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FOXHUNTING ON THE LAKELAND FELLS
[Illustration: BRUCE LOGAN, ESQ., M.F.H., MASTER OF THE CONISTON
FOXHOUNDS AND THE WINDERMERE HARRIERS.]
FOXHUNTING ON THE
LAKELAND FELLS
BY
RICHARD CLAPHAM
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE
RIGHT HON. J. W. LOWTHER
SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS
_WITH 43 ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
BY THE AUTHOR_
LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
FOURTH AVENUE & 30TH STREET, NEW YORK,
BOMBAY, CALCUTTA, AND MADRAS
1920
_All rights reserved_
DEDICATED TO
BRUCE LOGAN, ESQ., M.F.H.
MASTER OF THE CONISTON FOXHOUNDS AND WINDERMERE HARRIERS
WITH BOTH OF WHICH PACKS I HAVE ENJOYED SO MUCH GOOD SPORT DURING THE
LAST TEN SEASONS IN THE FELL COUNTRY
INTRODUCTION
BY THE RIGHT HON. J. W. LOWTHER, M.P.
That portion of Cumberland and Westmorland, which is popularly known as
the Lake District, is the holiday ground of a great number of persons who
delight in its splendid scenery of mountain, wood and lake, who enjoy
roaming on foot over its uplands, climbing its peaks, driving in motor
or charabanc along its sinuous valleys, rowing or sailing on its lakes,
and sketching or photographing its picturesque views, which present
themselves to even the most inartistic eye. But these folk belong to the
family of “Hirundinidæ”—swallows—they are summer visitants.
To my mind, the Lake Country, always beautiful, is more beautiful at the
other three seasons of the year. In the spring and autumn the grasses and
mosses of the upper slopes and of the smooth round shoulders, the bracken
of the lower slopes, the larch woods creeping up from the valleys, and
the emerald green of the lush meadows present finer contrasts of colour
and more variety of shade and tone than the monotonous green of summer;
whilst in winter the snow-capped mountains look higher and grander and
more inaccessible, the effects of light and shade are more varied, and
even on the lower slopes, by reason of the lower altitude of the sun
and the prolongation of shadows, the folds and crinkles of the mountain
bases are more distinctly seen. Visitors, however, are comparatively few,
for days are short and often wet, the attractions fewer in number, and
accommodation in the remoter spots not easily available. But those who
come, and are fortunate in their meteorological experiences, are amply
rewarded; and, if they are able-bodied and active, can enjoy the hunting
which some four or five packs of hounds afford.
To most people “hunting” connotes horses and riders, and red coats, and
breeches and boots. The Lakeland hunter, however, sees none of these
things. At most he will catch an occasional glimpse of the scarlet coat
of huntsman or whip. A horse would be as much out of place at a meet of
a fell-side pack as a hippopotamus, and be about as useful. Breeches
and boots would be an impossible handicap. The iron horse, the bicycle,
takes the place of the covert hack, knickerbockers of leathers, and
shooting-boots of tops.
The mountain packs of hounds were instituted or taken over by the farmers
of the district for the protection of their flocks from the depredation
of the numerous foxes, which frequent the fells, and at times take a
heavy toll of the lambs in the spring. But to business has been added
pleasure. Business, however, comes first. A day’s hunting is always
something of a lottery, whether it be in Leicestershire or in Lakeland,
and it may be at once conceded that the Shires produce more prizes than
the fells; but, on the other hand, the fells never result in a “blank”
day. The climatic conditions, propitious as they are for scent, often
militate against complete enjoyment of his surroundings by the follower
of the hunt. He must be prepared for a very early rise, a long day in the
open air, a steep climb, a dreary trudge up or down interminable slopes
of grass or moss, a scramble across shifting screes, long waits, biting
blasts, heavy showers, drenched garments, the descent of mist, or the
loss to sight and hearing of the pack and all its followers. All these
calamities, however, do not often occur in combination. Let us look at
the brighter side of things. Then the sportsman may enjoy a glorious
outing, a steady climb, when every 100 feet of ascent seems to strike a
purer stratum of invigorating air, a gradually expanding view of distant
mountain tops, a glimpse of the Solway or the Irish Channel miles away,
and when the summit is reached a magnificent panorama of peaks and
precipices, of vast stretches of smooth uplands and diminutive lakes.
Then comes the satisfying sense of “something attempted, something done.”
There is also always the chance of having selected a spot from which a
good view of the hunt may be obtained, when the fox can be seen crossing
the breast of the opposite hill with the hounds stringing out far behind,
the anxiety whether he means to come this way or cross the opposite
skyline. If all turns out luckily the music of the pack grows gradually
fortissimo, the fox slips quietly past, but is rolled over in full view.
It is not my intention to attempt a record of the doings of any of
the fell packs, of one of which (the Blencathra) I had the honour of
being for several years the Master. I need now only express my great
regret that parliamentary duties in London coincided unfortunately
with the foxhunting season in the Lakes, and limited very severely my
opportunities for the enjoyment of the sport, which I commend to all who
are still sufficiently young in spirit or vigorous in body to enjoy this
healthy pastime. Young and old alike will find in Mr. Clapham’s pages an
invigorating description of the sport, as well as a record of minute and
extensive observation of the habits and idiosyncrasies of the four-legged
participants in the pursuit and a keen appreciation of the beauty of the
surroundings in which Lakeland hunting is carried on.
PREFACE
Whilst there are a good many books descriptive of foxhunting in the
Shires and the provinces, there are few works entirely devoted to sport
in the rough fell country of the Lake District.
It is, therefore, with the idea of filling this gap in hunting literature
that I venture to pen the following chapters. Foxhunting on the fells
differs in so many ways from sport in the riding countries that perhaps
this book may serve to interest the man from the Shires, even if it does
not tempt him to visit the fells and see something of the sport for
himself.
For the man of slender purse the fells will prove a happy hunting ground
indeed. There is little cause to worry about ways and means in a country
where subscriptions vary from 2_s._ 6_d._ to £5. All you want to enable
you to follow hounds is a stout heart, a stick, and a “piece” in your
pocket, and if luck favours you, as it assuredly will if you go out often
enough, you will find yourself becoming more and more wedded to this
wild country, which, in sunshine or storm, has so many attractions for
those who are not afraid to tackle it in all its varying moods.
R. CLAPHAM.
TROUTBECK,
WINDERMERE,
_April, 1920_.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE COUNTRY 1
II. THE FELL FOX 23
III. THE FELL HOUNDS 47
IV. HUNTING ON THE FELLS 70
V. REMINISCENCES 99
ERRATA
Page 24, line 16: _for_ twenty-one _read_ twenty-three.
Page 110, line 2 from bottom: _for_ sixty _read_ thirty.
Transcriber’s Note: the errata have been corrected.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
BRUCE LOGAN, ESQ., M.F.H., MASTER OF THE CONISTON FOXHOUNDS
AND THE WINDERMERE HARRIERS _Frontispiece_
FELL HUNTING COUNTRY: THE HIGH STREET RANGE, FROM TROUTBECK PARK 4
FELL HUNTING COUNTRY: THE HIGH STREET RANGE, FROM WANSFELL 4
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: HOUNDS AND THEIR HUNTSMAN CLIMBING STEEL FELL,
IN THE SNOW 10
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: A KILL IN THE SNOW ON STEEL FELL, NEAR GRASMERE 12
CHARLES WILSON, ESQ., EX-MASTER AND HUNTSMAN OF THE OXENHOLME
STAGHOUNDS 14
(Mr. Wilson formed this pack in 1887, and was Master and
huntsman for over thirty seasons)
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: AFTER A KILL IN THE LOW COUNTRY 18
(An admiring audience of boys looking at the fox)
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: BRUCE LOGAN, ESQ., M.F.H., AND ROBERT LOGAN,
ESQ., DEPUTY MASTER 20
BROAD HOWE: A “BORRAN” OR EARTH AT THE HEAD OF THE TROUTBECK
(WINDERMERE) VALLEY 28
(This is a very strong place, and is typical of the
fell-country fox-earths)
LOOKING INTO BROAD HOWE “BORRAN” FROM ABOVE, AFTER MEN HAD WORKED
FOR A WEEK TO RESCUE TWO TERRIERS, ONE OF WHICH DIED BELOW GROUND 28
THE ARMISTICE 38
A THREE-WEEKS-OLD FOX CUB 40
FOX CUBS, THREE WEEKS OLD 40
A DOG-FOX CUB, TEN DAYS OLD 42
(Note white tag to immature brush)
MISS HILDA CHAPMAN (DAUGHTER OF ANTHONY CHAPMAN, EX-HUNTSMAN OF THE
WINDERMERE HARRIERS) AND HER PET FOX, “JACKY” (THREE YEARS OLD) 42
“CRACKER,” LATE OF THE CONISTON PACK: A BIG HOUND OF THE FELL TYPE 50
“MISCHIEF,” LATE OF THE CONISTON PACK: A BITCH OF THE FELL TYPE 50
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: THE PACK 54
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: THE PACK IN KENNELS AT GREENBANK, AMBLESIDE 54
ULLSWATER FOXHOUNDS: THE PACK WITH THEIR HUNTSMAN. OPENING MEET,
OCT. 11TH, 1919 58
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: AT THE “TRAVELLERS’ REST” INN, ON THE SUMMIT OF
THE KIRKSTONE PASS (1469 FT.) 64
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: WAITING FOR THE PACK ON THE FELL 64
BLENCATHRA FOXHOUNDS: ON RIGHT, GEORGE TICKELL, ESQ., EX-DEPUTY
MASTER (1907-1919) 70
(Mr. Tickell has hunted regularly since he was a boy at
school, thus covering a total of nearly seventy years. He is
“still going strong”)
FELL COUNTRY HUNTSMEN: LEFT—GEORGE CHAPMAN, HUNTSMAN, CONISTON
FOXHOUNDS. RIGHT—JIM DALTON, HUNTSMAN, BLENCATHRA FOXHOUNDS 74
ULLSWATER FOXHOUNDS: JOE BOWMAN, THE HUNTSMAN 76
BLENCATHRA FOXHOUNDS: GONE TO GROUND ON ARMBOTH FELL 77
BLENCATHRA FOXHOUNDS: AFTER A KILL AT RAVEN CRAG, NEAR THIRLMERE
LAKE, NOV. 7TH, 1919 77
ULLSWATER FOXHOUNDS: OPENING MEET AT BROTHERSWATER, OCT. 11TH, 1919 80
(Joe Bowman, the huntsman, talking to two of the field)
ULLSWATER FOXHOUNDS: JOE BOWMAN, HUNTSMAN (SINCE 1879), WATCHING
HOUNDS AT WORK IN LOW WOOD, NEAR BROTHERSWATER. OPENING MEET,
OCT. 11TH, 1919 84
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: “GONE TO GROUND” 86
(Hunters working their way into a “borran”)
ULLSWATER FOXHOUNDS: B. WILSON, THE WHIPPER-IN, WITH FOX KILLED IN
SCANDALE VALLEY, OCT. 11TH, 1919 87
“PINCHER” AND “MYRTLE,” TWO CONISTON HUNT TERRIERS 90
“JUMMY,” A TERRIER WHICH DID MUCH GOOD WORK FOR THE CONISTON HUNT 90
ULLSWATER FOXHOUNDS: GONE TO GROUND BELOW HIGH PIKE IN THE SCANDALE
VALLEY, WINDERMERE LAKE IN DISTANCE 92
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: WATCHING A HUNT FROM BROAD HOWE “BORRAN,” AT
THE HEAD OF THE TROUTBECK (WINDERMERE) VALLEY 96
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: ROUGH GOING NEAR DOVE CRAG 102
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: GEORGE CHAPMAN, THE HUNTSMAN, WITH FOX, AFTER
A KILL IN GREENBURN 104
BLENCATHRA FOXHOUNDS: ERNEST PARKER, THE WHIPPER-IN, AFTER A KILL
AT RAVEN CRAG, NEAR THIRLMERE LAKE, NOV. 7TH, 1919 105
ULLSWATER FOXHOUNDS: OPENING MEET, OCT. 11TH, 1919. LEFT—W. H.
MARSHALL, ESQ., M.F.H. RIGHT—B. WILSON, THE WHIPPER-IN 107
(Waiting for a fox to bolt from an earth below High Pike in
the Scandale Valley)
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: HOUNDS AND THEIR HUNTSMAN IN THE SCANDALE
VALLEY 110
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: AFTER A KILL NEAR CONISTON 110
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: AFTER A KILL IN WOUNDALE 111
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: AFTER A KILL ON NAB SCAR, RYDAL 111
FOXHUNTING ON THE LAKELAND FELLS
CHAPTER I
THE COUNTRY
“The hills and the rocks are calling
With the wind, their passionate lover,
‘Come up, come higher and higher
Where the clouds greet one another;
Come up where the mists are swirling,
Come up from the valley and glen,
We will sing for you there a song
That is not for the haunts of men.’”
Of the many visitors who roam the mountains of the Lake District during
the summer months, comparatively few are aware of the fact that the
said mountains are the favourite haunt of foxes, or that the latter are
regularly hunted during the autumn, winter, and early spring. A panoramic
view of the fell country of Cumberland and Westmorland seems hardly
compatible with the generally accepted idea of a hunting country, yet for
all that this rugged district affords grand sport with hounds. I have
more than once when speaking of fell foxhunting been asked the question,
“How do you manage to get about and keep in touch with hounds on those
awful hills?” The answer is simple, “On foot.” Except in some portions of
the low ground, riding to hounds is impossible, so the man who would see
something of the work of the mountain hounds must be prepared to face the
hills on Shanks’s pony.
Rising from the dales at an angle of from 45 to 70 degrees, or even
steeper, the fells tower skyward to a height of 2000 feet and over.
On the lower slopes large intakes, rock-strewn and often studded with
scattered thorn trees, divide the dales from the fells proper. Above
these intakes the ground rises abruptly, and one reaches a country
of rocks and crags, deep ghylls and watercourses, with scree-beds
strewn broadcast beneath the taller cliffs. The latter are seamed and
intersected with ledges, known in local parlance as “Benks,” on which
is often found a luxurious growth of heather or bleaberry scrub. It is
on these snug well-sheltered ledges that the hill fox loves to make his
kennel. Protected from the wind, with a wide view of all the ground below
him, Reynard curls up where the sun strikes his couch, and sleeps away
the daylight hours.
Here and there on the lower slopes are larch plantations, and straggling
coverts of oak and hazel. In these woods foxes lie up, though the fell
fox proper prefers to have his kennel at a higher altitude, where chances
of disturbance are less. Lower still, where the huge intakes merge into
smaller enclosures, the number and size of the woods increase. It is down
in this low country that a mounted man can see something of the sport,
for though the nature of the ground and the fences prohibits riding right
up to hounds, there are plenty of side roads, bridle-tracks and the like,
by means of which it is possible to keep in fairly close touch with the
flying pack.
Much of this low ground is heather land, and everywhere the bracken
flourishes in wild profusion. In summer it is waist-high, and even
taller, and in early autumn when it changes from green to russet-brown
and yellow, it hampers the footsteps of the man on foot, and, owing to
its dryness, makes scenting conditions very difficult. For this reason
hounds seldom visit the low ground until a fall of snow or heavy rain has
somewhat flattened the bracken beds.
On the lower slopes of the high fells the bracken is equally luxuriant,
covering acres of land which would otherwise be good pasturage for the
little Herdwick sheep. Foxes, particularly cubs, are to be found in these
bracken patches, where they lie and creep about unseen on the approach of
an intruder.
On the summits of the high tops the ground is generally fairly level,
covered with a short, thick turf.
On some of the mountains, such as the High Street and Harter Fell, there
is a very considerable area of this fairly level ground. Such high-fell
tracts are known in local parlance as “good running ground,” for across
them on a decent scenting day hounds can press their fox severely.
It will easily be understood that the approach to these high tops is
impracticable for horses, and even if one reached them on horseback the
return journey would be fraught with even greater difficulty and danger.
On foot it is a different matter altogether. Every one of the fells can
be climbed by some fairly easy route, and, once on the tops, the going
is good. No matter at what time of year one rambles on the fells alone,
it should always be remembered that there is a certain amount of danger,
however small. Without in the least wishing to “put the wind up” the
reader, I may say that accidents are liable to happen, and a sprained
ankle is quite sufficient to place a man in a very awkward position,
particularly in winter, when the days are short and the weather far from
good. Still, one can travel the fells for years without meeting with
the semblance of such a contretemps, if reasonable care is taken when
crossing rough ground.
[Illustration: FELL HUNTING COUNTRY: THE HIGH STREET RANGE, FROM
TROUTBECK PARK.]
[Illustration: FELL HUNTING COUNTRY: THE HIGH STREET RANGE, FROM
WANSFELL.]
When hounds are out there are always local hunters scattered about the
various tops, and if the visiting sportsman follows the lead of one of
these men, he will come to no harm, though he may come to respect the
walking powers of a dalesman ere the end of the day.
Having once reached the tops, it is wise to stay at that altitude, unless
hounds are practically viewing their fox, and driving him hard towards
the dale. It is much quicker to go round the tops than to make a descent
to the dale and then climb out again. When necessary, a descent can be
made down some grass slope, and a long slide down a loose scree-bed will
sometimes gain the same end with less exertion. A certain amount of
practice is necessary to enable one to travel the fells with ease, but
one soon gets the hang of walking fast on steep ground, and descending
the latter at speed.
Everything depends, of course, on one’s physical condition, and the
character of one’s footgear. Unless heart and lungs are sound, and one is
in some kind of training, fell climbing is astonishingly hard work, and
becomes much more of a toil than a pleasure.
Thin boots or shoes, with smooth soles, are useless as well as dangerous.
What is required is a good stout shooting boot, well nailed to prevent
slipping. If anklets are worn with these they will prevent grit and small
stones from entering the boot tops. Shoes are not to be recommended, as
they give no support to the ankles. The clothing should be fairly thick
and wet-resisting, as the weather on the high tops in winter is often
pretty wild. Loose knickerbockers are better than knicker-breeches, as
the latter restrain the free action of the knees, and, therefore, make
climbing harder. A stick of some kind is a great help, but I do not
recommend the long, alpenstock affairs which are sold to summer visitors.
On steep ground there always comes a time when a long stick trips its
user, and a stumble of this nature may easily lead to a very nasty fall.
An ordinary stout walking-stick is the best, as there is little or no
chance of getting one’s feet mixed up with it going downhill.
On the high fells the exigencies of the weather have far more influence
on sport than they have in the low country. At an altitude of 2000 feet
snow is apt to be deep, while the frost is often extremely severe.
Snowstorms, unless unusually heavy, seldom stop hunting, but when the
snow becomes frozen, and the crags are a mass of ice, it is unsafe for
either hounds or followers. The greatest bugbear of the fell foxhunter is
mist. Once the tops are shrouded in an impenetrable grey pall there is
nothing but the cry of hounds to direct you, and when the music gradually
fades into the distance you stand in a silent world of your own, not
knowing, if you are a stranger to the fell, which way to turn.
However well you think you know every foot of the ground, it is
surprisingly easy to lose direction, and unless a lucky chance places you
in touch with hounds again it is wise to get below the mist and discover
your whereabouts. As a rule, however, if you are on ground you have often
visited before, you will recognise landmarks such as peat hags, cairns,
watercourses, etc., which will give you the lie of the land and enable
you to go ahead.
Occasionally the fells are what is locally known as “top clear.” At such
a time you climb steadily upwards to find yourself at last clear of the
clinging grey vapour, and beneath you lies an apparently endless sea of
white, stretching into the far distance. Out of this ocean of mist rises
peak after peak of the mountain ranges, looking like islands dotted in
every direction. If the sun is shining at the time, the glorious panorama
will well repay you for your strenuous climb.
Most people have heard of the “Spectre of the Brocken”; well, I have seen
exactly the same thing from the summit of Red Screes, which overlooks the
top of the Kirkstone Pass.
I was standing on the summit of this mountain one winter’s morning,
whilst hounds were working out the drag of their fox on the breast far
below. The mist was rising from the lower slopes like a grey curtain,
while the sun shone against my back, throwing my shadow on to the screen
of vapour. There it became enlarged to enormous proportions, and as I
moved the huge shadowy giant aped my actions, until I began to think I
was “seeing things.”
I have at times seen some extraordinarily fine rainbow effects amongst
the crags, just as the rain began to cease and the sun broke through the
clouds.
Next to mist, rain and wind, particularly the latter, handicap followers
of the fell hounds. Rain wets you through, but you don’t mind that; it is
all in the day’s work, but when it is combined with a driving wind which
stops your breath and all but lifts you off your feet it becomes rather
too much of a good thing. Once on Wetherlam I saw two coupled terriers
lifted bodily off the ground by the wind, and the huntsman’s cap suddenly
left his head and departed swiftly into thin air. If it be freezing at
such times your clothing, eyelashes, etc., become coated with hoarfrost,
and the icy blast penetrates to your very marrow. In the face of such a
wind you have to constantly turn round to get your breath, and all sounds
beyond the shriek of the gale are obliterated.
Shelter where and how you will, and strain your ears to the uttermost, it
is impossible to hear the cry of hounds unless they happen to be very
near you. Even on a still day sound is very deceiving. All the hills
throw back an echo, and you can easily imagine hounds to be on the far
side of a dale, when in reality they are on your own side, but under and
beneath you. On one occasion hounds were racing with a glorious cry,
apparently near the summit of a mountain which separated us from the dale
beyond. Every moment we expected to see them appear over the wall on the
skyline, whereas in reality they were on the opposite side of the valley
beyond, running through the breast at a high altitude.
Most of the fell country carries a good scent, except sometimes in early
autumn and spring, when the sun dries up the dew quite early in the
morning. Directly the bracken is beaten down by snow and rain, and the
land holds moisture, hounds can work out a drag, and hunt and run with
the best.
Although I have descanted upon the bad weather in the fell country, it
must not be thought that the winter months are wholly given over to mist,
rain, frost and wind. No, there are days when the sun shines brightly on
a white world, and the views from the tops are magnificent. The snow is
damp but not too deep, and hounds drive along as if tied to their fox.
The air is still and clear, enabling one to hear the music at a great
distance, and, with good visibility, hounds can easily be seen threading
their way through the rough ground across the wide dale. Scent is often
very good indeed in damp snow, though at times it may be just the
reverse. “There’s nowt sae queer as scent,” unless perhaps it be a woman.
Apart from hunting, I often think that visitors make a mistake in not
coming to the fells in winter. Grand as the views are in summer, they are
equally fine, if not finer, in winter, when the weather is frosty and
settled.
I have already spoken of the impracticability of the fells as a riding
country, for if—
“He who gallops his horse on Blackstone Edge
May chance to find a fall,”
the same horseman would find no chance about it on places like Striding
Edge or St. Sunday Crag in Lakeland.
At any time of the year many of the huge crags on the fells are dangerous
for hounds, and equally so for the too venturesome follower. To mention
but a few, there is the crag overhanging Goat’s Water on Coniston Old
Man, Pavey Ark in Langdale, Dove Crag at the head of Dovedale, Raven Crag
on Holme Fell, and Greenhow End overlooking Deepdale. Most, if not all,
of the places mentioned have been the scenes of accidents to hounds, as
well as thrilling rescues.
[Illustration: CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: HOUNDS AND THEIR HUNTSMAN CLIMBING
STEEL FELL, IN THE SNOW.]
Considering the roughness of the fell hunting country as a whole, it is a
matter for surprise that there are not more accidents. Although hardly a
season passes without a contretemps of some kind, losses amongst hounds
of the fell packs through fatal accidents are comparatively rare.
I have previously mentioned the fact that when travelling the fells
unaccompanied by a companion, a sprained ankle may give one a pretty bad
time, and if night is drawing on may lead to having to pass a night on
the open fell. As an example, I may perhaps quote a case which happened
not many seasons ago.
I was standing with a huntsman one winter’s day on Wetherlam. There
was sufficient snow to cover the loose stones and rocks, and make the
latter slippery. The pack was running their fox below us when we espied
Reynard coming in our direction. Uncoupling four hounds he had with him
the huntsman ran in to give these hounds a view, when I saw him stumble
and fall. On reaching him I found he had sprained his ankle very badly
indeed, and in a short time his foot swelled tremendously. With my
assistance he was able to travel some distance downhill, where I finally
left him and went in search of further help. Luckily this was forthcoming
in the shape of some hunters whom I overtook, and aided by them the
wounded man was able to reach a road, where a trap met him and conveyed
him to his home. It was some weeks before he could again hunt hounds,
and had he been alone when the accident happened he might easily have had
a very bad time of it indeed, as the weather was bitterly cold and the
district was an unfrequented one.
We read of people in the Arctic regions going snow-blind, as well as
perishing with cold, but the same things _may_ happen on the fells, if
one does not take reasonable care.
I was once on the top of Fairfield, at the head of the Rydal valley, when
the sun was shining warmly, and the reflected light from the crusted snow
was intense. Having previously experienced the symptoms of snow-blindness
in Canada, I repeated the experience that day, and I verily believe I
should have gone temporarily blind had I not moved away to where the
glare was less acute.
As regards perishing from cold, this may easily happen to a person on
the high tops in winter, should he, through over-exertion, be compelled,
or perhaps I should say, give in to his desire to sit down. A drowsiness
comes over one, and sleep may end in the person being badly frozen, if
nothing worse. I have recollections of a youth who ventured to the top
of Red Screes one winter’s morning on hunting bent, and, being quite
unused to hill climbing, sat down in an exhausted condition. He took some
rousing too, and had he been left to his own devices I very much doubt if
he would have left the hill alive.
[Illustration: CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: A KILL IN THE SNOW ON STEEL FELL, NEAR
GRASMERE.]
Although all such happenings are possible, the use of a little care
and common sense will carry one through a score of seasons in the fell
country without the slightest mishap. One should always remember that the
climatic conditions in winter and early spring are very different on the
high tops from what they are in the country far below in the dales.
I have come down off the top of Fairfield in April, after being white
from head to foot with hoarfrost, into a warm summer atmosphere near
Windermere Lake. People generally look at you in surprise if you tell
them that 2000 feet above the dales the tops are still well within the
grip of winter.
One possible danger that I have so far omitted to mention, is the chance
of being overtaken by darkness on the fell. No matter how well you know
your way down, on a dark night, it is a thankless job striking matches
or peering about with a flashlamp in the rough ground. With a moon and
a clear sky you are safe enough, while there is a novelty about walking
the tops under such conditions. A night spent on the open fell is bound
to be a chilly one, for at a high altitude there is little or no material
to make a fire. Still, if you _should_ be caught in the dark, it is
better to wait for daylight than risk breaking a leg or your neck over
some crag. I have had one or two experiences of struggling down to
civilisation in the dark, and I much prefer to do it when there is at
least some little light to guide me on the proper route.
I remember once crossing the top of Red Screes by moonlight, after hounds
had run their fox to ground at Dod Bields earth in Caiston. It was a
brilliant night, however, and we had not the least difficulty in reaching
the “Traveller’s Rest” inn, at the head of the Kirkstone Pass.
In the foregoing I have perhaps laid rather too great stress upon the
bad weather in the fell country, therefore, I will hasten to add that
the winter climate of the Lakeland dales is exceptionally mild. Two
thousand feet or more, of course, makes a lot of difference in climatic
conditions, and those who do not care to face the exigencies of the high
tops can still see much sport with hounds if they stick to the lower
reaches of the fells.
[Illustration: CHARLES WILSON, ESQ., EX-MASTER AND HUNTSMAN OF THE
OXENHOLME STAGHOUNDS.]
Sometimes the people in the bottom see a great deal more than those on
top, and, of course, from below one gets a panoramic view of a hunt, with
the entire fell side as the scene of operations. A car, a motor cycle,
or even the humble “push-bike” are extremely useful at times during the
course of a run with the fell hounds. Occasionally, as, for instance, in
the Thirlmere valley, hounds run for a considerable distance parallel
with the main road. At such times a car or a cycle enables you to slip
along in touch with hounds, whereas without it you would be left toiling
in the rear. After some little experience of sport in this wild country,
one soon learns how best to get about, and when to trust to “Shanks’s
pony,” and where to leave a cycle in case it may be needed in a hurry.
A fair number of ladies attend the meets of the fell packs during the
course of a season, and wonderfully well, indeed, do some of them get
about.
When speaking of the Lake District, one naturally thinks of Cumberland
and Westmorland; but Lancashire contains some of the higher fells, such
as Wetherlam and Coniston Old Man. The real boundary of the district is
the range of fells south-east of Windermere, and from there a line drawn
round Coniston, Wastwater, Ennerdale, Crummock and Bassenthwaite Lakes;
continuing over the summits of Skiddaw and Saddleback, southward over
Helvellyn, then swinging left to enclose Ullswater and Haweswater, and so
back to Windermere. The valleys of Kentmere, Long Sleddale and Swindale
are just outside the cordon as drawn above, and so is the Lower Duddon
valley on the south-west, but they and all the country included in the
roughly-drawn circle, contain scenery typical of Lakeland.
The rainfall in the Lake District appears large on paper, from about 50
inches in the outlying parts to 150 in the more central portions. This,
however, does not mean that there is a more or less constant drizzle.
When it rains amongst the fells, it _rains_; a heavy downpour, then clear
weather to follow. In summer, as in the hot weather of 1919, there is
often a drought.
Speaking of rain reminds me of the yarn concerning the coach-driver, who,
when asked by a passenger if they had much rain in the district, replied,
“Why, neay; it donks an’ dozzles and does, an’ ’appen comes a bit o’ a
snifter, but nivver what you’d ca’ a gey gert pell!”
When out with hounds the visitor will come across many of the small
Herdwick sheep scattered about the fells. Before he leaves the district
he will no doubt have come to appreciate them as mutton, than which there
is none better in the country.
It was Jack Sheldon, another well-known coach-driver, who used to
describe the scenery to his passengers, when tooling his team between
Windermere and Keswick. His conversation was something like this: “We are
now crossing Matterdale Moor, where the farmers have a right of grazing
so many sheep by paying a shilling a year to the lord of the manor.
There’s fine grass here and on Helvellyn for the hogs!” A retired butcher
being on the coach one day remarked, “But I don’t see any hogs!” “Well,”
said Jack, “not pigs, but the small sheep you see moving about; they are
a special breed, and very good eating. They are called ‘hogs’ for the
first year, and when they have been shorn they are called ‘twinters,’ and
after losing their second fleece are known as ‘thrunters,’ and that’s
pretty near to ‘grunters,’ but when they’re killed the butcher calls them
‘Helvellyn mutton.’”
The Lake District proper is free of limestone, with the exception of a
narrow strip of what is known as Coniston limestone. As far as hunting
is concerned, this is no loss, for scenting conditions on bare limestone
rock are generally bad, unless the atmosphere is very damp. On the north,
Penrith is the boundary of the limestone, and in the south, Whitbarrow
and Cartmel.
All of the fell country Hunts have some low ground adjoining the fells,
which they visit once or twice during the season. This low ground will
appeal to those who find fell climbing too strenuous.
The Coniston hounds, which hunt the Windermere district, visit the
Winster valley, making their headquarters for the inside of a week
at Strawberry Bank. This low country is rideable, inasmuch as it is
possible to keep in touch with hounds by making use of side-roads,
bridle-tracks, etc. The country consists chiefly of woodlands, with large
heather-covered allotments, merging into grass fields in the valley.
There are plenty of foxes, but sport is never quite at its best until
rain or snow has beaten down the luxuriant growth of bracken, which
flourishes everywhere. Here a mounted man has the advantage over one on
foot, as when hounds run fast it is difficult to keep in touch with them,
and, owing to the woods, quite impossible to see for any distance. I have
enjoyed some very good sport there at different times, though I much
prefer hunting on the open fells.
Many of the dalesmen are extraordinarily keen on hunting, nor does age
appear to daunt them. I know several men over seventy years old who
follow hounds at every opportunity. One keen hunter lived to be over
ninety, and actually climbed to the top of Coniston Old Man on his
ninetieth birthday. It was the immortal Jorrocks’s huntsman, James Pigg,
who said, “Brandy and baccy ’ll gar a man live for iver!” but in the case
of the north-country dalesman I think it is fresh mountain air and lots
of exercise that “keeps the tambourine a rowlin’!”
The various inns throughout the country have harboured many a gathering
of hunters after the death of a fox in their vicinity. It is the custom
in Lakeland to take the carcass of the fox to the nearest inn, where it
is hung from a “crook” in the ceiling of the bar-parlour, for all to see.
[Illustration: CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: AFTER A KILL IN THE LOW COUNTRY.]
Fell hunting engenders a considerable thirst, therefore jugs of beer
are in great demand. A pint or two usually incites some hunter to song,
and soon the house will be echoing to the chorus of “John Peel,” “Joe
Bowman,” or some other local hunting ditty. Gradually the gathering
breaks up, the hunters wending their way towards their respective homes,
and _occasionally_, _en route_, some of them will see more than _one_ fox.
Talking of beer reminds me of the sign which used to grace the famous
“Mortal Man Hotel” in Troutbeck; and read as follows:—
“Oh mortal man that liv’st on bread,
How comes thy nose to be so red?
Thou silly ass, that look’st so pale,
It comes of Sally Birkett’s ale.”
The “Traveller’s Rest,” at the top of the Kirkstone Pass (1476 feet), has
in its time been the scene of many a foxhunting “harvel” or celebration.
An old entry in the visitors’ book ran thus—
“The Sunday traveller on the Kirkstone Pass,
Is bonâ fide and may have his glass:
So, gentle stranger, do not stop to think;
Open your mouth, throw back your head and drink!
“And while reposing ’neath the bleak fell-sides,
As down your throat the nimble liquor glides,
Bless the kind parson[1] who with these rude stones,
Built this ’ere Inn to rest your weary bones.”
[1] The Rev. ⸺ Sewell, formerly Vicar of Troutbeck.
Whilst the fox is our premier beast of chase in Lakeland, the hare is
also hunted, and deer provide sport in the country adjoining the fells.
In the old days, however, there were two other animals, now very rare,
_i.e._ the polecat and the pine-marten, which were a recognised quarry
for hounds.
To-day, as far as I can gather, the polecat, or foumart, is extinct in
Lakeland. The pine-marten, or “sweet mart,” to distinguish it from its
evil-smelling relation, the foumart or “foul mart,” still lingers on some
of the wilder fells.
The pine-marten is a tree dweller by nature, but on the fells it has
its haunt amongst the crags and rocks. Hounds delight in the scent
of a “mart,” and in bygone days some very good runs took place. The
pine-marten, unlike the fox, is very easy to bolt from an earth, owing to
its intense dislike of smoke. Directly the first whiff of burning grass
or bracken reaches it, it at once takes to the open. The last pine-marten
I have seen in the flesh, was a young marten kitten which I was
instrumental in securing in 1915. It became the property of a well-known
lady naturalist, who reared it successfully, and it proved a charming
pet.
[Illustration: CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: BRUCE LOGAN, ESQ., M.F.H., AND ROBERT
LOGAN, ESQ., DEPUTY MASTER.]
Although, as far as I am aware, extinct in Lakeland, the polecat is still
fairly plentiful in parts of Wales. A year or two ago I had a very fine
specimen sent to me from there.
In Vyner’s “Notitia Venatica” is an illustration of foxhounds finding a
“marten cat.” One of the hunters is shown up a tree holding some burning
straw or other material on the end of a long stick. The pine-marten is
represented jumping out of the tree into one adjoining. This marten’s
brush is apparently tipped with white, surely a mistake on the part of
the artist who drew the picture, as I have never seen or heard of a
“mart” with such a white tag to its caudal appendage.
It is a great pity there are not more martens in the country. In addition
to being beautiful and interesting creatures, they are the deadly foe of
squirrels, which do much harm to trees in young plantations.
The hunting man who is interested in photography will find endless
opportunities when out with the fell packs of recording incidents of the
chase. It is needless to say that a small light-weight camera should be
selected, anything larger than quarter-plate being too much of a handicap
on steep ground.
To a lover of sport in wild country, foxhunting in the Lake District must
make a strong appeal. In fine or stormy weather the fells have a peculiar
charm of their own, and if we add to the beauties of Nature the mellow
notes of the horn and the cry of hounds echoing amongst the crags, we can
say in the words of the old Roman author—
“And from without the mountain girth,
Whene’er his wandering steps draw near,
The stranger, from whatever earth,
Desires the country of his birth
No more, but yearns to sojourn here.”