11 September 2016
Story #826
R. Linda:
I'm not sure I believe him, but recently Wolfie went to Scotland, where some shooting of clay pigeons took place. He told me it was at a friend's estate, where he stayed. His daughter, who lives on the grounds, had wanted to see him. She likes to shoot clay pigeons, and so a party was set up and out of the scenes of Downton Abbey, they all hiked to a back lawn (one of many, I assume). There, they had flasks of fine scotch whiskey and baskets of luxurious eats with a lot of good-hearted ribbing, followed by many laughs and, of course, the shooting of clay disks.
The idea of a "hunt" was suggested by one lady at the party, and at first, it was treated as a jest. However, it was later taken seriously by the horsey set among them, and a walking hunt evolved into a fox hunt, as it was the season. There is a ban on hunting the real thing in Scotland, I believe, so that is why they were going to do the old soaking of a rag in fox scent, move it about the countryside and then fool the dogs into thinking it's the real thing. Sporting, I commiserate with those dogs not to find anything in the thickets but an old rag that's been dragged across the country.
Since it is Autumn, the Master of the Hounds and Whipper-in would wear their black Barbour jackets instead of the pink, and everyone else was required to dress informally. I never knew there was a formal and informal dress for a hunt. But this informal dressing means a rat-catcher (tweed riding jacket usually with leather patches at the elbow) with a coloured stock or tie of black or brown, and brown or, black boots with a black Barbour jacket if you are not going tweeds, being the acceptable wear and oh the flask of whiskey to go along with the look.
R. Linda:
I'm not sure I believe him, but recently Wolfie went to Scotland, where some shooting of clay pigeons took place. He told me it was at a friend's estate, where he stayed. His daughter, who lives on the grounds, had wanted to see him. She likes to shoot clay pigeons, and so a party was set up and out of the scenes of Downton Abbey, they all hiked to a back lawn (one of many, I assume). There, they had flasks of fine scotch whiskey and baskets of luxurious eats with a lot of good-hearted ribbing, followed by many laughs and, of course, the shooting of clay disks.
The idea of a "hunt" was suggested by one lady at the party, and at first, it was treated as a jest. However, it was later taken seriously by the horsey set among them, and a walking hunt evolved into a fox hunt, as it was the season. There is a ban on hunting the real thing in Scotland, I believe, so that is why they were going to do the old soaking of a rag in fox scent, move it about the countryside and then fool the dogs into thinking it's the real thing. Sporting, I commiserate with those dogs not to find anything in the thickets but an old rag that's been dragged across the country.
Since it is Autumn, the Master of the Hounds and Whipper-in would wear their black Barbour jackets instead of the pink, and everyone else was required to dress informally. I never knew there was a formal and informal dress for a hunt. But this informal dressing means a rat-catcher (tweed riding jacket usually with leather patches at the elbow) with a coloured stock or tie of black or brown, and brown or, black boots with a black Barbour jacket if you are not going tweeds, being the acceptable wear and oh the flask of whiskey to go along with the look.
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| The top is a riding "pink", the middle is a black riding jacket, and the bottom is a tweed rat catcher |
Another landowner was at the shoot and suggested a bit of a challenge: Half the riders would leave from his manor, and the other half from the estate they were shooting on. The person who found the faux fox first would host a dinner for all the next day. His group was calling themselves the Saboteurs (hum, does that mean they were to sabotage the other group?), and the other was called the Scots Alliance (which was odd considering a few of them were Irish). Now that's a politically charged name if there was one! I'd have gone beyond Scotland for a name and suggested Farage's Independents or Nigel's Irish Immigrants, but then that's me -- funny man.
So the day came, and Wolfie was in a wee bit of a quandary, as he had mahoganies (for the uninitiated, those are black riding boots with mahogany or brown tops). So, while most of him was dressed in a white shirt, black tie, black jacket, black helmet, black gloves, tan jodhpurs, and Stubben spurs, the boots led to a fashion faux pas among the horsey set. I asked him, Did you run out and buy another pair? No, he said, he made do with his host's offer to borrow a pair of his black boots, as they have the same size. OMG, I said, that was close! Yup, can't have that, can we? Geez Marie!
So the day came, and Wolfie was in a wee bit of a quandary, as he had mahoganies (for the uninitiated, those are black riding boots with mahogany or brown tops). So, while most of him was dressed in a white shirt, black tie, black jacket, black helmet, black gloves, tan jodhpurs, and Stubben spurs, the boots led to a fashion faux pas among the horsey set. I asked him, Did you run out and buy another pair? No, he said, he made do with his host's offer to borrow a pair of his black boots, as they have the same size. OMG, I said, that was close! Yup, can't have that, can we? Geez Marie!
 |
| So you know what I be talking about, Mahogany boots on the left, blacks on the right |
Bright and early, everyone dressed informally (excuse me, I have to chuckle to meself), they mount the 18-hand hunters and are served from silver trays, food and drink, before they canter off after a phantom fox. The end of munch time is signalled by the arrival of the barking hounds, who are all excited to get out there and lead the merry chase. What a bucolic scene, eh? I can see it all in one of Frank Bennett's paintings. That's because I be looking at one of those hanging on me wall.
The rules are these (bet you didn't think fox hunting had rules):
RULE 1 - At all costs, avoid the Scottish Angus cattle -- go around. I wondered why, and then realised that the cattle have long horns, and boy, that could hurt if one is poked in the butt as they dash through, or worse, if one falls from said tall horse into cow manure. Well, so much for the fancy clothes.
RULE 2 - If you encounter a gate and your tall horse refuses to step over, you may dismount and open said gate, but for God's sake, close it after you, so there will not be any escaping of cattle, sheep or whatever grazer is hiding in the bushes.
RULE 3 - When you do ride through said gate, you shout at the top of your lungs, GATE PLEASE! to the next rider or wave your arm at them to let them know the gate will need closing. And you'd best hope they close it! Or YOU will be responsible for wandering livestock shitting all over estate lawns in the vicinity -- clean up is a bitch!
RULE 4 - IF you are at the open gate, be ready to hold it open for the Field Master or Huntsman. You must wait for someone to close the gate in order to remount your high horse (yes, we are still on gate etiquette duty) before moving along. A knife and string in your pocket (according to the rules) is ESSENTIAL! I wonder what string will do to hold a gate closed against large Angus cows.
RULE 5 - Please do not get in the way of, nor hold up, vehicular traffic. Let them go first, OR you might find yourself being peeled off the pavement with a horse long gone down the road. Walking back is a longgg journey especially when one is sore from being tossed off a tall horse!
RULE 6 - IF you come upon cattle in a field, go AROUND them, do not stampede through fences and open gates with them. The reason is self-explanatory.
RULE 7 - Do not gallop down wet grassy hills or you may lose your life if your big horse takes a tumble on the damp turf with your head first over, and well, you can imagine the rest. BUT DO keep to the edge of newly sown fields of young grass and hope the landowner doesn't catch you! Bird shot hurts.
RULE 8 - If you should cause damage to a fence, gate or jump, you MUST report it to the Field Master and have your chequebook ready.
RULE 9 - Last rule and probably the most important: Have a good insurance policy because you could suffer catastrophic injury or worse (we don't have to name worse, you know what that is), to cover not only your neck, but damage to fence, property, horse (if it isn't yours), and delivery of your sorry self to casualty by ambulance or worse hearse to funeral home.
Good luck, cowboy!
So this he tells me laughing the whole time, and I'm thinking, "Wolfie, you risk taker, are you crazy or do you just like to look handsome on a tall horse? That is beside the point, and off they all go.
The hounds start baying, and that means they have picked up the scent! Well, the hounds from the other estate also picked up the scent and off that group went as well. There was the sound of thunderous pounding of hooves, the hunt bugle sounding, riders taking fences, and all getting over in one piece. So far, so good. As they pick up speed, the hounds barking furiously, they are still on the scent. Then something strange happens: one group of fox hunters rides right past the other, both going in opposite directions! What oh? Right? Or Tally ho, I don't know -- hey, that rhymes, but I digress. Wolfie, realising something be up, pulls his big, tall black horse to a stop, as does his daughter. They exchanged looks and glanced behind them at the retreating Saboteurs. Oh, yeah, you guessed it - the Saboteurs had lived up to their name and sabotaged the hunt. They turned around and rode after them, the only two of the Scots Alliance who realised the truth.
Gaining on the retreating riders, they saw ahead of them a swampy, moor-ish area and, knowing that area well, Wolfie signals daughter and pulls off in another direction, going around the swamp. As they move up a crested hill, they look down at scattered horsemen stopped up to their horses' bellies in bog water. The only ones that weren't were the gent who challenged the Alliance. His group thought to take a shortcut through the moor without being aware of the water hidden under the debris of vegetation. He was on the other side, berating them as they began moving their animals back the way they had come. He was red in the face, cursing them as Wolfie and his daughter sat on their steads and laughed.
Without any ado, Wolfie and his daughter made it to the place where both packs of dogs and hound masters were waiting. No one else was there. The group they were told was in the countryside and would probably arrive in half an hour, just like the Saboteurs. Having gained the rag and acknowledged the winners of the bet, Wolfie and his daughter headed back, but realised the town road was just beyond the field and so rode onto that to follow it home.
Now here's the crux of his story. As they make their way down the road, they pass a wildlife refuge of sorts. A man was stranded in the middle of a dirt road, in a quandary. A wild African dog had escaped because a hunter had opened his gate, not realising it was the dog's enclosure, and then committed the cardinal sin of not closing it. Thus, the wild dog was out and about (or aboot as they say in Scotland).
Wolfie offered to let the man know if they saw it, and off they pulled on down the road. Now, here is where it gets dicey, as the two are approaching a lane that leads off to the village. A rather large dog with strange markings comes bounding over and jumping at the horses. Wolfie said it wasn't acting aggressively, but rather seemed happy to see them.
"I wonder what kind of dog that is," quips his daughter, controlling her horse, who was trotting and then walking as the dog came near and then backed off.
"That dog is the African dog," Wolfie instructed, having lived in South Africa, he knew what they looked like.
"Yes, I see it now," says the daughter, "it looks like a hyena."
Meanwhile, the happy dog is thrilled to be in their company and is trotting alongside, tongue lolling out with occasional adoring glances at the humans it has adopted.
"Should we turn round and hope it follows us back to its owner?" The daughter says rather worried that the carnivorous thing doesn't turn suddenly hungry.
"I should think not," Wolfie says, focusing on the dog's mouth and sharp teeth.
It was then that a passing motorist slowed down and, with a bemused smile, shouted to Wolfie, "Hey mate, what kind of dog is that?"
Not missing a beat and flashing a spotless white grin, Wolfie replied, "Why, that's a dingo that took first place in new breed at Westminster three years ago."
"He's quite something," responds the motorist. "You looking to sell him?"
That gave the Wolf pause. He looked at his daughter, who shook her head, her eyes beginning to bulge out of her head.
"Sure!" Wolfie says much to her chagrin. "I'll give him to you cheap as he's worth quite a bit, and seeing I have six more at home, how does 2000£ go by you? Do it on the cheap since I have no papers with me and will not sell him with them."
"SOLD!" The man shouts and stops the car, peels out 2000£ notes, and with extraordinary ease shooes the dingo into the back of his motor and drives off, a happy man with a grinning dingo.
"Da, you didn't just do that!" Shouts the incredulous daughter. "WHAT IF . . . what if . . ." She couldn't get the horror out of her mouth to form words.
"Be fine," says Wolfie, "I am leaving tonight so . . . no harm no foul. Besides, on my way to airport, I will leave the man whose animal it is an explanation of who has him and the 2000£. That make you feel better?"
"Not really," she muttered, thinking about it all.
He did as he said, or so he claims, and since his daughter checks the news reports every day, there is no story about the wild dog eating its new owner. She sits in dread before the telly, she tells her father. He is very cavalier and says that having had experience with said wild dogs, once domesticated, they are like all others; this one was particularly happy to be in human company. Defends his action by further saying that the "dog" will have a better life not being caged. Okay, Wolfie, let's hope the "dog" does not revert to past behaviour and goes on a feeding rampage in London or wherever he has motored off to. I tell ya!
Gabe
Copyright © 2016 All rights reserved
The rules are these (bet you didn't think fox hunting had rules):
RULE 1 - At all costs, avoid the Scottish Angus cattle -- go around. I wondered why, and then realised that the cattle have long horns, and boy, that could hurt if one is poked in the butt as they dash through, or worse, if one falls from said tall horse into cow manure. Well, so much for the fancy clothes.
RULE 2 - If you encounter a gate and your tall horse refuses to step over, you may dismount and open said gate, but for God's sake, close it after you, so there will not be any escaping of cattle, sheep or whatever grazer is hiding in the bushes.
RULE 3 - When you do ride through said gate, you shout at the top of your lungs, GATE PLEASE! to the next rider or wave your arm at them to let them know the gate will need closing. And you'd best hope they close it! Or YOU will be responsible for wandering livestock shitting all over estate lawns in the vicinity -- clean up is a bitch!
RULE 4 - IF you are at the open gate, be ready to hold it open for the Field Master or Huntsman. You must wait for someone to close the gate in order to remount your high horse (yes, we are still on gate etiquette duty) before moving along. A knife and string in your pocket (according to the rules) is ESSENTIAL! I wonder what string will do to hold a gate closed against large Angus cows.
RULE 5 - Please do not get in the way of, nor hold up, vehicular traffic. Let them go first, OR you might find yourself being peeled off the pavement with a horse long gone down the road. Walking back is a longgg journey especially when one is sore from being tossed off a tall horse!
RULE 6 - IF you come upon cattle in a field, go AROUND them, do not stampede through fences and open gates with them. The reason is self-explanatory.
RULE 7 - Do not gallop down wet grassy hills or you may lose your life if your big horse takes a tumble on the damp turf with your head first over, and well, you can imagine the rest. BUT DO keep to the edge of newly sown fields of young grass and hope the landowner doesn't catch you! Bird shot hurts.
RULE 8 - If you should cause damage to a fence, gate or jump, you MUST report it to the Field Master and have your chequebook ready.
RULE 9 - Last rule and probably the most important: Have a good insurance policy because you could suffer catastrophic injury or worse (we don't have to name worse, you know what that is), to cover not only your neck, but damage to fence, property, horse (if it isn't yours), and delivery of your sorry self to casualty by ambulance or worse hearse to funeral home.
Good luck, cowboy!
So this he tells me laughing the whole time, and I'm thinking, "Wolfie, you risk taker, are you crazy or do you just like to look handsome on a tall horse? That is beside the point, and off they all go.
 |
| Courtesy Christopher Pledger for The Telegraph |
 |
| Which way? Courtesy BBC |
Without any ado, Wolfie and his daughter made it to the place where both packs of dogs and hound masters were waiting. No one else was there. The group they were told was in the countryside and would probably arrive in half an hour, just like the Saboteurs. Having gained the rag and acknowledged the winners of the bet, Wolfie and his daughter headed back, but realised the town road was just beyond the field and so rode onto that to follow it home.
Now here's the crux of his story. As they make their way down the road, they pass a wildlife refuge of sorts. A man was stranded in the middle of a dirt road, in a quandary. A wild African dog had escaped because a hunter had opened his gate, not realising it was the dog's enclosure, and then committed the cardinal sin of not closing it. Thus, the wild dog was out and about (or aboot as they say in Scotland).
Wolfie offered to let the man know if they saw it, and off they pulled on down the road. Now, here is where it gets dicey, as the two are approaching a lane that leads off to the village. A rather large dog with strange markings comes bounding over and jumping at the horses. Wolfie said it wasn't acting aggressively, but rather seemed happy to see them.
"I wonder what kind of dog that is," quips his daughter, controlling her horse, who was trotting and then walking as the dog came near and then backed off.
"That dog is the African dog," Wolfie instructed, having lived in South Africa, he knew what they looked like.
"Yes, I see it now," says the daughter, "it looks like a hyena."
Meanwhile, the happy dog is thrilled to be in their company and is trotting alongside, tongue lolling out with occasional adoring glances at the humans it has adopted.
"Should we turn round and hope it follows us back to its owner?" The daughter says rather worried that the carnivorous thing doesn't turn suddenly hungry.
"I should think not," Wolfie says, focusing on the dog's mouth and sharp teeth.
It was then that a passing motorist slowed down and, with a bemused smile, shouted to Wolfie, "Hey mate, what kind of dog is that?"
Not missing a beat and flashing a spotless white grin, Wolfie replied, "Why, that's a dingo that took first place in new breed at Westminster three years ago."
"He's quite something," responds the motorist. "You looking to sell him?"
That gave the Wolf pause. He looked at his daughter, who shook her head, her eyes beginning to bulge out of her head.
"Sure!" Wolfie says much to her chagrin. "I'll give him to you cheap as he's worth quite a bit, and seeing I have six more at home, how does 2000£ go by you? Do it on the cheap since I have no papers with me and will not sell him with them."
"SOLD!" The man shouts and stops the car, peels out 2000£ notes, and with extraordinary ease shooes the dingo into the back of his motor and drives off, a happy man with a grinning dingo.
"Da, you didn't just do that!" Shouts the incredulous daughter. "WHAT IF . . . what if . . ." She couldn't get the horror out of her mouth to form words.
"Be fine," says Wolfie, "I am leaving tonight so . . . no harm no foul. Besides, on my way to airport, I will leave the man whose animal it is an explanation of who has him and the 2000£. That make you feel better?"
"Not really," she muttered, thinking about it all.
He did as he said, or so he claims, and since his daughter checks the news reports every day, there is no story about the wild dog eating its new owner. She sits in dread before the telly, she tells her father. He is very cavalier and says that having had experience with said wild dogs, once domesticated, they are like all others; this one was particularly happy to be in human company. Defends his action by further saying that the "dog" will have a better life not being caged. Okay, Wolfie, let's hope the "dog" does not revert to past behaviour and goes on a feeding rampage in London or wherever he has motored off to. I tell ya!
 |
| I ask you, does this not look unusual to you? |
Gabe
Copyright © 2016 All rights reserved
