Hunting Tales
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From Jeremy Wilkinson in Devon
“12 miles point on a brave dog fox which was given best to breed again”
I did indeed write the rhyme for the South Devon Hunt Journal known as the ‘Gate Shutter’. As far as it is traceable on the map the point was approximately 12 miles, the interesting part was crossing the River Dart below dart meet. I am not aware that it has been achieved before or since.
The South Devon Hunt Journal is edited by John Wallcot who suggested in his wisdom that I might send it to your good self. The run must have been in the late 70s, Dennis Ferens had been hunting the South Devon bitch back as joint master with Claude Whitley who hunted the dog pack for some 40 years, at that particular time Dennis had suffered a minor stroke and Major Michael Howard - who had just retired from hunting the Spooners and West Dartmoor - came over to the South Devon and helped us out by hunting the bitches.
I had at the time been lent a 15 hh mare by a local girl who was finding her a little troublesome. I believe I am right in saying that particular run proved a good cure. I am not sure whether we were hunting for three or four days a week at that time.
Here at the farm we enjoy the attentions of both the South Devon and the Dartmoor, and we are within hacking distance of the Spooners and the mid Devon.
Michael’s Day
At dawn we rose and the wind was chill
The word at kennels was ‘Dennis is ill’
But bits were a twinkle and heads were a toss
We had looked for a day with the bitch pack boss
Come up you brute was crabbed reply
To the twitch of an ear enquiring eye
But all was not lost, with kindred flame
Major Mike to our rescue came
With bulbous nose and keen blue eye
He had hunted hard under Spooner’s sky
He drew his hounds with biscuit snack
Each one jealous to leave the pack
With scarlet coat he jogged away
To Hallsanger Hill at break of day
With second horse and useful whip
He vowed the scale of luck to tip
Forged in the Army lean and tough
He never knew to cry enough
A vixen neat with ears a’ twitch
Had stalked the bramble covered ditch
And brought a robber from the west
He knew not to give hounds best
He lay in the bracken love replete
His journey in from Davonport leet
A journey he and Michael both
Had traveled in to plight their troth
Two old foxes, one caught short
Between them bound to show some sport
But hark the momories acute
Old Dinah feathering muzzle-mute
She’s charged and neatly chopped the brute
And suddenly there’s hell to pay
As for seven lords he made his way
A swerving run and the horn twanged twice
For Lady Jane (so very nice)
The rest of the field with hats rammed tight
Scattered the mud as well they might
At seven lords in quest he stood
A toss for mire, or heath, or wood
At length he turned his snout to west
To far off heath that he knew best
A strong dog fox and full of running
No master yet had matched his cunning
While David’s grey just flew the wall
Half the field began to stall
Cramming and lashing at muddy gap
Where lack of courage invites mishap
But Reynard was clean and on again
Slinking down through the French’s Lane
The Webburn Brook he crossed at will
And set his mask for Corndon Hill
He flicked his brush at Mrs Lind
But at the Tor he headed wind
A wind that slowed his run for earth
But Hell he was young and knew his worth
Down the steep he gave it pace
Hounds like a swarm of wasps did race
Babeny dogs were skirted wide
South through the thorns his gilt to hide
To Dartmeet Hill and the warreners place
Scarce half the field could stick the pace
Below Wood Pool a place to find
Reynard threw his dart behind
Then on to Cumstone Tor he strove
While Mike plus two with Spurs they drove
Their heaving horses in flank deep
The harvest of that run to reap
Away to the west through tangled gorse
One fox four couple and three a horse
The ground was wet and all were tiring
A time to be careful, avoid a miring
Only the curlew sped at will
The rest of us floundered up White Works Hill
Dragging his brush but knowing his lear
The woods at Burrator drew near
A playground once where a cub was born
Now always behind him the doubling horn
Four couple still were holding their ground
Lashing forward to tear him down
He forced his way through the gorse and ling
With leaden pads he crawled within
The tiny hole was brock’s back door
A wiser fox could ask no more
And that said the master is bloody that
Inclined his head and touched his hat!