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 told that he still followed them and I hoped to meet other followers of the Three Counties Minkhounds and would have to be careful.
As I arrived, Loppylugs, who I met whilst minkhunting, rushed up shouting, "I'm going to murder you." I gulped, thinking he had spotted me on 'The Animals Film', but it was simply that he had a terrible photograph of himself and thought that it might upset my sensitive photographic tastes.
From the first draw a hare bolted almost immediately and the hounds piled after her straight into a field of sheep. The hunt cursed, knowing full well that they had been banned from that land. None of the uniformed staff dared to go on to whip the hounds out, all they could do was stand meekly on the margins trying to call the pack out - rather like a man trying to discourage his big bouncy dog from rolling in his neighbours flower beds. The beagles thought it was all great fun, but the hunt eventually coaxed them out without the landowner being any the wiser.
As the day wore on large numbers of hares were chased in all directions, but fortunately all escaped. Though able to lock on to the scent the pack lacked the drive to push them hard enough. Late in the afternoon, at about 4.00p.m., an amazing incident occurred.
The hounds were drawing the top end of a grass field when they put their quarry up. She shot away from the hounds and ourselves towards the hedgerow at the far end, where she stopped. In full cry the pack hurtled towards her. She sat up, ears pricked, and looked about. Then she was away, straight back towards the hounds. Attaining full speed in seconds, she hit the approaching wedge of canine venom head on. Darting left she missed the leader, swerved inside the second, accelerated back from the third and so on. Relying only on speed and stunning agility she carved her way through the entire pack. They snapped at her fleeing form, but without success. Through the pack, she was away and out of sight leaving the hounds in complete disarray as the leaders swerved about and were bowled over by those following.
The supporters scratched their heads, looked questioningly at their hip flasks and put it down to the hare being a "suicide jockey." I wondered whether, less anthropomorphically, she had leverets beyond the hedgerow, because apart from the first instant, she certainly led the pack away from it. The hunt drew on and on, in near total darkness casting by the light of the moon, but without success. She was gone.
After Christmas I switched to follow another hunt not far from the Warwickshire, the Wyre Forest Beagles, meeting at Coddington Cross, near Worcester on December 29th. Loppylugs was at the meet doling out half a bottle of sherry to the supporters. He gleefully informed me that this is one of the hunt's best meets.
From the first draw we soon found that there were very few hares about. When a rabbit was disturbed the hounds chased it eagerly and were only stopped with difficulty.
Talking with the followers I learned that hounds are first entered to the pack at above 18 months old, and that the oldest in this pack was seven years old. After seven, they are destroyed. I calculated that to mean an awful lot of perfectly healthy beagles killed each year - it is not only the hares that suffer!
Eventually one of the supporters holloaed a hare away. The pack set off in a wide right-handed circle. On and on the hunt went until the hare returned to her starting point. As if in a relay race, a second hare then popped up and took the hounds on, whilst the tired hare swerved inside on a much tighter line. The hounds gaily set off for their second lap. This second hare ran the same circle, but when she returned there was no other hare to help. The pack was gaining.
She set off on a second circuit, but in a much tighter circle. High up on a ploughed hillside she was held up by a fence of chicken mesh. By the time she was through the pack was only yards behind. At the scene I heard a supporter who had witnessed her terrified, frantic efforts to get through, express sympathy for her. Returning to the starting point for a second time, again there was no help. She was on her own.
She broke off the circle and ran straight. Supporters were holloaing and shrieking in ecstasy, just as they do on a staghunt. I knew the end was near. She was coursed alongside two hedgerows and then dashed across a bare field towards a brook with the hounds inexorably gaining. I whipped up my camera. Seconds later she reached the brook, but never came out. The hounds piled in, a brief penetrating squeal and it was over, The remains were recovered in triumph and I took some photographs of the Master, Roger Colver, cutting the scut off. The time was 3.15p.m.
They drew on and had a brief hunt on a second hare, but she escaped.
That was December 29th. In the New Year I was back with the Wyre Forest for their meet at Kinnersley Church on January 8th. On this occasion I missed seeing the kill. When the tiring hare ran round the left-hand side of a farm, instead of following, I tried to be clever and ran round the other way to lie in wait and photograph her head on. She never made it, being headed by supporters early on in her circle.
Scorning a dense pine covert that might have saved her, she darted towards some buildings, and in the words of a smiling eyewitness, was caught, "under a cottage gate." My informant told how the staff had frantically bundled the hounds out of the garden, cleared up the remains of the hare and departed before anyone saw them. As he put it: "It really is better if the hares are killed in the open country, away from public view."
Finding a second hare and with the scent good the hounds hunted her closely, but just when it appeared that they would kill, again near buildings, the pack rioted and killed a rabbit.
In the course of that hunt I heard an interesting tale from the hunt treasurer, a lady who writes hunting reports under the pseudonym of "Elfin." The previous Wednesday, their hounds had marked to a hole in the base of a tree. Though cast in all directions there was no scent leading away. Then blood was noticed on one of the hounds. Looking into the hole the terrified hare was seen wedged in the topmost part, bleeding but still alive. The hounds had been able to reach and chew her hindquarters but she clung on desperately. No-one could reach her, but eventually one of the smallest hounds squeezed in and dragged her out, killing her. In "Elfin's" opinion, they did not like killing hares that way, as it was "not very sporting."
That was the 8th, on January 22nd I was with the Warwickshire for their meet at "The Bell", Cropthorne. I saw Peter Cooper, a Joint Master of the Three Counties Minkhounds at the meet, and he was a bit chilly towards me to say the least!
Later, walking around the fields I learned why. He tackled me brusquely: "Have you changed your address?" I could only say "No" with an air of puzzled innocence. He added: "Well Ian (Coghill) wrote to you wanting some pictures and had his letter returned by the Post Office marked 'Not known at this address'." I mentally cursed the Post Office as they were paid to forward my mail. My only escape was to explain that Ian must have written my address wrongly in some way. To add credibility I was able to truthfully say that Arlin Rickard had done the same, but it was still a bit thin - I had a distinct cloud of suspicion over me.
That day several hares were hunted to the brink of exhaustion but all escaped.
Peter's girlfriend, Rachel, invited me back for tea but, knowing I was vulnerable to close questioning about my address, I declined, even though in doing so I raised further doubts as to my sincerity as a supporter.
The following week, January 29th, I attended my last beagle meet in the area with the Wyre Forest at "The Bridge", Tenbury. This meet was the day after their Hunt Ball so they were all a bit jaded. In the crowded bar, I gave Roger Colver a photograph of himself that I had taken earlier in the month with his hounds outside Kinnersley Church. He was well pleased.
Leaving the pub the Hunt vanned on to Whitton Farm. From "Elfin" I learned that Loppylugs had been in his usual form at the Ball, saying to her: "I can tell you are a woman when I'm dancing with you, but not when I see you out beagling!"
There were plenty of hares about that day, and the hounds ran with fervour in all directions, Eventually they locked onto one with distinctive pure white hindquarters. I learned that it was the descendant of an all white hare that had lived in the area some seven years previously. Evidently the hunt had had previous run ins with this one, as Roger made it quite clear that he was determined to catch her. With scent reasonable the hounds pushed her hard, then momentarily they lost her. The landowner put them right but only reluctantly. Talking to supporters it transpired that he did not really want to see her caught. He thought that it would, in some way, bring bad luck.
At that, most followers felt that in deference to his wishes the hunt should stop, but Roger persisted. Pursuit only ended when the pack rioted after a rabbit and lost the scent and, with little help from the supporters was unable to re-find it. By then the pace had been so fast that the hounds were well split. After much searching they were all found bar one. With no kill made, home was blown and the whole pack taken to look for this miscreant.
On the way back to the cars the supporters joked about the white hare and pondered as to its whereabouts. I opined that it was probably taking off its white trunks to give to the next hare that is hunted. Picking up the theme another supporter laughed and said that if the antis really wanted to succeed they should spray all the hares white!
My last beagling meet of all was some two months later with the Surrey and North Sussex at "The Plough", Lower Beeding, on March 19th, to finish their season. Michael Foot was due to speak at a public meeting the following Saturday, so just before the off the Master exhorted his followers to go along to this meeting to heckle him.
With a number of hares about the hounds were soon running. They locked on to one and pursued her into a small wood. The wood was promptly surrounded by a ring of supporters all eager to see the action.
However, their presence deterred the hare from bolting out. In a furious temper hunt staff stormed up and ordered them to move, saying that if they did not the hare would be "chopped down" in the wood, denying them any "sport."
They obliged, the hare bolted, and the hunt continued, but the scent cannot have been right, because the pack never got on terms. They changed hares frequently and eventually, as darkness approached, at about 6.00p.m. home was blown with no kill recorded.
Basset Hounds
The idea of basset hounds hunting anything seemed ludicrous. With their short legs and long ears, I could picture them scraping their low undercarriage on any deep plough. Supporters follow on foot.
I attended my first meet, with the Leadon Vale Basset Hounds at Church Farm, Hardwicke, near Gloucester on February 5th expecting it to be really interesting. I had met two of the keenest followers of this hunt at the AGM of the Three Counties Minkhounds the previous Tuesday and they willingly vouched for me.
At the meet I was surprised to see two gentlemen in dog collars in attendance. They were a little perturbed when I took their pictures and notably absent when the action started - doubtless appreciating that it would be poor form to be recorded rejoicing over the death of one of God's creatures.
The hounds, with a small field of about 10, set off to draw. In the first half hour there were no less than eight hares running relays with the hounds. I could not believe they would catch any, but Hon. Sec. Dave Philpotts assured me that the hounds had tremendous stamina, and that would tell later in the day.
The hunt worked with the definite aim of scaring most of the hares away, so that, left with just a few, the hounds could push them really hard. Round and round the estate we whizzed. Of all the pack hounds I had met these appeared to be the most self-contained and single minded. They simply locked on to a scent and were oblivious to anything else. Dave recounted how on one occasion a basset had been left out overnight. The following morning he was found still plodding round and round in circles looking for the hare.
At this hunt I took a rare shot of the Master, David Mann, running with his hounds to a holloa, as a hare jumped up right in front of the pack. It is very unusual to get the hunted, the hounds and the hunter all in one frame.
Early in the afternoon, the first hare was chopped down just out of my sight. I only knew they had killed when I saw the pack returning daubed with blood. I learned that, with the pack gaining rapidly, she had sought cover in a hedge. A fresh hare bolted, taking the hounds away, but the tired hare made the mistake of backtracking straight into the jaws of four hounds straggling along behind.
The hunt drew on anew. Soon we were running in circles again. Locking on to another victim the hounds pursued her in a left handed circle. She then tracked along the side of the Sharpness - Gloucester ship canal, headed slowly back over a field, and with the hounds gaining, made for a deep bramble shrouded ditch. I arrived to find Dave Philpotts and other supporters running up and down beside the ditch holloaing and screaming with glee. The exhausted creature desperately sought protection, crawling in the muddy water that lined the bottom of the ditch. The hounds pounced and fell on top, the briefest of squeals and she was torn to shreds. That particular hunt had been quite short, so the hunters assumed that she must have been tired, having been 'rattled' in the morning.
They drew on, looking for the third kill, but the followers were extremely tired and welcomed home being blown at about 4.00p.m.
A fortnight later, February 19th, I was back with the same pack when they met at "The Horseshoe", Brooms Green. The ground appeared hard after frost, but was soft underneath. Hares were about and great circular hunts soon developed. The day more or less ended though when the hounds and followers, in the enthusiasm of the chase, bolted a herd of young bullocks out of their field.
Some of the followers were all for carrying on, saying that the farmer should have put up stronger gates, but, to their credit, the staff stopped proceedings and organised a team to drive the bullocks back. The following month, March 26th, I was back with the same pack for another meet at Church Farm, Hardwick. This was their last meet of the season. I had to be very careful as they were extremely suspicious of me, particularly those who also followed the Three Counties Minkhounds.
I arrived after the start, to learn that the hounds had killed in their first field, chopping down one of a brace that popped up right in front of them. That brought their tally to nine brace. In the hunt that followed I took the opportunity to question some minkhunting supporters about Ian Coghill reporting the throwing of a live mink to hounds but, for reasons that will become apparent, they became very suspicious. One of them left in a great hurry, saying he had to phone his wife. Suspecting he might be organising a "farewell party" for me, I took it as my cue, made an excuse and left.
HARE COURSING
Hare coursing, a cold, clinical way of killing hares has, as its premier event, the Waterloo Cup, which takes place at Altcar, near Liverpool in the Spring.
The 1983 Waterloo Cup was scheduled for March 2nd-4th and I decided to attend to try and take some pictures. Knowing there are strict rules preventing photography I thought it wise to phone beforehand to get permission.
I phoned the B.F.S.S. with my cover story. They said I was probably too late (it was March 1st) and referred me to a northern based vet, James MacWilliam, the Hon. Sec. of the Waterloo Cup Committee. At this point I felt that I was getting too personally involved and therefore was noticeable, so I decided to turn up unannounced.
I travelled north on the night of March 1st, opting to stay at a B&B at Southport - well out of the zone where combination of L.A.C.S. credit card and B.F.S.S. stickers might arouse interest.
Saboteurs had planned a big demonstration for the first day, so I expected the hunters to be even more jittery than usual. As it was, they had pre-empted the demo by bringing the start forward one day. On Tuesday, 1st March, they had completed a total of sixty-six courses, avoiding any trouble, but also losing the bulk of their supporters because of their cloak of secrecy.
It was pouring with rain when I arrived on Wednesday 2nd, to learn that the event had been switched from the scheduled Withins to nearby Lydiate field. I moved across to join a long queue of cars to enter the arena.
It was a long hike from the road, so I offered a lift to one of the passing lads. He eagerly accepted, as did his two mates. They turned out to be beaters from the North Yorkshire Coursing Club - I prayed that for once my routine check of the car to remove all L.A.C.S. material had been sound. As the queue slowed and finally stopped the car gradually steamed up.
I glanced in the wing mirror and was mortified to see a group of friends wearing hunt saboteur T-shirts approaching from the rear! They were bound to recognise the car, but would they appreciate that I had company - company of the distinctly heavy kind? If they were to give me a hearty welcome in all their sabs' outfits, that would be it.
I breathed again when they passed by without comment. When it came to paying the £5 entrance fee, the beaters said who they were so we all got in free.
Parking, I went to have a look at the coursing, but without my camera. I saw other people taking pictures, judged that it would be safe, and returned for mine. I was in time to see a hare jinking away in front of the greyhounds before it eventually escaped.
I stood amid a crowd of supporters on a long side of the coursing rectangle. A light, misty rain was falling. The hares were being beaten in from the left, past the slipper, the man restraining the two greyhounds, concealed behind a green lean-to structure.
Four more hares were driven in, of which only two escaped. Often, when being herded forward they would nearly reach the field, only to veer away at the last minute. They would then run off, meet the line of beaters and be funnelled back again. The net effect was that some of the hares had done a few circuits in the beating funnel before they even reached the coursing field.
When they hit the grass they were already tiring. As they passed the slipper he was supposed to judge whether they were fit for the course, and to give them necessary start (80 yards according to the rule books). Hares that are sickly or weak are supposed to be left. The only ones I saw left in the two days were judged to be leverets.
In practice, as soon as the hare passed the slipper the crowd bayed like mad for the greyhounds to be released. Beer swigging supporters shouted: "Let the bloody dogs go! What's the bastard up to? Can't he see the f...... hare?"
When the greyhounds were released they quickly overhauled their quarry whose only escape was to jink left and right sharply. In one course a dog bowled the hare over. Over and over she tumbled, with fur flying, before darting off again to escape.
For the hare, surviving the first few turns was vital, as the dogs soon tired. Whereas pack hounds are bred for stamina, greyhounds are bred for speed - to outpace their quarry - but they cannot sustain full speed for long. The first kill was over the other side of the field, so I and the bulk of supporters saw little.
The second kill was different. Jinking and twisting the hare approached the solid crowd. There was no way through as the spectators roared the dogs on, She swerved away and was caught. One dog had hold of her shoulders, the other her back feet. She squeaked and squealed. The dogs tussled for possession and, in an instant, one dog won. As the mounted judge and pickers-up approached he ran off triumphantly, still clutching her by the shoulder. Still she squealed, and still the crowd cheered and jeered.
The dog circled round, nimbly avoiding the pickers-up. As he approached me, I captured the hare's terror in one quick photograph, before the dog came close to the crowd and was trapped. Firm hands wrestled the hare from its grasp, putting it out of its agony with a chop to the neck. The dog's owner ran up to congratulate his charge.
These five courses were the last that morning as a large group of sabs moved across in front of the beaters and refused to move. At that time there were about three hundred and fifty sabs to seven hundred coursers.
The police were reluctant to remove the sabs in their peaceful protest but the coursers were itching to get at them. Individuals passed amongst the coursing crowd exhorting them to violence. "Let's teach these student scum a lesson. Stand up and fight for your sport."
Under such intense whipping of tempers, the coursers did eventually react and charged towards the sabs, only pausing to rip out fence posts for use as weapons.
I thought that a repeat of the Border Counties incident at Llandinam was in the offing and moved across, camera at the ready. The thin blue line of four police officers, saved the day, halting the coursers' charge.
As the two sides closed, the coursers baited the sabs. One held the body of a hare killed only moments before above his head, shaking it to goad the sabs and swinging it around. The police ordered him to stop.
The sabs still refused to move. The coursers then made it clear to the police that unless they evicted the sabs the coursers would do it themselves. Forced to act, the police formed a beat line to sweep the sabs away. The sabs sat down.
The press, who had been with the coursers, rushed over to take pictures and seizing this opportunity several coursers joined in the stampede, looking for a fight, but the police restrained them.
This went on all morning. At one point, the coursers succeeded in getting amongst the sabs and kicked and punched some of them to the ground. The police tried to keep the two sides apart and they eventually manoeuvred the sabs back to the road and held them there. The beat line then came in as planned, but there was only one hare left in the funnel. She escaped.
The coursers stopped for lunch to listen to a local radio debate between Dick Course, Executive Director of the League Against Cruel Sports, and Sir Mark Prescott, racehorse trainer and hare coursing addict.
In the afternoon, the beaters came in from the right hand side of the field. This time there were plenty of hares. At one point it was announced that there were six in the holding field. In that afternoon session, I saw about one in three hares escape. I observed that if they could survive about six turns, they were safe as the grey hounds tired so quickly. On several occasions the hare ran right off the coursing field pursued by the labouring greyhounds and with their cursing owners plodding along behind.
The day ended at 4p.m. after twenty courses had been run. Next day, March 3rd, was the day of the finals, held at the Withins. This time no sabs were in attendance, they had moved off to a nearby protest against the killing of baby seals in Canada. From early morning it threatened rain, but surprisingly it held off.
The first course started at 9.45a.m. with hares being driven in from the right and escaping through a screen of rhododendron bushes to the left. I soon appreciated that, on this massive field, it was going to be almost impossible to take any significant photographs. At Lydiate we could almost touch the greyhounds; here we were separated by a wide ditch and yards of open space.
A larger percentage of hares were escaping; only about one in five were killed. I was informed that this was due to the ground being waterlogged in the middle and the greyhounds slipping and sliding as they turned.
I saw several kills which included lengthy tugs-of-war. I could hear the hares screaming pitifully, like roughly handled teddy bears, but I was too far away to record their struggles on film.
Eager anticipation built up to the actual final. When it came, the supporters roared and cheered the dogs on. Desperately the hare turned every which way but when she made an error she was killed.
The last ceremony I photographed was the drunken celebration of it all as Cups and Plates were presented to the winners, while the broken remains of the hunted lay forgotten beside the arena.
MINKHUNTING is the summer bloodsport. It replaces otterhunting as the "sport" that fills the gap between the end of one foxhunting season in April and the start of the next in August / September.
Mink are an introduced species, originally brought over from North America to be exploited in ranch farms for their fur. When the fur market trade collapsed in the 1940's and 1950's many farms went out of business and owners simply released the mink into the wild.
Adaptable creatures they soon established themselves and began filling the riparian habitats that were increasingly vacated by otters.
Both mink and otters are mustelids, both have similar habits and occupy similar habitats. However otters are much larger - weighing 20 to 30lbs to the 3 to 4lbs of the mink - are much better swimmers, and are specialised predators.
The hunters were always hard put to justify the killing of otters on the grounds of alleged damage to fishing interests but, for the sport killing of the far less aquatic mink, the use of this excuse makes even less sense.
The marked decline in otter numbers that occurred in the 1970's forced the hunters to search for alternative prey. In much of the country mink were prime candidates. Where they were absent, as in East Anglia, the coypu, a South American river rat, likewise imported for its fur, was the selected target.
From the early 1970's, though still claiming the title Otterhunts, the hunts were in facts chasing and killing otters, mink and coypu, dependant on their location.
As outlined in an earlier chapter this continued persecution forced the otter into further decline, with the situation worsening to the point where the species was placed on the protected list from January 1978 when it became illegal to kill it. The killing for sport had continued right up until the last minute - certainly until the summer of 1977,
With it only illegal to kill otters, not to hunt them, the summer bloodsports were free to continue. All that was required was a change of name and a change of focus to either of the alternative prey - mink or coypu. Those otter hunts that did not switch resorted to the status of hunt clubs but were careful to retain control of their former hunting areas "pending a possible resumption of otterhunting."
During the passage of the Wildlife and Countryside Act in 1982 the Labour M.P. for Stockport North, Andrew Bennett, proposed an amendment that would have provided full protection for the otter. The powerful hunting lobby recognised the threat to their interests, opposed the amendment, and it was lost.
At the same time the Minister responsible, Hector Monro, assured the House of Commons that otterhunting is illegal. However a Home Office briefing document, leaked to the League, makes it clear that, at the time otterhunting is NOT illegal.
Referring to Andrew Bennett's amendment this document says:
"The amendment may also be intended to place a complete ban
on otterhunting."
The main threat to otters, through the continuance of mink and coypu hunting, is from the disturbance of the habitat. To breed successfully otters require peace and freedom from harassment. There is also the very real risk of the hounds rioting and killing otters in the same way that foxhounds riot and kill cats.
*****
The first minkhunt I attended in my undercover role was on April 24th 1982. I had been following Spring staghunting in the West Country and, along with many others, drifted over to see this curious "new" sport.
The hunt was the Devon and Cornwall Minkhounds, formerly the Dartmoor Otter Hounds, whose Master, Arlin Rickard, enjoys a reputation as a rising star in the hunting world. The meet was at the "Claycutters Arms", Chudleigh Knighton at 11.00a.m.
Sporting the full camouflage of staghunt and B.F.S.S. stickers I was made very welcome. As a courtesy I asked permission to take photographs and they were delighted to agree. There soon assembled a motley collection numbering some 20 or more followers, ranging from the roughest looking terriermen to young children.
The hounds were a similar mixture and included what appeared to be pure bred otterhounds, part otterhounds and pure foxhounds - I learned later that they were rejects from foxhunts. Typical hounds, they were big, bouncy and friendly and, with a mite of encouragement, would readily plant their paws on your shoulders and lick your chin.
Minkhunting, like otterhunting, takes place on foot. When the hunt moved off the hounds drew ahead on either bank and swam the river between. The whippers-in - one of whom is Arlin's wife Liz - ran ahead to ensure that the hounds did not forage too far forward and the followers split into two groups on either side and immediately engaged in earnest hunting conversations.
Arlin encouraged the hounds: "Try over, try over." He blew the horn, and waded backwards and forwards over the river, investigating any likely holes or holts. He took care to prod the river-bed ahead to assess its depth as many a riparian huntsman has been known to disappear up to his cap on encountering a hidden gully - to the delight of those watching from the sanctuary of the bank! Terriers, running loose in attendance, were frequently called forward to investigate when hounds sniffed at likely spots.
Aware of very real public concern, minkhunters claim never to hunt where there are any signs of otters. Yet on my very first day I found that there is a world of difference between hunt claims and the facts. In the very first draw a whipper-in called Arlin's attention to a fresh otter print, others were found nearby, yet the hunt still continued.
Compared to fox or stag hunting, minkhunting proceeds at a very sedate pace. Some hunts, the Devon and Cornwall being one, even find time to stop for lunch.
There were few mink about that day. When the heat of the sun had passed the hounds did speak briefly to an unknown scent. There was a surge of expectancy amongst the followers but short lived, nothing was found. Arlin suggested two reasons for this lack of activity.
Firstly that the water was too cold to hold any scent, secondly that they would only be able to hunt dog mink as the bitches were with young and at such times leave no scent. Having already witnessed pregnant vixens hunted, marked to ground, and thrown live to foxhounds I was sceptical about the latter point.
The following Saturday, May 1st, the same hounds met at Boyton Bridge near Holsworthy. Here I first met Belmont, a beautiful old rogue of a hound, drafted out of the Snowdon Valley Foxhounds for lack of speed - he had a lopsided gait caused by a misformed foreleg.
I soon realised that Belmont had a playful nature. Though vaunted by the hunt as being their best marking hound - that is, the hound most likely to find hidden mink - he appeared distinctly capricious and seemed to mark at any hole or tree-trunk for the sheer fun of seeing the staffs' agitated attempts to dislodge non-existent mink.
This was a more successful day for the hunt. Early on they found and destroyed a fresh nest containing green grass and rabbit fur. Soon after, the hounds marked to a hole in the bank that Arlin, after close examination, announced was occupied by a bitch mink and kits.
Oblivious to the supposed lack of scent on such creatures, the hounds and terriers bayed like mad at the entrance. With much hissing and spitting from within, the diggers endeavoured to enlarge the hole but, even so, it was too narrow for the terriers. The attack was switched to the roof at which they dug frantically, but this too was frustrated when the spade broke. All manner of implements were then directed at the entombed mink, without success.
Arlin then had a hunter's brainwave; cutting a long thin stick from a nearby tree he carved the end to a crude point. Inserting the point in the hole he rammed it up as if clearing a drain from Dover to Calais. He smiled when he encountered resistance, drew the stick back and rammed it viciously in, again and again, waggling it around. When he drew the stick out the end was smeared with blood, fur and flesh. Eagerly other followers rushed to have a prod and, by the time they left the scene, the mother and young were all stabbed and ripped to death.
The first open kill that I saw with the Devon and Cornwall occurred the following Monday when they met at "The Maltsters", Harbertonford, at the southern end of their country. Some of the pre-meet conversations in the pub were particularly interesting once the whisky had started flowing. There was much concern that, after two meets, the hounds had yet to kill. A supporter suggested that the new entry of puppies would really benefit if caged mink could be found and released in front of them.
This conformed with the traditional hunt view that inexperienced hounds should be encouraged by being unleashed on the most vulnerable quarry. Such a strategy in minkhunting was clearly inspired by the attempts by the Ministry of Agriculture to check the spread of mink using live cage trapping. These traps were used so that any otters, inadvertently caught, could be released unharmed and any mink killed humanely.
It was certainly never envisaged by the Ministry that they could be used to ensure a steady supply of helpless victims for frustrated huntsmen. Sitting with the supporters I listened intently. Following the killing of the bitch and kits there was some discussion as to the merits of waiting until the mink family emerged.
Many held that it was a waste to kill a bitch whilst pregnant because it only added one to the tally whereas if they wanted for a few weeks until she gave birth she and her offspring could provide "great sport" on the open river - as many as five might be notched up.
Clearly, in the interests of "sport," the minkhunters are happy to forget their public claim that, unlike other bloodsports, their sole intention is to eradicate their quarry.
As the drink flowed on, the tongues loosened. I mentioned to Liz Rickard how fortunate it was for their style of hunting that mink are now established substitute for the otter. She agreed wholeheartedly.
When eventually we set off the hunt drew the river north from the meet with 8 1/2 couple of hounds and an assortment of terriers.
Almost immediately the hounds spoke and the mink was sighted - a point confirmed by rather drunken cries of "Holloa!" The terrified creature swam up a short tributary away from the main river, landed, and ran alongside a hedgerow, darting amid the brambles with the hounds and followers in hot pursuit.
Turning about, it ran beside the tributary back to the river but was attacked by a terrier just short of its goal. The hiss and spit of battle was clearly audible but, for all the terrier's tenacity, the mink escaped, albeit with severe injuries. It flopped into the water with the hounds all around, whipping up a maelstrom.
Arlin was in, together with his whipper-in Graham Miles. The mink was struggling on the surface, incapable of diving. Arlin hooked the crippled creature out with his pole and held it up to bait the hounds. With a flick of its tail the mink twisted off the pole and fell into the waiting jaws.
The torn body was recovered and weighed (3 1/2 lbs) - the information being passed to the local Naturalists' Trust.
The hunt moved on in high spirits. Suddenly the frantic yelping of the hounds betrayed the presence of a live, electric fence. One hound in particular, a big white fluffy creature named Regent, did not like it at all and disappeared in double quick time.
After lunch a second mink was found near the main A38, a road crowded with holiday traffic. With the scent excellent the hounds ran with fervour. The mink was repeatedly viewed as it darted in and out of the reeds. On landing it was so fast in the grass that the hounds seemed clumsy.
Backwards and forwards the quarry went within the short stretch of river that obviously constituted its home range. Soon the scent was hopelessly foiled by the hounds and supporters milling about in baffled pursuit.
Arlin pulled the hounds out to take stock of the situation, then cast them back. They spoke intermittently as they caught whiffs of scent but there were no further sightings.
They were about to call it a day when one of the elderly supporters, Jane Miller, a former Master of the Dartmoor Otterhounds, saw the mink curled about the topmost branches of a tree, gazing down!
Arlin called the pack and followers to the safety of one side and a barrage of stones and mud was thrown at the mink. Clinging desperately to the branches it sustained a few hits without moving, but eventually a particularly large rock dislodged it and it fell into the murky river. The supporters cheered.
The hounds sprang forward and followers waded in their wake. The mink dived. With 17 quadrupeds and many humans milling about, the river-bed was soon whipped up.
The mink took full advantage of this aquatic smokescreen. Like destroyers searching for their contact the hounds swam in patterns, but there was no sign. In such a confined area though, it was only a matter of time. Soon one of the best hounds - Prospect, marked at a hole in the bank. Arlin enlarged the shelter and exposed the mink, huddled against the muddy wall. A terrier grabbed it, the pack burst forward and it was all over. The mink was literally torn apart but, conscious of the need to weigh the carcass, the hunters searched diligently for the remains. The largest portion recovered weighed 3 3/4 lbs but, adding an estimate for the blood and guts that had been ripped out, the hunt claimed 4 lbs.
That was the beginning of May. At the end of the month, the 29th, I was back with the same hunt for their meet at the "Arundell Arms", Lifton. Minkhunts claim to distinguish whether hounds are chasing mink or otter according to the length of the drag. For mink the drag is short, the quarry soon sighted, but for otters that roam over much larger territories the drag is longer. On this occasion the hounds hit a long, long drag in the afternoon, so protracted that many of he followers were convinced that it was an otter; but the hounds were not called off.
The supporters regarded it as great fun but the end of the planned draw brought the end of the day, even though the hounds were still willing to drive on after their unseen adversary.
The opening meet for the Devon and Cornwall was two days later on Monday 31st at the "London Inn", St Neot. The hunt had no sooner commenced than the hounds spoke, a mink was sighted and, after a brief desperate "game" of hide and seek, a 2 1/2lb bitch was killed. She sought sanctuary amid dense brambles but, with all the followers about, simply ran out of room. Lunch was taken at the East Cornwall Hunt kennels with a liberal dose of Bell's whisky. Suitably fortified the hunt restarted and, after another short chase, killed a 3 1/2lb dog mink. The torn and battered carcass was about the size of a hairy slipper. That day I first heard glowing tales of the exploits of Ian Coghill. His hunt, the Three Counties, are reckoned to show the best summer "sport" of all.
During June I attended four hunts. Following uneventful meets of the Devon and Cornwall at Fingle Bridge, Drewsteignton on the 12th and at Kismeldon Bridge, Bradworthy on the 14th I had my one and only day with the Culmstock Minkhounds at Black Torrington Bridge on the 15th.
This is another hunt with direct connections with otterhunting, the Master, Norman Bartlett, having been Master of the Culmstock Otterhounds for many years. This pack had a fearsome reputation for being vicious not only towards their natural quarry but also to anyone who dared to interfere. In 1964 four of its supporters were bound over to keep the peace following an assault in which a saboteur's jaw was broken.
Norman Bartlett was also Master of the Axe Vale Badger Hounds for many years. For all their cruel heritage, the hunt made an amusing picture, with Norman dressed in old-fashioned hunting garb, complete with bowler hat. After lunch the pack locked on to the scent of a particularly large mink. Try as he might he could not shake them. He ended up torn in half.
On Saturday June 26th at the "Bullers Arms", Marhamchurch, I was back with the Devon and Cornwall. I was offered and readily accepted a trip to see the Three Counties at a coming joint week. Arlin promised that I would gain some excellent pictures. The 26th was most interesting with a lengthy hunt after a very elusive mink. In their enthusiasm the whippers-in waded almost up to their necks to dig at likely hiding places.
The mink twisted, turned, and dived but there was no escape - there were simply too many hounds and too many people. When eventually caught, Charlie Harding, son of Norah, the Joint Master and leading light within the Devon and Somerset Staghounds, was proud to display the shattered remains for the camera.
JOINT WEEK
The Joint Week, Monday July 5th to Saturday July 10th 1982, involved three packs of minkhounds - the Three Counties based in the West Midlands and Welsh Borders, the Four Shires who operate just west of London, and the Devon and Cornwall.
The idea is simply a week long bloodsports jamboree with killing interspersed with liberal drinking. Ian Coghill chose a week early in July because that is when the young mink first leave the nest and are easily found. I was assured that it was marvellous "sport" watching the hounds chase the struggling youngsters.
The week commenced on the Monday but I arrived with the Devon and Cornwall for the triple meet on Wednesday July 7th at a small pub "The Cottage of Content" near Carey, by the River Wye. I turned up keyed up in the expectation of meeting Ian Coghill, my antagonist in the letters columns of many local papers, but he was not there. His own followers explained, with mirth that, unable to swim, he is none too keen on the wide and deep Wye.
The Devon and Cornwall hounds were late due to their Land Rover breaking down, so Ian Arnett, huntsman of the Four Shires took charge of his hounds and those of the Three Counties.
It was a scorching hot summer's day with very still air. To start with, the hounds drew a small brook beside the pub. They soon spoke excitedly, ran briefly, then marked to ground, with the terriers just as keen. The Three Counties terriermen waded into the earth with great gusto and soon exposed, not a mink, but a quivering, terrified rabbit. The creature was seized and thrust in front of the jaws of one of the terriers that had bayed with such enthusiasm. The dog was clubbed for his error and the rabbit released.
The hunt returned to the Wye, drawing upstream first. The river was wide and clear, filled with weed flowing lazily with the current and banks shrouded by a tangled web of vegetation, ideal mink country.
The hounds quickly spoke and after a short chase killed, spoke again, ran a bit and killed again and then again. It was slaughter. When I questioned why the young mink were so easily caught one of the women laughingly explained that their fur was still too fluffy to allow them to dive properly. Able only to flop about on the surface it was an aquatic version of coursing. Whenever possible the torn remains were recovered, brought out and held aloft, goading the hounds to jump.
Around midday the Devon and Cornwall arrived. Arlin agreed to let Ian continue hunting the combined trio of packs. This veritable canine army, about 60 strong, soon spoke again and raced off upstream in pursuit of their tiny quarry. The pack headed for some islands in mid-stream and the supporters went to follow but, fearing the depth, they returned. Finding the scent of another mink the hunt dashed downstream in and out of the lush vegetation. This victim was white, and as such an added attraction but, for all their efforts, they could not catch him.
Returning, the hounds again set off for the islands. Anxious not to miss anything the supporters decided to risk the perilous crossing and, linking arms they waded over. Though forced by necessity to wade similar but much colder rivers in Afghanistan clutching cameras, I opted not to risk it this time as I had the whole week ahead, and water does not work wonders in cameras.
On the islands the hounds set about the resident mink families, killing four youngsters very quickly, and scattering the remainder, Some passing canoeists paddled to the scene, attracted by the baying and whoops of glee, and gazed in amazement as grown men in fancy dress waded chest deep and uttered the most unearthly guttural screams. Hounds were called back to our side and the ensemble moved downstream with the hunt split - Arlin hunting when the pack were on our bank, Ian Arnett hunting the opposite side.
As the dipping sun brought a welcome coolness a small kit was disturbed from the vegetation on our side. It struck out bravely for the far bank. Mink are poor swimmers at the best of times but, when young, they are hopeless. The full pack left our side in excited pursuit and soon closed the gap. The Wye is wide so the race was long. It was soon apparent that some hounds were better swimmers than others - they pulled away. The mink struggled on with two hounds vying for leadership close behind. It was caught some 10 yards short of the far bank and disappeared as the eager hounds piled in.
Hunting continued on the other bank, then hounds chased another mink back over towards us. This mink was either a better swimmer or had more of a start as he won his race for life and immediately ran to ground under an enormous slate. The terriers were entered but with without success. He would not budge.
Everyone was cleared from the line of sight of the hole and the covering slate rattled, stamped on, and thumped with spades. The resultant din forced the mink to bolt. It promptly dived into the river and swam downstream. Though only yards behind to start with, the hounds rioted after a rabbit, then lost the scent.
The day ended at 7p.m. with the hunters exhausted but well pleased. Though nine mink had been added to the tally, most of them babies, they were confident that plenty remained for a future date.
That evening the Four Shires returned home. I joined the Devon and Cornwall contingent and retired to the "Black Swan" at Much Dewchurch where we were all staying.
The next few days were a nightmare for me. We all slept in the Games Room at the back of the pub. Knowing that I have a habit of talking in my sleep I was afraid to close my eyes in case I made some incriminating reference in my slumbers.
Morning and mealtimes were another ordeal. Bacon, sausage and eggs were thrust in front of us at breakfast. Dinner saw the traditional British fare of Steak and Kidney Pie and Roast Beef being served.
It was the first time I had eaten meat for eight years. After such a long abstinence I found it sweet and sickly and had to fight an urge to vomit. Somehow I managed to look as though I was enjoying it as much as the others.
The meet the following day at Tregare Mill on the River Throssey was between the Devon and Cornwall and the Three Counties. Again Ian Coghill was absent so Arlin took charge.
The combined pack drew first a small runner (brook) behind the meet. The hounds soon spoke and, after a brief hunt, marked to ground. The terriers and diggers moved in excitedly but, rather than a mink, it was an indignant black cat which bolted! With a lot of horn blowing, shouting and whip cracking the hounds were stopped from further pursuit.
The hunt then turned about and returned past the meet, pausing for drinks to alleviate thirst caused by the intense heat, and headed on for the main river. Hunting was intermittent as the hounds repeatedly bayed, ran and stopped. Eventually after a considerable walk in the sweltering heat they suddenly marked at an old wood pile in mid-stream.
The supporters set about destroying this habitat with glee. Under the assault it was not long before the mink bolted and sought sanctuary high in the branches of an adjacent willow. It was clearly visible, peering down at its tormentors. Surrounding the tree the hunters hurled stones and rocks at their victim. When one supporter was nearly knocked out by an overthrow they appreciated the wisdom of all standing to one side.
One of the determined tree climbing huntsmen then put his talents to work and, from the highest branches, shook the tree like mad. As the branches whipped in response the mink clung on for dear life and hissed and spat defiance. After a battle of wits, lasting all of twenty minutes, involving much jockeying for position as the mink sought safety, the creature was eventually dislodged.
Tumbling from branch to branch it hit the ground with stunning force and stumbled rather than dived into the water. Urged forward the hounds piled in grabbing whatever they could including each others tails which, when black and wet, look distinctly mink-like. A brief squeal was clearly audible as the quarry was torn apart.
The hunt moved on and discovered a nest of kits. Slaughter ensued as three of the youngsters were added to the tally. The assorted remnants of 2 1/2 of the 3 were found and the hunt wits suggested claiming two confirmed plus one very seriously injured. I found it difficult to laugh.
Drawing on, the hounds marked at another spot from whence a large bitch and her four offspring were seen to bolt. Pursuing the bitch first, the hounds, surprisingly, lost her. They then turned their attention to the more vulnerable youngsters. One sought sanctuary in a long drain. Despite desperate digging and poking with bars, cracking most of the drain, it could not be bolted, so was left.
The other three were not so fortunate, and were quickly found and killed. The death of one was particularly brutal. Flapping about on the water surface he was first bitten by the terrier most inappropriately named "Parson." The bite, though not fatal, was clearly serious. It possibly severed the spinal cord as, streaming blood, the mink struggled on trailing its back legs and emitting plaintive squeaks.
A large chocolate hound named Kingfisher dived in and snapped at the youngster but not hard - it is believed that mink taste distinctly unpleasant to hounds, hence the unwillingness. With the arrival of the full pack a melee developed and the mink was torn apart, its brief life over.
The hunt regarded it as an excellent day with seven mink killed, again mostly youngsters, and the prospects for future "sport" good, as at least two mink survived. The next morning, Friday July 9th, was my first meeting with Ian Coghill.
I was introduced by Arlin as a keen hunting man and photographer, and was accepted without question. The meet was at Trigate Bridge on the River Monnow with Ian Coghill hunting the combined pack of hounds.
The day, overcast and with rain threatening, was a welcome break from the previous heat. The whole hunt moved upstream by vehicle, the aim being to work back and finish at the meet. From the start there was a short excursion further upstream. Hounds spoke briefly. Both Arlin and I could smell the mink but when the hounds invaded an otterhaven Ian thought better of it, turned them and headed downstream.
The return was blank all the way to a certain bridge where the knowledgeable followers had predicted they would find, and sure enough they did. A youngster caught flapping about on the surface was attacked by the pack. It was bitten, but not fatally, so Ian clubbed it with his pole to finish it off.
Supporters informed Ian that another mink had been viewed swimming downstream so the pack was cast towards it. One of the young whippers-in, Steve Evans, impetuous and incautious with youth, waded forward and promptly slipped into a deep pool. He had to swim for it, managing to retain his cap if not his dignity in the process. One of the other followers with a camera found this hilariously funny and continued to do so until he too fell in, drenching his camera.
Soon the heavens opened bringing a deluge to drown us all. The hounds marked to a tree, from whence, despite all the hunters' enthusiasm, the mink simply would not budge. Frustrated they drew on and in a particularly deep stretch of the river, killed three more youngsters. Devon and Cornwall supporters holloa and scream like dervishes on sighting a mink but the Three Counties are far more reserved - emitting only a quiet tally-ho. In amongst these mink there were tally-ho's coming from every sector of the bank as the quarry panicked and scattered, but to no avail.
A few hundred yards further on the hounds disturbed a really large mink. Far from giving them the good run they expected he promptly disappeared into the heights of the nearest tree. One of the young girls volunteered to climb after him. Dislodged, the mink fell to the bank but without injury, as it ran off at high speed and climbed another tree.
Hounds and followers crashed forward in pursuit. In my haste to keep to the fore I misjudged the bank and slipped into the river. It was deep, very deep. All that prevented the total immersion of myself and camera was Ian Coghill's outstretched crop, which I gratefully clutched.
Shaken from the second tree, the mink ran on, then further infuriated the supporters by climbing a third. This was ancient, with the height to match and, with the mink clinging to the very highest branches, I felt sure it was safe.
However the hunt were determined to see some fun. A supporter climbed to the precarious heights and dislodged the quarry. The hounds were held in check to give it a chance to run and it did so, but only briefly.
The mink was clearly tiring. The fourth tree it chose was a small willow. Shaken from there it jumped straight at me, head-high, I twisted back and sideways in avoidance and, in doing so, blurred what would have been a useful photograph, recording the creature's terror.
Two more trees were tried but, on being dislodged from the second, instead of breaking its fall on a cushion of low branches or landing in the river, the mink landed with a bone crunching thud on the hard ground. Stunned, winded or perhaps even dead it was engulfed by the pack.
What remained of the carcass was retrieved from the hounds and handed to Ian. The supporters gathered around him on the bank and formed a square box with their hunting poles held horizontally to keep the hounds back. Ian cut off the trophies - the mask, four pads, and tail and, after much twisting and tugging, the penis bone. It was always traditional in Otterhunting to cut out the latter and wear it as a tie or neck pin, so I was not in the least surprised to see the ghoulish practice carry over into the replacement "sport."
The hunt then blew for home, comparatively early for them - it was only 4.30p.m. The tally was five, again mostly youngsters. Back at the pub, by the meet, we had a long wait for the transport to catch up. As the hounds collapsed exhausted upon each other they were a picture of innocence.
The following morning, Saturday July 10th, the last of this joint week the meet was at "The Lamb", Stoke Prior, near Leominster, on the River Lugg. This time Arlin hunted the combined Devon and Cornwall and Three Counties packs.
At the meet I was the victim of unfortunate experience that gave much amusement to those watching. I had opted for wellingtons in the hope of keeping my feet dry and was busy photographing the hounds when I heard a sniggering from supporters near me. Then I felt a spreading warm wet patch just above the knee. I moved sharply sideways and found that one of the hounds had marked me in the usual canine fashion - the evidence for which was rapidly filling my right wellie! Perhaps that hound had e.s.p. as to my real sympathies!
In the first draw down the river Arrow to the junction with the Lugg the hounds were completely silent. They ran and sniffed, played and rolled, but could find nothing. At the junction Devon and Cornwall's Kindly spoke immediately and led the pack in a charge up the Lugg. It was about midday. Kindly is a hound with an immensely sensitive nose, so sensitive that she is often accused of babbling (a serious fault in which the hound speaks when there is no scent at all - the usual remedy is a bullet).
The other hounds spoke only intermittently, heading up the Lugg towards a railway line. There was no sighting of the mink, it was virtually all on Kindly's shoulders and most seemed willing to disown her. Certainly the Three Counties supporters were muttering that she must be stupid and should be put down and even Arlin was beginning to have doubts. But Kindly was right. Just before the railway Arlin's whipper-in Graham holloaed the mink.
At the railway bridge over the river the mink, a beautiful silvery brown creature, came out crossed to a small stream and went to ground under an old, partly exposed, tree root. As always in this joint week the Three Counties led the digging party. Ian Coghill rushed to the fore and rooted about under the tree but to no avail. The mink was eventually bolted by the terriers attacking from above. It dashed down the tiny stream, dodged the hounds and whooping supporters, and went to ground again. This time Ian and fellow Joint Master Peter Cooper went to work with spades. The terrified mink bolted and, after another short sprint, found sanctuary in a really big earth. At last it appeared to be safe. Major excavations began, led by the Three Counties twins Peter and Rick May who do the terrier work for local foxhunts.
Deeper and wider they dug in the baking heat but, when half an hour had passed without success, they were left to continue the work. The hounds were taken on to try for another mink upstream across the railway line.
Two swans accompanied by three cygnets were viewed in mid-river ahead of the pack. The hounds were called out and the supporters moved in to scare the swans away with shouting, backed by a barrage of stones.
A breathless runner then arrived with information that the first mink had showed and was about to bolt. The hunt left the swans and returned back over the railway. The diggers were in a frenzy of excitement as they neared their objective. The mink bolted, popping out in full view of all, and headed straight for the stream where it was promptly lost again.
A lengthy search ensued, with the supporters wading in and probing the bank. Eventually the mink was sighted but, after a short dash, it disappeared into a narrow drain beside the railway bridge. With the terriers unable to enter it appeared as if the terrified creature had found a safe sanctuary. But minkhunters are very resourceful.
Ian Coghill acquired a long length of wire and by feeding it into the other end managed to poke and prod the mink until it bolted. Into the stream it swam along, landed, and went straight to ground. This time it was soon evicted and dived into the main river.
The hunt was really on. I accompanied Arlin on one bank with the bulk of supporters whilst, on the other, Ian had a team of Three Counties fanatics organised into a line beating the top of the riverbank to prevent the mink escaping to the adjacent cornfield. Their concern was not to protect the cornfield, the fringes of which they themselves trampled, but rather to prevent the mink reaching safety.
No longer was it a game of hide and seek, now it was truly a life or death battle of wits. The mink, a beautiful full adult, was one against the many, nature's perfection against two of the best hunting packs in the country. It was not the hounds but rather the vast mob of baying followers who were to finally tip the scales.
To the mink's advantage the river was fast flowing and murky. Thus when it dived, swam from one side to the other and landed to hide in the undergrowth its scent was carried down on the wash, causing the hounds to overrun.
Against this, the air that is trapped in the mink's coat on diving is gradually expelled forming a chain of bubbles visible on the surface. Just as, in earlier days, such a chain betrayed the whereabouts of many an otter so it does the mink. The supporters lined the banks searching for the bubbles, and holloaed or shouted "Tally-ho!" whenever they saw them.
Time and again they put the hounds right. The mink crossed the river, diving constantly, backwards and forwards but there was no escape. Every time it tried to slip up the bank out of the river it was chased back with shrieks of glee.
As the hounds gained, so the quarry's dives were of increasingly shorter duration. Many times the mink was swimming on the surface when a hound leapt at it from the bank. The crash dives in response were only just in time.
Desperately the mink tried to return upstream to the sanctuary of the earths beside the railway but it was thwarted. The struggle moved downstream towards the junction with the Arrow. Again and again the sequence of dive, hide, and find, was repeated until at about 4.00p.m. the mink reached the Arrow, crossed the junction to the far side, and went to ground beneath a large willow tree.
The ever-enthusiastic diggers arrived and commenced massive excavations. Several times the mink was spotted but it simply would not bolt. The trench must have been all of 5ft deep before, at about 6.00p.m., excited holloaing and joyful whoops indicated that the quarry had gone.
The hounds were unleashed in frantic chase but then stopped when the mink was seen to be totally black. The dejected hunters realised that their quarry was still hiding in the earth. The black mink was allowed to escape, to provide "sport" on another day.
Digging restarted and, not long after, the silver/brown mink bolted, coming out like a bullet, diving in to the river and disappearing. This surprised and pleased the onlookers as usually animals that are bolted after a long dig and a long hunt come out very stiff and are all too quickly caught.
Arlin drew back up the Lugg. I had actually seen it go down the Arrow but nevertheless I assured Arlin that he was right, the mink had gone up the Lugg. This ploy was foiled though when there was a holloa from supporters standing in mid-stream down the Arrow. I said that I must have seen another mink. The last hunt now commenced with nearly forty hounds all on and in full cry.
The gallant victim went to ground in a small stick pile but was dislodged by supporters. It made a dash for the river but was caught by the pack a yard short. There was a brief skirmish with the mink hissing and spitting as it tumbled in battle, then it was all over. The time was nearly 7.00p.m. some 7 hours after Kindly had first spoken at the rivers' confluence.
The torn carcass was brought to our side of the river and held aloft in triumph by Peter Cooper. The mask, pads, tail and penis bone were removed. Months later the mounted mask was presented to Arlin in recognition of his "great exploits." The supporters enthused over the day's hunting. Many regarded it as the best since the "heady" days of otterhunting.
Hunting with Ian Coghill
Having been successfully introduced to the Three Counties and Ian Coghill, I keenly followed that pack. On July 31st I attended their meet at Pandy on the River Monnow. Five young mink were killed, most in the morning. Whenever possible the remains were recovered and Ian used them to bait the hounds. The idea is for the hounds to jump and jump again for the body so that when it is eventually thrown they will fight for it.
During the hunt one mink was so petrified that it completely lost its bearings in the shallow stream. I was standing ankle deep with a mob of followers when the mink swam directly towards me with the hounds in pursuit. As I tried to focus the camera it by-passed me to nestle between the boots of a uniformed hunt follower beside me. He tally-ho'd but only a whisper - and pointed between his legs. The hounds swung over, the mink darted out, there was a brief melee, and another was added to the tally.
Late in the afternoon the hounds had some fun chasing cattle on the riverbank. Sadly the bullocks failed to appreciate the frolicsome nature of the pack. In their panic two burst through their enclosure into the river ahead. Ian was furious as the hunt was held up whilst they were herded back.
In the pub afterwards the drink flowed freely. I learned that the Three Counties hounds riot frequently and that the new hounds Rockdove and Ringlet had killed a duck. The young whipper-in, Steve Evans, mentioned this to me. When he did everyone else hushed him saying: "That's not the sort of thing we talk about." The following Saturday, August 7th, the Three Counties met at Upleadon Mill beside the River Leadon. The hounds drew first a small brook away from the main river. Two mink were found and quickly killed despite the fact that each sought sanctuary in a variety of trees. Hunting then came to an abrupt halt when an irate farmer stormed across the fields complaining that the pack had chased cattle into nearby cornfields. Followers, more amused than contrite, did little to calm his temper.
Eventually Ian placated him saying that they would take the hounds out, to allow him to bring the cattle back, and that the hunt would pay for any damage caused. Like schoolchildren caught scrumping apples, the hunt trooped back to the road to await events. A report came through that 19 cattle had trampled over two cornfields and caused a lot of damage.
Fearful of the implications, most of the supporters said that it was the farmer's own fault - that he should have had more secure fencing.
Ian assured them that the hunt was covered by insurance against just such an event and, accordingly, they had no worries. In his view the insurance company would fight it out with the farmer and he was confident that the latter would win nothing.
The hunt returned to the main river by the mill in high spirits. A third mink was found and, after a short chase, killed. The hounds chased many others, but the quarry kept scampering up trees. One good sized mink was hunted for some time but, dash and vie as he might, could not escape. I observed hounds biting him, holding on briefly, and then dropping him back to the water. He bobbed his head up, then sank from sight.
The terriermen were convinced that he crash-dived and swam underwater to a hole in the bank. They frantically dug at any likely spot, but could find nothing. Ian cast the hounds upstream and downstream, but there was no sign, it was a complete mystery. Some onlookers became agitated and questioned whether the mink had been killed and his body carried downstream, but Ian thought not saying: "There is not a one in a million chance of a mink being killed by one bite from the hounds."
That view certainly tied in with the visual evidence I had recorded. Many mink snapped at, then released to struggle on wounded, which in no way tallied with the hunts' claims to the public that hunted mink are killed instantly.
Backwards and forwards swept the hunt dragnet, but eventually they had to concede. The official record for the day was five mink found - three killed. The one that was severely bitten, but escaped, was not added to the tally.
The following Saturday, August 14th, a scorching hot day, the hounds met at the "Mason's Arms", Wichenford. The river was a small, twisting brook of swift flowing muddy water, encompassed by a mass of tangled vegetation. The first two mink found escaped because the supporters could not track them through this jungle.
In minkhunting, perhaps more than any other hound sport, the followers play a vital role. Their observation of where the mink lands and scuttles off to hide, or the chain of bubbles as it dives, is necessary for most kills.
In the afternoon a third mink was found, but on a more open stretch. As usual it darted up a tree but was soon dislodged and pursued up and down the brook. It made the best use of available cover but, after a protracted chase, was finally cornered in a nettle bed. The supporters gathered, eagerly linking arms around the bed, in a manner akin to holding-up coverts in cubhunting; the hounds were put in. The mink ran to and for and a sharp fight ensued, evidenced by much hissing and spitting, squeaking and squealing. One hound was badly bitten on his nose.
Amazingly the mink escaped and dived back into the water, but the pack was all around. The mink jumped out, clambered up and ran over a hound's back and was caught. The field waded in and the shattered body was recovered and brought to the bank in triumph. Ian cut off the pads as trophies before tossing the remains to the pack.
On the 21st the hunt arrived at the Temeside Hotel, Little Hereford, with expectations of an excellent day - there the previous year, though only travelling across three fields, they had found six and killed three, leaving a further three for breeding.
Unbeknown to the hunt, their plans for "sport" had been ruined. Others had responded to their scare stories concerning mink, and were trapping the species. The hounds set off, but only found a sniff or two. They half-heartedly marked at various drains, but there were no definite sightings. For the supporters it was a boring morning, enlightened only by passage through a private garden and orchard where they picked pockets full of apples.
On and on they drew, at one point clambering up and over a railway line, where moments before a train had hurtled by. Crossing a dual carriageway they encountered a riverbank populated by fishermen from the Birmingham Angling Association engaged in a contest.
In the old days of otterhunting, when hunting held sway, they would have trampled forward and any angler who protested would have been given an early bath - but times have changed. The very survival of hunting is now dependent on the support of anglers. To please the latter, the hunters simply packed up and returned home.
On the return to the meet, the senior staff engaged in earnest conversation concerning the way the previous year someone had apparently ruined the B.A.A.'s competitions by putting "cancelled" stickers on their advertisements.
In Ian Coghill's view the more this kind of sabotage occurred the better.
He said that if anglers could be drawn into a war with the antis they would be more likely to support hunting - many of his followers saw the none too subtle hint!
The following Wednesday, August 25th, there was a lawn meet at Caradoc House near Sellack, beside the River Wye. Such meets were a great tradition of otterhunting. The hounds made a very picturesque sight gathered in front of the palatial mansion. This was a joint meet with the Border Counties Minkhounds (the name that strikes fear in the heart of some old saboteurs). For me the wheel had turned half circle. Only a few years earlier I had opposed the forerunner of this hunt, now I was a "trusted supporter!"
The hounds drew downstream first, then reversed to head upstream towards Hoarwithy. As with the triple meet in July, the hunt split up with the Border Counties staff hunting hounds on the far bank and Ian Coghill taking charge when they were on our side. The first mink was uncovered on the Border Counties side, beneath a rotting tree stump. Dislodged, the creature struck out bravely towards us and dived. Mink find prolonged dives exhausting and when this mink surfaced it could only flail around but, with the hounds way behind, it had time for a breather. It found sanctuary under some rocks at the water's edge.
Eagerly the hunt servants moved in with iron bars and spades and destroyed this boulder bunker. Bolted, the mink swam upstream close in; from the bank we could see his tiny feet paddling furiously. The hounds swam and ran in pursuit. One leapt from the bank at the quarry, missing him only by the barest whisker as he dived. Surfacing, the mink was surrounded by hounds and caught. The carcass was retrieved and brought to the bank, where the familiar box of poles was formed. Ian cut off the pads, tail and head for trophies, distributing the pads and tail, but carefully tucking the bloodied head into his trouser pocket. The remains were thrown to the pack.
Finding a second mink on the far bank, a swimming hunt, that is such a common feature of the wide and deep Wye, then ensued. The mink was coursed across the surface in circles and figure-eights. As the pack closed in, it promptly dived, leaving the hounds totally bemused. The mink surfaced a few yards away and the process was repeated. It all gave much amusement to the followers who cheered the hounds on. In time, the dives were of shorter and shorter duration until the mink, exhausted, could dive no more, and drifted helplessly until it was caught.
A third mink swam powerfully backwards and forwards across the river and when tired found sanctuary in a drain on the far side. In the course of the to-ing and fro-ing some of the hounds on our bank ran riot and killed a rabbit. For a considerable time the hunters dug and dug at the drain, but without success. The mink was safely lodged so was left.
Following this mid-week meet I returned to the West Country to observe some summer stag and fox hunting, described previously. On Saturday, August 28th, I attended the meet of the Devon and Cornwall Minkhounds at the "New Inn", Moreleigh. The first draw was downstream where the hounds perceived a whiff of scent, but there was no clear sighting. Proceedings came to an abrupt halt when the hunt entered land where, to saw the least, they were unwelcome. The owner came out cursing and swearing, unleashing his dogs on us - the supporters turned back recounting in humorous, irreverent, detail previous confrontations with this gentleman.
Returning upstream we paused at Gara Bridge for a picnic lunch. From the restart the hounds spoke quickly and were soon hunting a mink in amongst some domestic ducks quacking about on the river. A man as concerned as Arlin Rickard over his public image might have been expected to stop, pull the hounds out and by-pass the ducks, but he did not. Instead the six feathered friends were terrified; in panic they scattered.
Speaking to the scent the hounds marked first at a hole then, driving on again, in some bushes in a dried up stream feeding the main river. Despite a dilligent search no sign of the mink could be found. I was with other supporters watching the search when a large, black, woolly hound appropriately named "Satan" brushed past me clutching a brown and very dead duck. He had clearly lingered for an alternative "sport."
Arlin was amused, but immediately sought to hide the duck. He wanted to bury it or stuff it in the undergrowth, but one of the supporters begged him to let her take it home to cook. Finally Arlin relented and gave it to her, but with strict instructions to hide the body adding: "I cannot stress that enough." She stuffed the bloodied victim up her shirt, but when a friend arrived he concealed it in the poachers pocket in his shooting jacket.
Hounds drew again upstream, speaking to an intermittent scent, beofre they made a definite find on our side. The eager diggers rushed to assist and with great gusto smashed down a dead tree, forcing the mink to bolt. He dived, swam the river, surfaced on the far side, darted up beside a small stream, then returned to sanctuary in a drain.
The hunt, crossing by an adjacent bridge, put the terriers in. One battled with the mink and soon gained a grip. We could hear growls and grunts interspersed with hissing and spitting. When the terrier was drawn out by its hind feet, it drew the mink also. However, one whipper-in, a young lad, holloaed far too soon. The whole pack piled in on top of both terrier and mink. In the ensuing melee in the muddy water the hounds bit at anything and everything. One terrier was badly bitten and had to be taken for immediate veterinary treatment. Arlin waded in to recover the carcass for trophies, but there was little remaining.
That was Saturday August 28th. The following Monday the Devon and Cornwall met at the "Fox and Hounds", Eggesford, a famous hunting pub. From the very start, Arlin acknowledged that they had little chance of finding in the nearby river. It was the classic case of the hunters being hoisted by their own petard, as the salmon fishing there is much valued and the fishermen, having regard for the scare stories concerning mink put about by the hunt, trap or shoot every mink they can. It was a repeat story of the blank day endured by the Three Counties when they met at the Temeside Hotel, Little Hereford on August 21st.
Optimistically the hunt set off, determined to make the best of it. There was no drag on the upstream draw, but going downstream there was the faintest smell. Once again "Satan" snatched another duck - emerging from the river well pleased with himself. But as he opened his mouth to adjust his grip the duck promptly flew off with much indignant quacking.
In the absence of mink the hounds understandably were bored, so when the leaders disturbed some fox cubs resting by the water's edge, the whole pack rioted. They flew on, swinging away from the river, high up into the tree shrouded hillsides, in full cry. On most foxhunts the staff are mounted and can keep up with their hounds, even if they cannot control them; being a leisurely mink hunt, everyone was on foot and it was in the full humid heat of summer.
The whippers-in found it singularly infuriating to battle through the hillside vegetation in the wake of their recalcitrant charges. There was an abundance of shouting, swearing and cracking of whips, but it was only when the scent was lost and the hounds tired, that they returned looking sheepish.
Heavy rain came late in the afternoon, boosting the humidity and the day ended at about 4.30p.m. a complete blank. At the "Fox and Hounds" afterwards there was a social gathering - a photographic evening. My contribution was to show slides taken during the joint week in July.
*****
At the end of that week, Saturday September 4th, I was back with the Three Counties meeting at Ketford Bridge on the River Leadon. This was the most significant day in all my mink hunt observations. As usual, Ian Coghill took charge. Hounds drew upstream first, made some brief contacts near some aged willows and spoke occasionally, but there was no confirmed view. The end of the upstream draw was reached in sweltering heat and the hunt turned about.
Persevering they drew on and on for four and a half miles with just the occasional sniff of mink to excite the followers but no actual sighting.
Just before Upleadon Bridge there was a short frantic burst of action after a mink that disappeared. Making nothing of it, the hunt returned to the bridge, the end of the draw at 4.00p.m.
It was early to finish and they were extremely frustrated after a day with neither "sport" nor a kill. To appease them Ian took the hounds back upstream for a last try.
With other supporters I paused at the bridge, but was soon moved into action by an outburst of raucous holloaing.
Running forward I learned that a mink had been sighted but was proving extremely elusive as it ran and swam up and down stream. It was a situation similar to that of the seven hour hunt at the joint meet with the Devon and Cornwall at Stoke Prior. To the mink's advantage the river was fast flowing and muddy and his scent was almost non-existent.
To the hunt's advantage the riverbank was open, giving the massed ranks of followers good observation - they could not have been more enthusiastic.
Just when it seemed the mink had won, the hounds marked him to ground. Bolted from his sanctuary, he swam downstream, ducking and weaving amid the rushes with the pack only yards behind. In their wake, the followers whooped and holloaed with ecstasy at this turn of events. Crossing the river, the quarry just made it to the safety of a hole with the lead hounds only inches from his tail. The pack bayed at the spot frantically.
One of the whippers-in, Peter May, who also does the terrier work for the Croome and West Warwickshire Foxhunt, and is a close friend of Ian Coghill's reached the scene. He put a terrier into the hole.
Hissing and growling ensued as canine and mustelid fought. Ian Coghill waded across the stream and stood with a small group of whippers-in and terriermen immediately above the hole, holding the hounds in check.
Peering into the hole, Peter said that he could pull the terrier out and, on Ian's advice, did so. As the foes had locked jaws when the terrier was dragged out by his hind feet he drew the mink out with him. Peter thrust the pair underwater to force them to break their grip.
Grabbing the mink immediately behind its head with his right hand, he held it triumphantly aloft for all to see. Struggle as it might, the victim could neither escape nor twist sufficiently to bite the hand that held it. The hounds bayed with feverish excitement on the bank.
Peter called "It's still alive Ian, what shall I do?"
To which Ian replied "Throw it up on the bank behind the hounds."
Peter complied with these instructions, hurling the mink up in a high arc to land on the grass behind the pack. Despite hitting the ground hard, the mink was up and running for its life but the hounds caught it before it had travelled five yards. It was torn limb from limb, and Ian blew the 'kill' triumphantly.
The hunt returned to Upleadon Bridge and Mill. Waiting for the hound van there was much laughing and joking about 'the flying mink' and Ian made a point of asking if I had recorded the incident on film. After my experience of losing valuable footage on previous occasions I was naturally evasive.
Keeping my own counsel, I resolved that one day the cruel abuse of that mink, that had been clearly recorded, would be exposed to a very large audience.
The meet of the Three Counties at Newnham Bridge on the River Teme the following Wednesday, September 8th, was an interesting event coloured by a visit from a film crew. They were there to film hunting fanatic Jack Charlton for the minkhunting section of his TV series, "Jack's Game".
Knowing Jack Charlton's idea of "sport" I was not in the least surprised to see him out minkhunting. He went on record on a Tyne-Tees TV programme saying publicly: "I have a little book with two-players in it, and if I get a chance to do them I will. I will make them suffer before I pack this game in." Clearly it is small wild animals that are now in his little book as he is doing his best to "do" them!
I soon learned that this hunt was to be stage managed for the benefit of the camera. Word was passed amongst supporters from the Master that the hunt would be quite happy to catch nothing. thus ensuring there would be no embarrassing revelations of the truth which might be filmed.
We were ordered to be very careful about holloaing. It was clear that no live mink would be thrown, everything was to be by the book - a welcome relief for the local wildlife.
The cameraman, with his equipment, was loaded precariously aboard a canoe and the whole charade proceeded. The hounds spoke occasionally and performed for low level camera shots. Eventually they hit a strong drag and, after a short hunt, marked at a large tree.
Coghill and Co were fearful lest the mink should bolt and be torn apart in midstream in front of the camera. They need not have worried. When it did bolt it ran a few yards and disappeared into a larger, more complex earth.
The ever enthusiastic terrierman, Peter May, moved in with spade and dog, and, to the delight of the film crew, Jack Charlton rushed to assist. Effusive swearing interrupted them, as the sound recordist came to grief in mid stream, soaking his equipment.
After an enthusiastic dig the mink was given best and the hunt carried on to draw again, but without success. At that point some of the hounds ran riot and Ranger killed a rabbit. Ian was none too bothered though as it happened out of camera shot. The day ended at 4.30p.m. with no other kill, much to the relief of the hunt staff.
Three days later on Saturday September 11th, the Three Counties meet at the "White Hart", Maismore near Gloucester was to be another revealing day.
Hounds were vanned to the main river but the first draw was along a small brook leading from it. There were several mink about and the pack spoke almost immediately. They raced back towards us, circled, then streaked away into the distance with the exuberance so typical of hounds when they are first unboxed. Believing them to be at fault Ian stopped them and brought them back.
He was right. They spoke excitedly and this time marked at the base of a tree that happened to contain a hornet's nest. I was rather hoping the hornets might wreak vengeance on the hunters, but it was a hopeless fantasy.
The mink was sighted curled up in the topmost branches of a thornbush. With the hounds held in check, the bush was shaken, prodded and poked until the mink was dislodged. Tumbling down, it darted into a short drain, but was soon bolted to seek sanctuary in a beautiful old willow tree.
Higher and higher it climbed; so high that I thought it must be safe. But no, a fanatical supporter climbed after him. This gallant gentleman shook the branches with all his might, but still the mink clung on. A long, thin stick was passed up and, using it like a billiard cue, the mink was potted off a branch.
Bouncing from branch to branch it was fortunately caught in a tangle of vegetation above the ground, beyond the reach of hounds. Evading them, he ran along a lower branch and disappeared into a hole in the trunk of another willow. Sensing a kill, the hunters moved in eagerly. They tried every conceivable tactic to dislodge it whilst the hounds watched and waited impatiently.
Peter Cooper tried to poke the mink from above with a stick whilst Rick and Peter May assaulted it from below. The terrier were put in at every angle and one hunt follower lent assistance by thumping the trunk with the flat of a shovel. Even when Rick May hacked at the tree with hatchet the mink stubbornly stayed put.
The followers rapidly became bored, so Ian Coghill took the hounds off in search of another victim, leaving Peter Cooper, and Peter and Rick May under strict instructions to do whatever was necessary to bolt the mink.
These three hunting 'conservationists' then brought in the heavy equipment in the shape of a chainsaw and a tractor - a formidable array of weapons to set against a creature weighing less than four pounds!
The chainsaw started with a mechanical roar and, amid clouds of smoke, was put to work digesting the base of the willow, like cheese-wire through butter; slicing into the ancient tree with such vibration that eventually their petrified quarry fled.
A breathless runner arrived to tell us that the hunt had run another mink to ground downstream and they wanted to have some "sport" with that first. They were unsuccessful though and returned, after a brief diversion when the pack rioted after a fox.
Our mink was by then high in another tree from which it was soon dislodged, only to run up a thorn tree. Now the trap was closing. The hole where it had remained hidden for so long was now blocked and there were supporters at every vantage point to drive it back should it make a break for the river.
Shaken from his perilous haven the mink ran along the bank above a stagnant slimy pool. Peter May, standing knee deep in the pool, made a grab for it, aiming to snatch it just behind its head. He was too slow, catching it instead halfway down its body. The mink twisted and sank its teeth into his hand.
The hounds were all around as Ian waded into the slime, clubbing them back with the butt of his crop. Peter thrust the struggling mink under the water and held it there. After a good few minutes he confirmed that the creature was limp and asked Ian what he should do.
On Ian's instructions the mink was laid on the bank, clubbed a few times with a crop to ensure it was dead and its body tied to the thong of a long whip. Whilst the hounds were held back, Peter Cooper dragged the carcass around the perimeter of the adjacent field.
Ian's idea was to give the hounds some excitement in the form of a mini drag hunt. The body was towed back towards the river and hidden in some bushes. Released, the pack ran the course well but went too far. When they could not find the corpse, they were stopped and encouraged, and eventually found their prize.
My filming of both the drowning and this curious drama clearly aroused the suspicions of one supporter. He spent the rest of the day warning followers about me. However Ian must have dismissed his doubts as no one directly questioned me.
Another couple of mink were found, but both escaped. One on a railway embankment, the other beneath some massive boulders. The hunt were happy to leave them for a future day.
That night, Peter Cooper made me very welcome at his home in preparation for the hunt's Wine and Cheese party at Cropthorne the next day. We drank whisky way into the night as Peter reminisced over the glories and excitement of otterhunting days.
The previous year's party had been a very drunken affair. I always tried to attend such functions in the hope of picking up some loose talk but 1982's was very sober and I left at 5.00p.m.
*****
In the course of minkhunting I was introduced to hunting festivals, when three separate species are hunted.
Diehard hunting fanatics follow various houndsports according to the seasons. For a few short weeks the sports overlap and, by tradition, at such times the true hunting type will follow as many different 'sports' as possible in one single day.
Hunters regard it as perfection to kill a fox cub in the morning, a hare at lunchtime and an otter in the evening - nowadays a mink or coypu.
These three styles of hunting overlap in September-October when the fox and hare hunting season is underway and the more aquatic bloodsports are about to end.
With the decline in otterhunting, festivals also were in abeyance but, in the Autumn of 1979, they re-emerged when "Shooting Times" proudly announced that the county of Warwickshire was going to "Ring to the sound of a hunting festival."
Three packs of hounds - The Croome and West Warwickshire Foxhounds, The Three Counties Minkhounds and the Warwickshire Beagles had met at the CoventryArms near Worcester at various times during the day.
The local sabs had turned up in force and, with the Three Counties Minkhounds largely made up of former followers of the Border Counties Otterhounds, the result could have been predicted. The sabs were attacked. Three needed hospital treatment for head and eye injuries, one was retained for three days' observation. To add insult to injury, the hunters overturned a sab's mini bus and severed the brake pipes.
So it was with some interest that I decided to follow hunting festivals as part of my undercover work, and attended two festivals in 1982.
The first, on September 18th took place, again in the vicinity of the Coventry Arms. It started with a meeting of the Croome and West Warwickshire Foxhounds at Caddicroft Farm, near Worcester at 7.00a.m. Travelling from London I expected to be slightly late, but was further delayed by fog and arrived to find them drawing a particularly large woodland near the meet.
There were plenty of foxes about but, with the temperature steadily rising, the scent declined and there was no kill.
I left to attend the meet of the Three Counties Minkhounds near Peopleton at 11.00a.m. By now it was a scorcher of a day.
At the meet we learned that the sabs had been out with the foxhounds and that we could expect them to descend on us at any time. As we meandered up the brook towards Crowle reports filtered back that there were sabs on the bridge ahead. I made a bee-line for Dick Whitlock, a keen supporter of the Border Counties Otterhounds, to discover his attitude.
Clearly relishing the prospect of a good punch-up he whispered to me: "We haven't given them a good sticking for years."
Innocently, I enquired "When was that then?"
He replied "Down at Llandinam. We were expecting them and we had hunt people come from all over the country. On John Bridge's (the Huntsman) instructions the hunt staff took off their coats and really sorted them out. They had broken noses and broken jaws."
With little encouragement he told me more and more of the story I had waited six years to hear. The hunt had drafted in a sizeable contingent of rough-necks from the Blencathra Hunt - John Peel country - and a team of terriermen from Manchester, described by Dick Whitlock as: "Right tidy with their fists."
He confided that he had acted as decoy to lead the sabs away from the hunt by driving the hound van up into the mountains. Now, six years later, he and other followers eagerly anticipated renewing combat.
We reached the next bridge to find that it stank of antimate. There were six young sabs there and, while many hunters wanted to have a go, they were restrained. We drew on and on in the sweltering heat but it was not until the end of the draw, near the Coventry Arms, that the hounds hit a drag. After a brief sortie upstream the mink was viewed escaping in the opposite direction under the bridge.
I dashed back to look. I finished one film but, before I could reload, there was a frantic burst of holloaing upstream. I ran up to the road in time to see a tiny mink darting across a grass field with the pack in hot pursuit.
Hounds snapped at it, bowling it over, then lost it in the grass. It ran on but was hopelessly beaten for speed and, as the pack converged, turned to face them.
Truly at bay, it reared up on its hind legs, spitting defiance. As the lead hound, Candle, thrust forward he was bitten on the side of his nose. It was the last gesture of defiance. The pack descended and the mink was ripped to pieces - so completely that nothing remained as a trophy.
The hunt then vanned to another brook, while I left to go on to the meet of the Wye Forest Beagles at Crowle at 4.00p.m. Late, I arrived to find the hounds already out drawing. Hares were running all over the place but, with the scent poor, the pack was not very effective.
These late afternoon meets are a kind of pre-season training to get the hounds in trim; they are the beaglers' equivalent to cub hunting.
Hounds changed hares frequently and did not catch while I was present. Supporters were disconsolate, complaining that the hounds were bred to be short in the leg, beyond the point of benefiting the "sport," simply so that the Huntsman, Roger Colver, could keep up.
*****
My last day's hunting with the Three Counties in the 1982 season was from their meet at the "Black Swan," Much Dewchurch on Saturday, September 25th. From the meet the hunt vanned to Wormbridge and set off, drawing downstream.
Turning about and hunting back towards Wormbridge they found in a ditch close to the bridge on the main Abergavenny road. The mink was sighted several times but there was little scent. The great difficulty was keeping the hounds off the road busy with holiday traffic.
Sally Whittall, a reporter with "Farmer's Guardian," was following to do a feature on minkhunting. When she asked me to do some pictures for her ("Nothing too gory") I agreed. But some followers were suspicious of her. One said to me "She's wearing a B.F.S.S. badge, but so could anyone. You have to be careful." I agreed wholeheartedly.
The mink was lost near the bridge, so the hounds pressed on towards Much Dewchurch. They crossed the railway line twice but the scent was cold. The day ended on reaching the pub at Much Dewchurch at 6.00p.m.
Here I learned that their total tally of mink up till then was 75.
I attended a second hunting festival a week later on October 2nd in the West Country. All three packs met at the "Bullers Arms", Marhamchurch, near Bude.
The first, the Tetcott Foxhounds, killed a cub. The second, the Marhamchurch Beagles, killed nothing and neither did the last pack, the Devon and Cornwall Minkhounds.
I attended only two minkhunts in the 1983 season. By then my cover had virtually been blown and I had to be extremely careful.
In the early days of my career as an undercover agent caution was all important as I compiled the dossier of evidence against the hunts. Now, after almost two years, with others taking my place, both I and the League felt that the time was drawing near when I could reveal my findings.
I began to take risks I could not have afforded before. For nearly two years I had been swopping verbal punches with an unsuspecting Ian Coghill in the letters pages of both National and local newspapers.
In my capacity as Mike Wilkins, Press Officer of the League Against Cruel Sports, I tirelessly attacked hunting in my letters. As Conservation and Education Officer of the British Field Sports Society, Ian Coghill denied any accusations that I made against hunting, protesting that it was all necessary and humane. Little did he realise that he was rubbing shoulders with his main antagonist, drinking with me at the bar and allowing me to film incriminating sequences of the kill.
Knowing that discovery was only a matter of time, my accusations in the press began to be more pointed, naming dates and incidents. The following exchange of letters appeared in the Northern Echo:
Mt letter published January 12th, 1983:
"Sir,
Your correspondent, and hunt apologist, Ian Coghill has spent most of his adult life hunting otters, so it is hardly unexpected that he has little knowledge of foxhunting.
Foxes most certainly are thrown live to hounds, are released in front of hounds and on occasion are crippled prior to release to reduce their chances of escape.
Even with the latest bloodsports craze - minkhunting - we receive reports of mink being thrown live to hounds.
If by way of New Year's Resolution hunting people made some attempt to understand the biology of their quarry we could hopefully look forward to all hunting being ended before the end of this year!
If Mr Coghill knew anything about fox biology he would know not to make the fatuous claim that foxhunting grants foxes a close season. Vixens give birth during March-April, and yet foxhunting continues well into April and in some areas even into May!"
Ian Coghill replied as follows on February 1st, 1983:
"Sir,
Mr Wilkins of the League Against Cruel Sports (January 12th) knows full well that live mink and foxes are not thrown to hounds, and it is disgraceful that he should attempt to mislead the public.
It would be splendid if I could use the columns of a newspaper as widely respected as the Echo to ask Mr Wilkins to name Masters of fox and minkhounds who he alleged have thrown live foxes and mink to their hounds.
Unlike most other animal users and controllers, the hunting world has to operate in public and it is impossible that such behaviour would go unseen.
I challenge Mr Wilkins to name the Masters so that these serious allegations can be properly investigated. Let us not have a lot of historical nonsense, let's hear about people who are running hunts in 1983."
This debate was followed closely by the readers, but suddenly Ian Coghill dropped out of the issue. At that point he must have known that somehow we really did have information about the mink throwing incident.
It came further to a head, when Ian appeared at a public debate in Worcester, on Tuesday February 15th.
Representing the League, Dick Course, asked him if he had ever known of an animal being thrown live to hounds.
Ian Coghill replied, "No."
Dick pressed the point. "Have you ever known of a live mink thrown to hounds?"
Again, Coghill denied it, but now he was really worried. I calculated that it would not take long for him to put two and two together to remember my taking a film of the mink being thrown. But did that label me as a spy or merely a talkative fool?
*****
I endeavoured to stay as close to the hunt as possible to try and pick up any information available. The League had to know the extent to which B.F.S.S. Officers were prepared to lie to cover up such incidents as the mink throwing one.
After I had shown a suitably selected slides at the Three Counties A.G.M. on February 1st 1983 (ironically the very day when Ian Coghill's reply in the Northern Echo was published) I was invited back to their Keepers Evening on March 11th to show some movie film.
On that very morning I learned from Horse and Hound that the Three Counties had "sacked" their terrierman Peter May. Clearly the hunt had held a "kangaroo court." They had "sacked" Peter May for what they described as a mistake when, in reality, it was Ian Coghill who had given the instructions who was responsible. Horse and Hound claimed that Peter May was the hunt's professional terrierman yet the hunt's own accounts show that no terrierman was paid.
I deliberated for many a moment on whether or not to attend that evening but realised that if I did not it would be an admission of my guilt, and I had to continue the project if at all possible.
The evening was very tense. Ian Coghill's manner was distinctly cool. He asked me if I had the film of the mink-throwing, and I replied that it was elsewhere but that I would bring it at the earliest opportunity.
Obviously I was under close investigation. I knew it was only a matter of time before my true identity was uncovered.
So it was that I only ventured to two more mink hunts. The first was on April 30th, with the Devon and Cornwall from their meet at North Tamerton, a small village just along from Boyton Bridge where I had been the previous year.
I was apprehensive at first, thinking that Coghill would have passed on some warning, but my fears were groundless.
The hounds drew towards Boyton first and soon encountered strong drag. Working up to this the pack marked at one end of a long field drain. It was too narrow to enter a terrier at the river end and they were equally unsuccessful when they tried the other end further up the field.
On occasion the mink would peer out of the exit overlooking the river. The hounds found it tantalising enough, but the supporters were beside themselves with frustration. One astute hunter then noticed a steady flow of water out of the drain and had the idea of damming the other end.
This was done with rocks and polythene until a veritable lake of water built up. The idea was that, when released, the surge of water would sweep the mink out.
In practice it failed because there was a break halfway along the drain and the water simply surged out to form a large puddle in the field.
Other ideas, like thumping the ground and digging behind the bank, were tried but to no avail. Arlin was soon bored and took the pack on to try for another mink, but one whipper-in, Graham, stayed behind to try his luck.
He lay flat on the bank overlooking the hole and began to talk to the mink. If I had not seen it for myself I would not have believed it. There he lay, chattering, hissing and spitting down the drain until, to everyone's amazement, the mink bolted.
The hounds were holloaed back and were soon in hot pursuit. After a long, long five, when it was clearly visible in the transparent water of the stream, the mink emerged exhausted. In their enthusiasm the hounds snapped at the mink and each others' tails.
Some of their bites were accurate. The mink was crippled and struggling on the surface when it disappeared beneath thrashing canine jaws. it might have sunk, but Arlin hooked it with his pole and the carcass was hoisted up the bank where he hacked off the trophies.
Lunch was taken back at the meet. The hounds were then cast in the other direction but without much success. I left before the end, conscious of being asked a few pointed questions.
My last hunt, the end of this phase of my undercover work was with the Three Counties from their meet at Longtown near Hereford, on Saturday May 7th 1983. Heavy rain and swollen rivers caused them to move from the planned meet at Much Dewchurch.
I had arranged for the Hunt Saboteurs to attend in force. I had to put in an appearance myself if only to prove to them that the League are truly active in the fight against bloodsports.
A clammy silence descended over the crowded pub at Longtown when I entered. With difficulty some of the hunt tried to appear friendly as I threaded my way through the crowd and up to the bar, but they were poor actors. They were certain that I was the spy in their midst.
Inwardly quaking, I ordered a large scotch and used all my control to keep my hand steady as I drank it. I remembered the violence of the Border Counties. Loppylugs, the elderly and amiable supporter who had told me of the change of meet, was rebuked by Ian Coghill for doing so. The rebuke was pointed. Loppylugs had been my constant source of information during both minkhunting and harehunting. He was terrified that I might reveal his indiscretions to his hunting friends.
When the hounds moved off I followed them, but within ten minutes some hundred or more saboteurs arrived in transit vans.
Ian stopped the hunt and summoned me to the front. I braced myself expecting a confrontation. Instead he directed me to go ahead and photograph the sabs. Clearly he had worked out that this was not the time nor the place to unleash his thugs on me.
Later, in the face of a large contingent of saboteurs, he was forced to abandon hunting altogether and return to the pub.
In the early afternoon the police arrived and the hunt moved elsewhere. The sabs followed. Linked by C.B. radios they were able to keep in touch despite the police intervening to stop and search as many of their vehicles as possible.
Although that day was completely ruined for the hunt, their subsequent report in "Shooting Times" claimed that they had had little inconvenience and that they had even killed a mink!
Whatever the truth, that hunt brought a stage of my undercover work to a close.