.
Against such determined aggressors one can feel nothing but pity for the defenceless hinds. I have seen hounds lunge at hinds and although the hunt are usually very quick to put the hind out of her misery, if they do not, or cannot, the hounds will do the job for them. I have spoken to an eyewitness who described in graphic detail seeing a hind badly torn by hounds and, even worse, an incident when a hind made her way into dense undergrowth, closely followed by the entire pack. By the time hunt staff fought their way to the scene all that was left was her head and feet.
One feature of hind hunting that makes it certain that all manner of cruel assaults on deer will occur is the sheer fragmented nature of this form of hunting. There are many hinds up on the moor and when they split in all directions the hounds often do likewise, following individual groups, having their own private hunt. Frequently at the end of the day I heard supporters drifting back from all directions reporting to the Masters that they had seen 2 1/2 couple baying a hind here, or a couple baying a hind there. No-one has any idea, let alone any control over, what happens to the deer at such times.
That November 17th, deer were chased all over the countryside. Eventually a pregnant hind with her calf at foot was singled out by the hounds. Their progress was impeded by her concern for the calf, who was only just bigger than the hounds, and could not keep up.
Distressed, the hind stayed with the calf as long as she could, risking her own life. The calf broke away and I then saw the hind standing pathetically in a stream surrounded by hounds. She tried to run downstream, disappeared from my view followed by the baying pack, and was killed seconds later.
Soon afterwards I encountered a pick-up truck containing the carcasses of both calf and mother heading for a nearby grassy field for dismemberment. A supporter told me that the calf had been caught and killed soon after its mother. Both were cut up in the usual way, with the exception that the calf was so small that its slots were not regarded as worthwhile trophies and were left.
When the hounds started to worry (bite at) the body of the calf, supporters nudged it over to the hind with their feet and thus produced the embrace in death, which I managed to photograph. I found it hard to believe that grown adults could regard such a pastime as fun, let alone sport.
Hunting on the 18th and 19th of November was inconclusive, but there was an interesting day with the Devon and Somerset from their meet at Wheddon Cross on Thursday 26th November. For nearly two hours we watched hounds chasing various hinds in all directions, but all the time supporters had been aware of one particular hind hiding in the gorse on the far hillside. When it seemed unlikely that hounds would settle on any other, they indicated her presence to the Huntsman.
The full pack was taken up to her, but she sat tight until the last moment. However, when she did move she went like a bullet with awesome power and grace. In the first 200 yards, she must have gained 50 yards on the pack. Hedges, fences and even roads were cleared with ease. Such power is often the undoing of hunted animals, they expend too much energy too soon. The pack are happy to trail along in the wake speaking deliriously to the scent.
They are not bred to be fast. Lurchers would have brought the hind to bay, or more likely pulled her down within 500 yards, but that would have provided no fun for the followers.
The hind ran off in a massive circle about a mile in diameter, the supporters tracking her with their binoculars.
She then came right back to the very spot from whence she had started. Instead of laying down in the gorse however, she repeated her very first movements carrying on round the circle. After about 50 yards she stopped, carefully retracing her steps, then broke off the circle at a right angle and disappeared at full speed over the hill. Had I not seen the manoeuvre I would have found it hard to believe.
Sure enough the hounds were fooled. They came thundering round the circle, back past the gorse and on for their second circuit. Sadly the supporters near me holloaed, shouted and gesticulated, and one ran to a nearby rider, who galloped on to tell the Huntsman that the hounds were at fault. The pack was stopped, brought back to the indicated spot and soon hit the right line off, following the hind over the hill.
That spoilt an excellent escape manoeuvre and highlighted the fact that the car and foot followers are by no means the innocent parties in a hunt that they often claim to be. Many a hunted animal that has successfully eluded the pack has had his whereabouts betrayed by an alert follower - another symptom of how the odds are stacked against the hunted.
Some inconclusive hunting ensued around the League Sanctuary at Pitleigh, with hounds running in all directions. The hind came to water at Sully Corner, where only a few months previous the Autumn stag had been killed. I had run on ahead and was waiting down by the river, when she came tip-toeing downstream towards me. She was not exhausted, but careful. She picked her way along the river bed for some hundred yards, then came out at right angles on the far bank and tried to go on up the hill, but was headed back by the car followers. There were no hounds in sight, but a few did appear after she disappeared downstream. They appeared to be gaining on her, so I followed by car. I came to a steep narrow lane, but halfway up encountered all the hunt vehicles coming down towards me.
I could not go on, had to go back, but knew that I had to do so quickly. The hounds were likely to be on the hind soon and if I ended up at the back of the crocodile I would see nothing. Accordingly, I reversed at some speed. The road was wet and covered in leaves and when I touched the brakes to swing into a gateway I merely succeeded in skidding across, putting the rear offside into one bank and the front nearside into the other. The road was completely blocked and I had all the hunt coming at me!
What a predicament for an undercover operator to find himself in. It became worse when I climbed out shaken and found that the impact had burst the boot open. I had ignored the boot when checking the car and a whole load of copies of "Cruel Sports," the League's newspaper were revealed. Hunt supporters were running to move my car so that they could rush on for the kill while I was there staring at a whole batch of L.A.C.S. magazines. If that boot did not close, I was done for. I banged it, banged it again desperately, cleared some mud from the rim and slammed it again. Mercifully it shut.
The hunt were all about the car and with six willing, burly men to help, it was soon out of the way. I was temporarily out of action, whilst I levered the front wing off the tyre, but I was cheered up when I rejoined the hunt to learn that they had lost the hind anyway. She was one smart lady.
Monday 30th November produced an interesting day with the Quantock Staghounds from their meet at Dead Woman's Ditch, an obscure landmark high on the Quantock Hills. Hounds were put into the Quantock Forest and were quickly away. A hind was separated. The scent was excellent and all seemed well for the hunt. I whizzed round to the League Sanctuary at Alfoxton, expecting to find the action, but there was no baying, no horn - nothing. I found some bedraggled riders and asked them what was wrong. They explained that the Master had had a tiff with the riders and had taken his hounds home. The time was just 12.30p.m.
Conversation with the kennel staff back at the meet confirmed that the hounds had been running well but some riders, in their enthusiasm to lead, had galloped ahead foiling the line. When this was pointed out to them, instead of apologising they were abusive and hence the Master called it a day. Doubtless the deer were more than grateful for the presence of ill-mannered hunt followers.
For the meet of the Devon and Somerset at Scob Hill Gate on December 1st, I had a new weapon in my armoury - a motorbike. Experienced at being stuck in queues in the car, I saw a motorbike as a great asset. It was possible not only to by-pass the jams but also to whip round in an instant when the hunt changed direction and, furthermore, to go straight over the moors, right behind the pack.
With the motorbike I found that I had joined a most select band of hunt followers - the bike brigade. Because of their manoeuvrability they were always at the front, usually saw the stag killed and were always on hand to help the hunt.
My first day on the bike was inauspicious. I got lost on the moor, stuck in a bog and only with great difficulty did I rejoin the hunt in the late afternoon. They had changed deer by then and there was no kill.
The Tiverton Staghounds from their meet at Chain Bridge on December 2nd killed, but out of my sight. I made an error of judgement and was waiting at the wrong bridge. The following day with the Devon and Somerset at Morebath was a better day for observation.
Three hinds and a stag were quickly away from the first draw at Morebath Manor and went like rockets towards Shillingford. It looked as if the chase was on, but the hounds checked, then reversed course, hunting a young calf. They were stopped and taken near Skilgate Wood.
A hind was reported crossing the road towards Haddon Hill and Wimbleball Reservoir and the hounds were laid on. I saw the hunted hind running in company with another. When they both jumped into woodland and separated, only the lead hounds took the right line, the rest of the pack switched to the fresh hind. The hunt switched to this fresh hind and pushed her south towards Bury. Hounds were closing as she went to water. When she came out and went up over Bury Hill she was only yards in front. She was now in the vicinity of the League Sanctuaries at Barlynch and Baronsdown and I was praying that she would make the right turn, but it was not to be.
She crossed the River Exe somewhere near Bury Castle and some desperate hunting ensued in the vicinity of Dulverton. A hunted animal has a repertoire of tricks to elude hounds, but this one was running out of them fast. Determined to keep up, the hunt followers, myself included , raced in circles into Dulverton and back again. On 50 yards, stop and listen, back 200 yards, stop and listen. From one bridge to another and back. Then, from a bridge near Dulverton, I saw the hounds stream across the grass bank, plunge straight into the river and swim across baying. Camera at the ready, I dashed down and heard the menacing growls of the death bay and I knew they must be looking at the hind. But there was no sign of her. She must have been there moments before and in her exhaustion stopped to rest. Now she was gone. A bitter argument as to tactics ensued between the Huntsman Dennis Boyles and his whipper-in David. Dennis took the hounds away towards Exebridge and I had just reached the village when I heard the shot ring out. The hind had been killed in the river, well away from the road.
That was Thursday, on Saturday December 5th after the meet of the Devon and Somerset at Aldermans Barrow, I ended up in a particularly good position ahead of the hunt. I was in cover by a river with the hounds coming baying downstream towards me. I expected at any minute to see the hind break cover, with the hounds around her, and I nervously adjusted the camera. At almost the last instant the hounds suddenly switched, turning off at right angles after a fresh hind.
It later transpired that this hind was hunted to Porlock, coursed down into the village, and trapped in a small children's playground. She was killed with a pistol when unable to jump the wire to escape, and her body was brought back to the Whitstones, a landmark high up on the cliff's overlooking Porlock Bay, to be sliced up. In the summer a popular tourist spot, in the winter the hunt lay claim to it. The carve up was as usual, the only feature of note being that by way of a joke Dennis blooded one of the elderly, if not positively geriatric, male riders.
Back in the area in the new year, the first hunt I attended was the Tiverton Staghounds on Wednesday, 20th January. It was a triumph for the deer, the hounds rioted and split, with the majority going off after a young stag.
The next day, Thursday 21st, with the Devon and Somerset at Horner near Porlock was an entirely different story. The hounds drew first around Webber's Post and then hunted a deer towards Cloutsham. I followed and she soon went to water but she doubled back, attempting to lose her scent in the snow on the banks. The hounds appeared disorganised and, even though obviously heavy with calf, that hind escaped. Deer were running everywhere and the pack split completely, so that a whole variety of different hunts were taking place.
One group of hounds latched on to one hind and she was killed far to the south, at Larcombe near Exford. Another group pursued a lame hind and she was killed in Horner Water.
The hunt always make a point of saying that the ONLY deer they kill are wounded and crippled, and that they are doing the herd 'a service' by putting them out of their misery.
Like every other hunt claim, this simply is not true. Aside from this kill, the Autumn stag that was killed at Dunster which had a clean bullet hole in one ear, and a hind by the Tiverton Staghounds in January 1983 which had a misinformed hoof, were the only infirm victims I saw.
I no sooner learned of the killing of this lame hind than the hounds were in full cry again around Horner. In near darkness at 4.45p.m. a hind came downstream at Horner Water, with the hounds some 100 yards behind. Tragically it was too dark to film anything. The hind paused at the weir, looked towards me, and struggled out onto the bank. The pack streamed by me, their baying rising to a crescendo, echoing the length and breadth of the cold valley of leafless tress. The hind, stumbling on, cleared the first fence she came to, but at the second, burdened by the weight of the life within her, she collapsed exhausted into the barbed wire. The pack were on her. I heard no shot. The "sporting conservationists" who dragged her body back were splattered with her blood.
Three deer died that day. As they so rightly said - hinds are easier to kill after Christmas!
The meet of the Devon and Somerset from Mounsey Hill Gate on January 23rd 1982, was a demonstration in hunt perseverance. Deer were quickly found and the hounds settled on to three hinds that were separated from the herd. The hounds were checked and riders moved in with whips to separate one. A protracted hunt then ensued on either side of the River Barle with supporters able to see very little. In the afternoon the hounds latched on to a hind with a yearling calf. They separated the yearling off and killed it, then were taken back to draw for its mother, but without success.
As darkness approached I headed for the nearby killing zone, Marsh Bridge, and met up with an experienced supporter. An exhausted hind came down the riverbank towards us but, seeing us, veered away and ran up over the hill into the darkness. That manoeuvre probably saved her life. The hounds were just a few minutes behind, but they lost precious time picking up her change of direction.
With a gloomy murk descending, I thought that it would all be over and the hunt would give up, but the supporter assured me that it was still worth following. He had often heard of the Tiverton killing by the light of torches.
The Tiverton Hounds were known to be in the area having crossed the road north from their meet at Knowstone, in fact it was quite possibly 'their' hind and hounds that we had seen.
In total darkness we drove on around the bridges near Dulverton looking for the tell-tale signs of torches down by the water, but finding nothing. The whole scenario appeared to me to be totally ridiculous. I wondered what on earth we would find next, a huntsman wearing a miner's hat!
*****
In the 1982/83 season I spent most of the time foxhunting and beagling, but I did manage the occasional trip to the staghounds. On 1st January 1983, I was with the Tiverton Staghounds for hindhunting, meeting at the Fortescue Arms at Kings Nympton Station.
At the meet the Hunt Master, John Lucas, asked supporters not to repeat any of the 'silly' behaviour of the previous time they had met in the area, as it had caused him a lot of work and gained a lot of bad publicity for the hunt. This was a reference to the much publicised incident near Chittlehamholt, in which supporters had wrestled a hind to the ground and stabbed her to death with a penknife.
Hounds were taken to draw Snydles Wood and a hind was quickly away westwards. Headed back by supporters, she joined up with another group of five. One of this group was split off by the supporters and the hunt continued. When the hind was seen to run onto a railway line only minutes in front of hounds it was thought that she would soon be caught, but thankfully she made it to a large wood from which the hunt is banned.
Hounds were then taken back to draw again near to their starting point. There was a long wait, but eventually fresh deer showed. I circled round in the traffic jams, through Kings Nympton and on the way back heard a shot from deep inside Kings Nympton Park - I was later told by hunt staff that the hind had been tangled up in barbed wire.
The carcass was brought out of the park to be dismembered by the bridge over the river Mole. I was cautious about taking pictures. One of the senior staff of the Shooting Times was present and I felt sure that by this late stage someone must be getting suspicious. However, suddenly a car and a motorbike pulled up on the bridge, people piled out of the car and hurled not only abuse at the hunt, but also rotten eggs and plastic bags full of mud!
The local H.S.A. had arrived. Though too late to save the hind they were in time to give me the perfect cover. Muttering about the 'bloody antis' I moved in, taking pictures freely. The supporters were totally distracted from me by the more obvious saboteurs. If they were annoyed at me for anything, it was for taking pictures of the dead hind and not of the hunt saboteurs.
On January 15th, possibly as a result of the sabotage attempt on January 1st, the Tiverton did not advertise their meet at Spurway Moor Gate and it took me some time to find them. Groups of hounds were running in all directions chasing numerous hinds and it became so disorganised that everything had to be stopped to get the pack back together again. From the restart a herd was quickly found and a very small hind was soon killed. This was the hind that had one of her back feet misinformed.
January 20th found me at a meet of the Quantock Staghounds at a place called Warm Corner in the Quantock Forest. Hunting was inconclusive on and around Robin Uprights Hill and Holford and is only worthy of mention because of a comment from one of the supporters.
Late in the afternoon the hounds were baying, particularly excitedly and the supporter said that she though they were 'hocking' the hind. The use of this term in these circumstances plainly indicates that the supporters know that the hounds will attack the deer.
The hind hunting meets from mid February 1983 to the end of the month were disrupted by a hard frost. I had hoped to take News of the World reporter Maureen Lawless to them, but they were all cancelled, or replaced by deer drives - barbaric practices that the hunt are always secretive about.
SPRING STAGHUNTING
With a summer and winter of staghunting behind me, the start of the 1982 season of Spring staghunting found me experienced in hunt tactics.
The younger males are hunted during March and April, and because they are not hampered by the rigours of the rut or by huge spreads of antlers that make passage through the undergrowth difficult, the chase usually lasts all day.
The Devon and Somerset, from their meet at Wheddon Cross on March 16th 1982, had protracted hunting in the snow on Dunkery Hill, eventually losing their stag, as did the Tiverton the following day from their meet at Swineham Hill. The next day, the 18th, the Devon and Somerset were more successful from their meet high on Haddon Hill.
The stag went away quickly, out through Bury, on towards Dulverton, then circled back over to Upton and swung round heading towards the massive Wimbleball Reservoir, which is banned to the hunt. I was with supporters on a hill beside the reservoir as they watched and described the action below, as the hounds closed on the tiring beast - "He's at the water's edge, the hounds are going through the wire, he's in, he's in!" With that I ran for my car, did a "Le Mans" start to the accompaniment of a shower of dust and raced for the reservoir.
Seconds were precious. The hounds could be on the stag at that very moment. Foot to the floor, change, foot to the floor, change, foot to the floor, change, all anchors on, slide to a halt, grab camera and run. I ran and ran along a finger of land into the reservoir hearing the hounds baying like mad on the other side of the slight ridge. I ran up to climb over the wire and go over the ridge but paused to look round to see if any hunters had followed. The stag was behind me swimming strongly, near the middle of the reservoir some 200 yards away - I grabbed the camera and shot.
It is quite a feat for a cloven hoofed beast to swim a reservoir, particularly when it has run several arduous miles beforehand. Anyone who has tried to swim a couple of lengths of their swimming baths with their fists clenched will know just how useful the open hand is. I looked at the stag and felt immense sorrow. The great creature was striking out bravely in a determined effort to live. It was fruitless though, the hounds were taken around the reservoir by road, and were waiting for him.
An audience of supporters formed up ahead of the stag and when he eventually landed and shook himself down they jeered him on his was as he was forced to run for his life again. The pack were unleashed immediately I knew it could not last long. I turned back to the car and headed towards Luxborough, but I was well behind - it was all over before I arrived. I was told by an eyewitness that the stag was shot when he stumbled into a hedgerow and was unable to get through it, the time of death was about 3.30p.m. Just a few hours previously that stag had cleared all hedgerows with ease. His carcass suffered the usual indignities.
The meet of the Quantock Staghounds on March 19th was by invitation in Devon and Somerset country at the Ship Inn, Porlock. At the meet I sensed a great deal of suspicion towards me. I was in the discomforting position of being pointed out by the senior hunt staff, but nothing was said to me directly.
The selected stag tried every trick he knew to elude the hounds. From the Parks he went out at speed up onto the moor towards Lucott Cross then over to Holnicote and back to Porlock, before going out towards Culbone Stables Pub. Then towards the coast and back to Porlock. Knowing that he would by then be exhausted and looking to go to water, I waited by a likely stream in Porlock.
Some hounds arrived, but there was no sign of the stag. Then I heard the remainder of the pack baying as they ran the high ridge behind me. I came out from Porlock towards the sea at West Porlock. It always was a feature of staghunting that exhausted deer would, if they reached Porlock, often swim out to sea. They were either left to carry on swimming until they drowned, or were chased in boats, brought back to the shore and killed.
Nowadays, perhaps because of the bad publicity that such incidents attract, the hunt take measures to avoid it happening.
Nevertheless with the deer running strongly for the sea it looked likely to occur that day. I joined a long line of hunt cars parked just west of Porlock with the supporters all gazing intently up a grass slope towards a small covert. The hunt could be heard. Suddenly the stag broke out of the covert and ran towards us. Reaching the hedgerow separating him from the road, he began to look for a gap to pass through, but supporters running down the road shouted, headed him back.
He ran back up the slope and encountered the pack piling out of the covert towards him. Turning about, he ran towards us but now there was no spring in his step. He headed for the corner in the hedgerow some 100 yards in front of me, beside the road.
The hounds were right behind snapping at his heels. Motorcyclists ran forward over the grass to try and grab him. He reached the hedgerow and tried to clear it with one mighty, desperate leap. Earlier in the day, he would certainly have done so, but by this stage after some five hours of hard running, exhaustion had taken its toll. His front feet pecked at the hedge top, his whole body swung over on to the road and he never moved. His neck was broken in an instant. The keen hunters felt cheated.
Following that incident I spent two days with the Quantock Staghounds in April. The first day from the "Blue Ball," Triscombe on April 26th there was no kill, despite the fact that the hunt continued until 6.45p.m. The second day started from the "Carew Arms," Crowcombe on Friday 30th April and was more successful.
The stag was quickly away over Robin Upright's Hill, then ran over the moorland towards the League sanctuary at Alfoxton. Instead of staying in the sanctuary, he ran on to the peaceful village of Kilve, that had made the headlines earlier in the year after the bloody killing of a hind in the garden of a tea shop. Circling away from Kilve, I saw the young stag running on the edge of the moor in company with three hinds. Entering a tiny copse the three hinds ran on, while the stag doubled back. This manoeuvre split the pack, half going with the hinds and half returning with the stag. I anticipated that the stag would swing north towards a holiday camp and the sea and I headed in that direction. When he failed to do so I lost him.
When contact is lost at such a late stage in the hunt, as the hounds are closing in, it is best to go round to the known killing points. I visited Weacombe, Kilve, and Holford, three points where small streams come off the moor, but I found no sign. Later I was told by riders that the stag was killed on the side of Longstone Hill, high on the moor at about 2.30p.m.
Spring staghunting in the 1982/83 season was limited for me by my concentration on fox and hare hunting. The meet of the Tiverton Staghounds at Benley Cross on February 26th, by the date, should have been hind hunting, but mercifully for the females it was changed to Spring staghunting. The reason was because the hounds had been inactive for about two weeks due to the frost. There are always slight problems entailed in switching the pack from hunting one sex to the other because of the difference in scent, so, after the long lay off, the hunt opted for the immediate change to Spring staghunting.
There was extra interest in this hunt because I was guiding in a reporter - Maureen Lawless of the News of the World. We had calculated that it might immediately blow either of our covers if she was seen in my car. Instead the League's Promotions Manager, Jim Barrington, a man with extensive knowledge of hunting was brought in to help.
We would stay completely separate and never talk. But they would stick close to me as I knew the back routes and the likely places for the kill to occur. At the meet the League's Sanctuary Manager, John Hicks, turned up to warn the Hunt Masters to keep off the League's sanctuaries in the area.
Hounds were taken to draw woodland north of Affeton Moor and a magnificent young stag was soon away running down towards Chawleigh and the A379 near Eggesford Station. The hounds were well behind at this point, so far in fact that the supporters took over the hunting - they were on their hands and knees trying to slot the stag (follow his hoofprints). Other followers sighted the stag and the hunt veered away south of Chawleigh towards the bridge at Stone Mill. In the water the stag paused to gain a second wind, then headed out eastwards again.
Following in the wake of what was rapidly turning into a frantic dash, I encountered a menacing looking farmer on a tractor with a high powered rifle. He made clear his dislike for hunt followers. This is one of the many areas in which the hunt are distinctly unwelcome and the farmers will go to great lengths to protect their land. I would have clearly liked to have told the farmer exactly who I was and what I was doing, but I couldn't blow my cover.
We wound our way back towards the meet at Benley Cross and it seemed for a time that the hunt had lost the stag. Such an event may have pleased some of the followers, several commented on what a magnificent creature he was and that he should be left to breed to produce strong stock.
Sadly though there is no room for such sentiment in staghunting. The quarry was observed slipping away by an alert follower and betrayed by the white handkerchief raised to attract the hunt. The hounds closed in as the tiring stag headed for the wood from whence he had originally started. Knowing that the end was near I indicated to Jim and Maureen to stick particularly tight to me as I raced for the front.
We arrived at one corner of the wood just in time. The stag crossed the road in front and jumped the fence into the grass field with the hounds baying, barely 30 yards behind. I swerved to a halt, cracked off some photographs and saw Jim and Maureen just behind me. Before allowing ourselves to be boxed in by the supporters that were flooding in I had to decide whether the stag would run on or, exhausted, die there and then. When he veered right handed into the woods I knew.
Gesturing to Jim and Maureen to follow I ran up the roadside. The bloodcurdling baying started, and I knew that the hounds were on the stag. The supporters were whooping with glee. I ran up the road and into the wood through the first gate. There was a deep muddy marsh that I had to wade through and my left wellington became hopelessly stuck. The baying was now reaching a crescendo. There was no time to attend to such minor problems, so I simply ran out of it, carrying on in my sock. I ran and ran and stumbled into a partial clearing. The stag was standing there alone, bewildered, and terrified. The hounds were all around him baying frantically and those to his rear attacking his flanks. To the right, one of the riders, now on foot, was snapping home the cartridge in the shotgun. I whipped the camera up, flash focussed and pressed the trigger at the instant I heard the bang.
The beautiful creature shuddered under the impact and fell dying into the hounds, who soon engulfed him. Careful to be inconspicuous (I did not want to lose that valuable picture) I slipped out of the wood back to the road where I found a group of yokels staring amusedly at the half submerged wellie protruding from the muddy pond.
I looked for Jim and Maureen but they had entered the wood from another direction. Maureen had been fortunate enough to witness the kill and Jim was there taking photographs.
Their eyewitness account of staghunting appeared in the News of the World the following Sunday week.
Earlier in February, when the hunting was impaired by frost, Jim, Maureen and myself went to rearranged meets of the Devon and Somerset Staghounds.
The first, on February 15th, was at Culbone Stables, a well known hunting pub on the coast, west of Porlock. We travelled in convoy to the vicinity of the meet but then, knowing that I was under suspicion, we separated, allowing the slow hound-van to trundle in between our cars.
I swung into the car park opposite the pub, to the glare of watching hunters. Joint Master Norah Harding approached me, "There's no hunting today," she said. "But I checked with the kennels and they directed me here." She was emphatic - "This is a private meet, we do not want visitors, will you please leave!" With that I apologised and drove off.
Norah then went over and welcomed Jim and Maurren. When they asked if they should leave also, she said, "Oh no, you're welcome. We just don't like him about as he takes too many pictures."
They soon realised that it was a Deer Drive, and understood then why the hunt were so secretive. Such shoots are always denied in hunting circles.
Hounds are used to locate the deer herds which are then driven forward towards lines of hunters waiting with shotguns. The shooting is hit and miss. Many deer limp away wounded to die in agony. That the hunt deem these drives necessary amply demonstrates their own inability to control deer numbers by hunting.
The following week, February 22nd, I went with my colleagues to another such drive organised by the Devon and Somerset Staghounds, starting from Court Place, Porlock, but again it was so secretive that I was made distinctly unwelcome.
I learned from Jim and Maureen that in the course of these two drives the hunters had gaily blasted away with shotguns at many deer killing several.
In the autumn of 1982, after spending the summer observing the minkhunting 'exploits' of two of my antagonists in the letters columns of many local papers - Ian Coghill of the Three Counties Minkhounds and Arlin Rickard of the Devon and Cornwall Minkhounds - I switched my undercover work to beagling, a sport I had always felt was particularly cruel as the hare is such a timid inoffensive, creature.
On October 16th 1982 I attended the opening meet of the Surrey and North Sussex Beagles at the Red Barn, Blindley Heath at 12.30p.m.
Beagle meets differ from other forms of hunting by usually starting in the early afternoon.
After my years of "sabbing" I knew that such hunting was a prime target for sabs, because huntsmen and followers are all on foot. As I had expected sabs were in attendance, but ineffectual as the hunt took place on private land and they were forced to keep to the roads.
There were very few hares about. The hounds drew on and on in open fan across the fields while the followers trailed in their wake, increasingly disconsolate as the rain poured down making a bitterly cold afternoon.
Once a hare was found the start was electric. The hounds had been shuffling along, sniffing intently. Suddenly the hare, after remaining crouched until the last moment, shot away like the proverbial bullet. The hounds responded with ecstatic cries and swerved in hot pursuit. The hare was sson out of sight and the pack settled down to hunt her scent. This is where the calculated cruelty comes in. All hounds are purposely bred for stamina rather than speed, and it is generally reckoned that a well-bred pack of beagles will take 90 minutes to run a hare to exhaustion, and kill her.
Lurchers would kill quicker, but the sporting ethos of beagling is that followers are able to have a good run and see the hounds work out the line of scent.
On this occasion the scales of fortune favoured the hare. The scent was patchy, and intermittent. The saboteurs were holloaing and blowing their hunting horns like mad from the road, distracting the hounds, but taking care not to attract them to danger.
The hunt finally ended when the hare ran through cattle foil, leaving the hounds baffled by the smell.
Soon after this welcome intervention I trod on a nail when climbing railed fencing. It ripped right through my boot, leaving me limping for the rest of the day. A second hare was found but, once again, was lost because of poor scent. The hunt staff persevered in a torrential downpour, but by 4.30p.m. when they found a field of mushrooms, it was too much temptation. The Huntsman blew to end the day and they consoled themselves by filling their hats with fungi.
The following week, October 23rd, I returned to the same hunt for their meet at Marsh Green, near Edenbridge. This meet had not been advertised so I had to phone the kennels. They would not tell me the meet and I feared pushing it too far in case they asked to phone me back (I was on my home number). Instead they gave me a Reigate number to try. I tried, but again a solid wall. The lady was most suspicious, said she would not tell me, and was adamant that she did not remember me from the previous week. I played my last card by asking for the number of the Huntsman Rodney Cooper, saying that I was sure he would vouch for me. I had made a point the previous week of chatting to Rodney, outlining my interest in taking "sporting" pictures. Sure enough he remembered and told me the location of the meet.
That day the hounds inflicted two lengthy, punishing, hunts on hares, but there was no kill. Hares typically run in circles, either clockwise or anti-clockwise. To start with, the circle may be of huge diameter but, as the hare tires, it gets smaller until eventually, when totally exhausted, she will break off the ring and run in a straight line.
For the first hunt the scent was a bit patchy, particularly over the plough. However there were plenty of followers dotted about the fields, eager to betray the whereabouts of the fleeing hare, simply by holding their caps or handkerchiefs in the air and pointing.
The hunted hare completed her first circle and began her second, but she was visibly tiring, A fresh hare popped up and briefly led the hounds away, but the staff were quick to whip them off and put them back on line. By then, the hunted hare had disappeared. Rodney took the pack into a farm, sniffing around the outhouses, but there was no sign. He even waded into an overgrown pond with them, thinking that she might be hiding in the reeds. Eventually, some two hours after she was first found, she was given best.
A second hare waited until the hounds almost tripped over her before bolting. When she did go it was with a stunning burst of speed. She had cleared two fields before the pack was even out of the first. The pursuit lasted an hour before she eventually shook the pack and the day ended with everyone exhausted at 5.15p.m.
That was October 23rd. A fortnight later I was back with the same pack for their meet at "The Bull," Chelsham, on the southern outskirts of London. I arrived some ten minutes after the 12.30p.m. meet and was immediately suspicious. There were no hunters, just a couple of car-loads of sabs, parked beside the green. I went to the pub to enquire, but the barman, clearly thinking I was a sab, said brusquely: "They've cancelled."
I waited. Soon two more supporters cars turned up. Neither knew what had happened, but one had heard that the hounds were due to start at nearby Warren Farm. After asking directions, we set off. As we passed the sabs they slipped into convoy behind us.
With them tailing us, we reached the farm and learned that the meet had been changed to the "Fox and Hounds," Tilburstow Hill. The sabs were lurking, waiting to follow us. I was worried. My cover was under great strain at that time for, despite all my pleadings, a sequence of myself talking about the "Smoking Beagles" had been shown in "The Animals Film" on Channel 4, the previous Thursday. If any hunter had seen that and recognised me, I was finished. I judged it just too risky to lead two car-loads of sabs to the hunt. I knew I had to either lose them or to direct them to "find us" later.
Turning to my hunting companions I suggested we split up and whoever was unfortunate enough to be followed by the sabs would sacrifice his hunting by leading them elsewhere.
I indicated discreetly to the sabs to follow me but even though I drove as suspiciously as possible, still they followed someone else. Had they followed me I could have explained the situation. As it was, they followed another fellow to a DIY store in Reigate, missed the hunt, and ended up cursing.
When I caught up with the hunt, the staff were well pleased to learn that we had led the sabs astray. My cover was strengthened considerably. Hounds had already put a brace of hares up from some woodland, but once again the scent was bad.
There were more hares here and hounds gaily chased them in all directions. At one point I heard frantic squealing coming from a hedgerow. I dashed down fearing it was a hound hung up in barbed wire, but one of the whippers-in beat me to the scene and emerged joking: "Just another bloody rabbit killed!"
Apparently this hunt had only killed one hare since they returned from their hunting festival in the Lake District. The light faded as the mist came down, and home was blown at 4.30p.m. with just the unfortunate rabbit added to the tally.
I was anxious to see what really happens when hounds do catch a hare so the following week, November 13th, I opted to change hunts, following the Pevensey Marsh Beagles meeting at the Rother Valley Hotel, Northiam at 11.30a.m. It was a poor choice. The hounds drew over the flat marshes, through the crops, the hillsides, the hedgerows and even the coverts, but there was not a single sniff of a hare let alone a sighting. It was a complete and utter blank and left me wondering how beaglers convince any landowners that they have a necessary pest control service to perform.
Saturday November 20th was completely different. It was an invitation meet of the Surrey and North Sussex in Pevensey Marsh country, at the "Bulls Head," Boreham Street.
I arrived to find that there were sabs about. Knowing that they would have come from the Brighton/Hastings area and might recognise me, I was a bit fearful. On this occasion there were plenty of footpaths so the hunt could not keep the sabs off the fields, but they did try. I opted to stay near the hounds as much as possible. One sab, eyeing my camera, asked who I was working for. Knowing the hunt were listening, I explained that I was freelancing with 'Shooting Times' in mind and that I was particularly interested to record any violence caused by the sabs - a comment which pleased the hunt enormously.
In fact the only pictures I gained were of hunters pushing and jostling the sabs. One sab realised what I was actually photographing and shouted across: "That's a good photograph for Shooting Times, that really shows hunt violence!" I stopped before the hunt became suspicious.
The hunt continued, but most of the followers missed all their 'sport' as they spent the whole time bullying the sabs to keep to the footpaths.
There were hares about and the scent was good. Clearly a climatic change had occurred in favour of the hounds. The previous Tuesday the same hunt had killed one hare outright and chased another until, terrified and exhausted, she opted to swim a river and was drowned. They had also killed the previous Saturday.
The hounds ran well, and locked on to a hare. However at a point beside a canal the sabs effectively distracted them - making so much noise that Rodney's instructions were inaudible. There was plenty of banter, but no real violence for the sabs outnumbered the hunt four to one.
Hounds then set off in another large circle. I cut across the diagonal with the followers and had just reached the brow of a hill, with the hounds in full cry on the other side, when the baying stopped abruptly. The kill was blown. I sprinted forward. The hare had been killed in a field of young cabbages. The hounds were milling about, scrapping over the remains. The triumphant supporters, flocking to see, trampled a large area of the crop - the perfect irony, considering that the prime reason for killing the hare is that she eats the occasional plant!
I tried to take photographs of the dead hare, but only splintered bones, blood and fur remained. Learning that it was my first hare kill, the supporters searched around, found the torn off tail of the hare (scut) and awarded it to me as a trophy. To preserve it I was instructed to soak it in methylated spirits for at least three weeks. In fact, at the first opportunity, I tucked it back into the soil.
Hounds were then taken to where another hare had been viewed. They quickly picked up the line and were away at speed. I opted to follow Ian Cunningham, the Pevensey Marsh Huntsman, trusting in his knowledge of his own country.
The pack circled a hill and were returning towards us when they killed again. The hare had crossed a canal, was coursed down the other side and then caught. Proud of their two successes home was blown at 4.00p.m.
On the long walk back to our cars we were accosted by an angry bunch of sabs, standing by their van and two cars. Some hunt supporters had let down six of their tyres and stolen the valves to prevent them being re-inflated.
One of the sabs tackled me: "If you want a picture for Shooting Times, take a picture of this damage and put it in your bloody rag!" It was too dark to even try.
Rodney and Ian then offered to lend the sabs a pump having first driven them to get some new valves. I offered to help as well, but they had it all in hand. Apparently the Pevensey Marsh have an agreement with the sabs not to cause this kind of damage to each other's vehicles (a wise agreement for the hunt to make as theirs are the most vulnerable.)
A week later, November 27th, I was back with the Surrey and North Sussex for a meet in their own country - at the "Hare and Hounds", Lingfield. Once again, sabs - this time from Surrey University - were at the meet and in attendance throughout the day. I had been so often linked with the appearance of sabs that when Rodney first saw me he asked: "You're not bringing these antis with you, are you?" I could only laugh and shrug the comment off. Fortunately I was able to repair the damage done to my cover by telling him that I had left a photograph with line of his staff, that I had taken of him earlier in the season at Marsh Green.
One young sab stayed with the hounds all day, but said nothing to reveal his true feelings and caused no trouble. As I had done many years earlier he was simply on observation to understand what happens. Hunters challenged him, bullied him, and ordered him to keep off private land, but he replied that he had paid his "cap", and produced the little cardboard fob to prove it. This baffled the hunt as they then felt morally bound to let him through and did so, but reminded him that he had to obey the hunt rules.
As we followed the hounds in a fan across the fields a hare popped up right in front, but so fast that I was unable to take a picture. She went off in a big circle and then returned. I was trailing in the wake when I saw her dart through a gateway moments before sabs reached the spot. It was a perfect chance to see the effectiveness of sabotage as the hounds were streaming in full cry only seconds behind. The sabs sprayed to cover the line and whistled and shouted to distract the pack.
However, a pack at full speed has tremendous forward momentum. Though they checked briefly, perhaps for five seconds, they soon cast on themselves, picked up the line and carried on. For many hares such a brief respite may well not be enough, but for this one it was.
I ran and ran to keep up. The hare had crossed a stream and, when the hounds piled in after her, I thought the kill was imminent. Then a fresh hare intervened, the pack split, and Rodney chose wrongly, hunting after the fresh one, leaving a very tired hare to escape.
Realising his mistake, Rodney regrouped the pack to draw for her, but it was too late. As the afternoon wore on it became very cold and misty. Hounds were entered to one large covert from where immediately sounds of shooting were heard.
In the mayhem the pack split, some going with the Huntsman and the others with the whippers-in. The Huntsman returned to the main group of followers, succeeded soon after by the whippers-in, beaming with delight. Their hounds had chopped down a baby leveret. Although they only recovered a tiny ball of fur, they were certain the victim was a hare, rather than a rabbit. The hounds had worried it, whereas with a rabbit they merely kill and leave.
The following month, December, I ranged right across the country and the 18th found me out with the Warwickshire Beagles for their meet at the "Three Horseshoes", Wixford near Redditch.
This was the hunt of which Ian Coghill was Huntsman until he had unleashed a particularly vicious stream of invective on two committee members who, not surprisingly, failed to vote for him next time round! Nevertheless, I had been