Neil Patterson
Young People Hunting
Neil Patterson
Revd. Neil Patterson, Rector of Ariconium, Herefordshire. From Oxford beagling, Neil progressed to riding to hounds in Herefordshire while being ordained in the Church of England. He is one of the last, and certainly much the youngest, hunting parson. Winter hunting is balanced by summer cricket scoring, gardening and voracious reading. In an attempt to prove that ministering to six parishes is easier than it looks, he manages to act as Secretary to Aston Ingham Cricket Club, Chaplain of Harewood End Agricultural Society and serve on the parish council. He has also just started writing for the Church Times, most recently to comment on the Forestry Commission proposals.
There is no doubt that children who hunt enjoy it. I conducted a survey of the smaller children at a half-term meet of the Ledbury in one of my parishes this week, asking them what the best and worst things about hunting were, and found remarkable unanimity. The best thing was either ‘going fast/galloping’ or in some cases ‘everything’. A few volunteered ‘falling off’ as bad, but they were the exception. They may have little experience, or just bounce easily. I have certainly seen the latter – with the Ross Harriers recently, enjoying good hunting in a modern orchard, one pony spotted a gap by the leaders and not the tree-supporting wire stay in it, and pony and girl flipped over in a flash. But after a few tears she was back on and unharmed. My foot that was rolled on yesterday, on the other hand, is very sore, and I am lucky nothing is broken.
None of the children mentioned ‘standing in the rain for hours’ or ‘being expected to follow the larking and tipsy field-master over everything’ – they are so far free of such cynicism! It may be that the youngest especially have really not picked up much idea of what hunting actually involves for those at the business end. But much comes with time – one teenager with the Harriers is quite clear that he wants to become a huntsman, and spends more time up with Lee Peters than chattering with the Field. Having been added as a Facebook friend by some of the local hunting youth it is great to see ‘hunting tomorrow! wooooooooooooooooo! xxx’ as a post besides interminable and unwanted information about their love lives.
If the next generation, who are the future of hunting, are to be encouraged, all the olds will have to do their best to fulfil Article IV of the much-quoted ‘Ten Commandments of Fox-hunting’ – It is acceptable that those of experience shall, at all times, give explanation and encouragement by word and deed to all young persons, so that hunting may continue in the land from generation to generation. He who thinks he knows, when he knows not, is an abomination.’ The last sentence can apply to so many situations, I feel! What is probably really true is that young people are willing to be told, because they know that they are learning their way in life. For every time a field-master shouts at the field to keep up or keep quiet, another adult may decide to ride elsewhere, but less so the young.
Tara Morris practicing a Frankie Dettori dismount
There is a likelihood however, that even in country areas, young people do not come into contact with hunting unless it is in their families. A few private schools (Eton; Radley; Stow, at least) maintain packs of beagles which have been training grounds for future hunters of renown. Some private schools host meets gladly – the Elms, near Colwall, supports the Ledbury strongly. Particularly admirable, I felt, was the prep-school head in Shropshire when I was a curate who willingly hosted a meet of the Wheatland, and had someone in to the school beforehand to explain it all to the children. Admirable because he professed himself opposed to hunting, but thought they should know about it as part of a broad education.
Very unusual, however, is that a state primary school should host a meet, as we did here a few weeks ago, and I suppose it was the result of a fortuitous meeting of minds. The headmaster of the village school here, Brian Bird, is thoroughly horsey. For many years he has played a leading role in the horse section of the local Show, and used to hunt with the Cotswold Vale. Brian married into a local farming family, and his father-in-law Philip Whitehouse is a former huntsman of the Cotswold Vale and now amateur whip of the South Herefords. Like many in middle-age, Brian finds his hunt coat has shrunk terribly, and seems to confine himself to drinking at meets for his hunting exercise. I tell him that if he started riding again the coat would grow, but to no avail. At any rate, we talk a lot about horses and hunting, and he was a great help to me when I was looking to buy a horse. I think the school meet was his idea, but I really cannot remember where it came up, nor how late in an evening it was.
The idea as concocted was that the Ross Harriers should meet on a Wednesday near the school, probably in my field by the church, and the children be brought out to see them. Alas, disaster struck in the Christmas holidays in the form of a burst pipe flooding two classrooms and closing the school. After a difficult few days, alternative accommodation was found for the school in a management training college in the village. This was, however, too far to bring the children over from, and the college were unwilling to allow a meet on their land. Fortunately the fields on the other side of the road are farmed by hunt-supporting school parents, and so the alternative venue was set. A letter went out, explaining this unusual school activity to parents. They were given the choice of their children not going, and also that if their children had ponies, they could hunt as a school activity. Brian is I think still hoping the Council do not find out. (Fortunately he is employed by the Governors, who include me).
In the event only one family from the whole school was refused permission to come to the meet – several parents whom we knew were not really keen accepted that it would be good for their children to go with their friends and see, and all credit to them. I put word round that children with ponies were to meet with me and the conveniently horsey teaching assistant in the pub car park to be escorted along the road to the meet. I arranged for some lady supporters to collect the food from the Rectory at 10, before hacking down to the pub to meet the children. After a certain amount of the usual fuss, we headed off. The only inconvenience was that the Philip Whitehouse, mentioned earlier, had not turned up to lead his granddaughter owing to his usual timekeeping difficulties, so we set off with a led horse behind awaiting him.
In the event only three ponies from the primary school were present. One however, from the host family, did double duty, carrying the proud six-year-old son for a few minutes at the meet before being relinquished to his big sister. They were augmented, however, by several teenagers from the local secondary school. They all assured me that they had genuine permission, which the school is very willing to give for any sporting activity. I did not interrogate too closely! The rest of the school watched and waved from the corralled safety of the other side of a fence with great enthusiasm. Philip had by now turned up as well, and various charming family photos were taken. A certain amount of badgering by the Masters had raised a field of thirty or so, which for a Wednesday with the Harriers is quite impressive. Lee led us a circuit of the field for show on the way out, and the unfortunate majority were taken back to the classroom.
It turned out, moreover, to be an excellent and long day – we ended up far further away than I had expected. I was however, gratified that we did not at any time leave the span of my parishes. The smaller children only lasted the morning – or maybe that was their parents or minders holding the lead reins. Three of the teenagers lasted the whole day, were still keen for jumping at half-past-three, and bore the long hack home. Next year we should be back in school proper to do an even better job, and I hope it becomes a tradition of the parish.
Neil Patterson