Staghounds

Racist Sweden!

2012-01-21T17:29:00.001-05:00

Set out right there in the hotel room like they were proud of it. I was shocked!!

Priorities...

2012-01-10T09:51:00.002-05:00

Out Saturday with the OFH, and T. G.'s telephone rang...

"Hello! Yes. No. Maybe so...

Hounds are drawing.

Listen, just call me after the funeral."

Because Mama will be just as dead after hounds are back to kennels.

Traditionn!!!

2012-01-05T09:32:00.002-05:00

How is it possible to spend two hours at McKays and only buy three books?

Some people are better than ten thousand books, that's how. Thank you, BMW engineers!

New Year's Eve ...

2011-12-31T16:59:00.040-05:00

Another bright and warm day! Off with the OFH...

Showed up with all black hair for the costume party, funny looks and of course we have no social intimidation filters.

"Hey Staghounds, what's with the freaky hair?"

"Well I have this smoking hot 28 year old girlfriend..."

"No really, what's with the hair?"

On point outside the first draw...

Well that was quick! Hounds struck almost immediately, a quick swirl around and toward us. Coyote crossed the road.
You will now have to endure several pictures of the coyote as an antidote to my usual "he was just here" pictures.

He loped across at a fairly leisurely pace. Then I saw that thing that always interests me-
He stopped, turned around, and thought about it. It was almost as though I could see his mind working. "What is all that howling? Is this a problem? Do I have to pay attention? Are they getting closer or farther? Hmm..."

For all the world like someone out hunting in a take your own line country. He walked a bit farther...

And stopped again to listen. And it occurred to me, since coyotes and hounds are probably the same species, do they understand each other's language? When hounds speak, are they yelling every kind of malefactor at the game? And is the coyote thinking, "Hey, I don't even know you characters!"

Anyway,
"I'm out of here!"

Hounds came along a minute or two later,
and right on the line.

His direction ran toward an inlet from the river, did he go all the way to the end?
Pictures are funny,
this horse is hustling on down the road yet the camera makes it look like his front end is just walking.

Didn't cross by us, but farther back up the road- gone away signalled the old fashioned way .
Hounds on...
It is a good thing they don't care how they look,
like me this hound must have done something awful to Louis Daguerre in a previous life.

And it turned into another one of those long straightish runs this pack is producing regularly.

We managed to get well ahead, in time to see one of those irresolute, tentative checks that feel like overruns.

Sure enough, back they went to the huntsman's call. FWIW, I believe these may have been the second half of a divided pack, and the ones we heard still in the woods were the front end.
Frolic and Detour came along afterwards and tried, but not too seriously.

Most all on, and drawing back toward the original plan.

And what do you think? They struck again! And again the original sort of path. Was it the same coyote? I never saw him, but it would not surprise me. He ditched us this way before...

Plenty of ponies out...

Across the road and back, and then nothing. End of day...
Oh well, mysteries of scent.

A Day at Babylon...

2011-12-27T10:25:00.005-05:00

(Remember, click on any picture to make it larger...)

So off we went for a Christmas Eve meet at Babylon. A pretty day to be out, and surprisingly lightly attended. I suppose people were with their DNA families and so forth. Can't blame them I suppose, it certainly did not look like very hunty day.

The first draw confirmed it- in, thirty seconds, hound voices... Pow! Pow!! Oops...

As we drove around to the first draw, my pilot said, "I don't like these Babylon meets."

"Why?"

"Everything is so spread out. There is that creek right down the middle. You can't predict which way coyotes and hounds will run. If you get thrown out you have to run like crazy to get where you need to go. And even then you might be wrong. "
"And so tell me about the part not to like?"

So it was draw, go on, draw, go on...

Field catching up from time to time...

And on across another big Babylon field to the next covert.
Out popped Bucky...

Watch that giving of the glad eye, Stagboy...

I just got back from France!

So on we continued, a little run north,

We were in place to help cross- so easy, not at all like a French road!
but it didn't get to us. Sigh, back south.

And then some excitement- unfortunately not the best kind. These hounds, who are usually as deer resistant as can be, had one pop up right in front of them! Too much to resist, and so more stinging rebukes.

Stupid blue sky.... so another draw. Right beside the meet, and they struck, heading toward the creek!

Now I have to describe this creek, it is about the size of the Meuse at Chateau- Thierry and as swift as the Barle at Lanaker Bridge. Say 20-30 yards wide, a slow trot fast, and ten feet deep in spots.

So since they were heading toward the creek, which coyotes often cross, we put on our skates and zipped north. And the radio crackled. One Whipper-in- "I can't get across". Another Whipper-in- "Me neither, and my horse has had it!" Huntsman- "I'm stuck!!" Whipper-in D.- "I came off, my horse is swimming down the creek!"

And the whole field was pounded.

So off we went, and it was ON. We had a few hounds GPS'd, and that was all we had. Too far away to hear, and our last command was "Stop them!"

Good luck with that. We managed to get in front of them at a road crossing, got their heads up, and stopped. Whew!

And the lead hounds looked at us and all but said out loud, "Buzz off. We're working here. " And off they went, screaming.

That happened again, too- we had no chance to get them off that coyote.

And we saw BEAUTIFUL casts. You know how hounds will come out of covert a bit irresolutely, unsure, and overrun, needing a bit of help to get back on their line?

Twice, right in front of us, we saw that happen. It was like when the Wicked Witch of the West tells the Winkies, " Half of you go that way, half of you go that way", and they do, and you wonder how they knew which half?

That's what these hounds did. Any huntsman would have been proud to have made it happen.

So they cast themselves, splitting and swirling around- one spoke, another, and they honoured and onward!

Again, we saw that happen twice.

Yes, there aren't any pictures. I believe there are hounds behind that cedar tree a quarter mile away, but quien sabe? The pace was too good to inquire.

We were busy! "That way!" "Do you see them?" "They are crossing that way!" "We can't get there!" "Hold hard, turn around!"

And then along a hard road. And behind my pilot's shoulder, hounds in line ahead...

And through his ear...

"Staghounds, there is a coyote in front of them!"

"Why yes, Pilot, there is. I believe that is the way this is all meant to work. "

Pilot trod on the gas, and I said "Hold off, he's had."

The gallant coyote spun to fight, and the slashing counterattack backed the lead hound off...

But only for moment. The hound- wish I knew who- bore in again with cold calcium.

A little reinforcement, and it was over before you could say knife.

Nearly all the hounds in the run were there in sight, but it had been quite a speedy race.

(Remember, click on any picture to make it larger...)

"Hey Fellows, what's up?"

And here is something funny. After the coyote was good and dead, we hard some hounds- probably some night hunter's coon dogs- howling a mile or two off at the edge of the next town.

And two or three of ours left the pack and sort of started hunting off that way! " Well that one is as dead as Queen Anne, let's see what these local yokels have jumped up!"

Huntsman arrived about ten minutes later- he was heading our way in the ~~camion des chiens~~ hound truck and it took him that long to get that far!

After making big praise with them, he brought them in. While dragging the coyote, which the hounds kept grabbing at.

"Hey, that's ours!"

Let's check the GPS for the stats on the lead hounds-

"Elapsed time- pdq:43.7."

"Distance: tenish miles."

"Speed- hauling a$s."

So we loaded them up- and they were ready for more!!

For what my opinion is worth, this was a first class run anywhere, and these keen little hounds under their hunting conditions take a back seat to no pack I have ever seen .

And they did it all absolutely by themselves. A tribute to their breeding, training, and DNA.

Back to the meet. Where staff were warming up. S was her usual fashion plate self, and everyone has been very pleasant with R's recent conversion to Islam.

Well S. looks a bit concerned still.

Inshallah.

Remember D's horse, last seen swimming down the creek? We figured she would scramble out, but no- she was nowhere to be found!

Which brings us to the second, even better part of the day. Once we all realized that N. was missing, the hunt mobilised to find her. Some drove down stram to the nearest bridge. Others started down either bank, clawing through thorny vines and slick, cold mud looking for any sign of her.

And she was found- with only her head above water. Uh oh...

She had been immersed in a swift, cold river for upwards of half an hour. Things did not look good.

But she was alive and breathing. Although her body heat was being stripped away, she did not have to struggle to stay afloat. And she was vertical, legs beneath her.

People gathered. The spot was a high bank, thickly covered with growth, fifty swampy yards or so from the nearest place where a vehicle could be brought.

But there was a little bit of shelving at the foot of the bank...

Every pocket knife started cutting vines. Ropes, blankets, and first aid kits were brought....

And, step by step, the rescue effort began. The bridle was taken off and a halter was substituted. A long tow rope was attached. Brave fools went into the river to pull vines away.

And eventually, between a dozen people heaving and her struggles, we got her mostly on the land!

Her ropy breathing and a surreptitious gum press augured poorly, though.

Blankets. Banamine. The broken leather halter replaced with a nylon one. Active external rewarming (thank you, nameless Dachau victims), as best we could, was started.

And more people showed up, people who had not been hunting that day but heard about the need from cell telephone calls. Now instead of six or eight people, a dozen could tail on.

Another big heave, and they got her fully clear of the water!

But just brute force this time, she was not moving.

More rewarming. A veterinarian showed up, a man whose own age and health made it very risky indeed to climb down the bank and evaluate her, lean over her head to give an injection.

She gave a convulsive plunge- I believe it was a marely version of

paradoxical undressing- and we lost a rewarmer. More people showed up. Ropes pulled her legs free from awkward positions to where they could be useful. Give her a chance to rest, get a bit of strength.

And in a bit, she started to stir. Pull the blankets off. Maybe twenty people on the ropes now, a valiant heave from her, and she was up!

Quickly, blankets on, get her moving away from this trappy spot, load her up, get her home to effective rewarming with a hot bath and a tasty steaming mash, stitch her up...

and she's fine.

The rescue effort took about three hours. There are two things I have to say about it. I have no place commenting, and I am sure lots happened that I did not see. But the great lesson of 2011 for me from Lewis and Debby, is that nothing good should go unsaid.

First, the specific actions of a few people stand out, in no particular order. One was a man who was there solely a the father of a daughter who hunts. He fell in the creek, got thoroughly soaked, and kept helping until the work was done. Unbeknownst to the others, he had gotten a good hard kick on the leg but concealed it. Thank you, C.

Our Huntsman is sometimes a bit, um, excited when hounds run. He found her and so was first on the scene, and largely coordinated the effort.

I picked that word over led or ran.

During this whole time he was calm, quiet, and focussed. He listened carefully and gave thought to suggestions. Some he adopted, and even the silly ones he rejected with respect and civility. He kept all the things going on in mind, running mental triage constantly. I do not remember hearing a single breath wasted on swearing. Impressive, R.

One of our subscribers had dismounted half way through the easy part of the hunt- she injured her back and was in some considerable pain. Yet there she was, in the thick of it all. Go, R!

At one point I turned around and literally bumped into the master of a neighbouring pack. I seriously doubt that his Christmas Eve afternoon plans originally included trying to rupture himself on a stinking creek bank, but when the opportunity arose... It's always good to see you, D!

I mentioned the veterinarian. Although this man is strong and tough, and hunts hard, he is probably in his late seventies and more aware than most of the dangers of a hard all or being well kicked, ever mind a swim in icy water. Yet he was in there like he was twenty and invulnerable. Wow, Dr. G.

One of our Whippers-in had a good hard kick in the face a few weeks ago, so recently that the bruises are still visible. Yet she was in there like crazy- going in the creek to pull vines away, lying on the horse and rubbing her- until she was, AGAIN, kicked in the face. It's easy to jump in when you don't know the price, but when you are still paying on the last one, S...

And finally, the horse's owner. He was there and VERY engaged. And somehow he was able to step back, let others make the rescue happen. Wise- he was too close, and his closeness might have kept him from making difficult decisions. I have seen it before, the victim's parent or spouse is seldom the best rescuer. You put her first, D.

I said this was the better part of the day, and that's what I want to talk about too. This was a perfect example of Hunting culture at its best. There were people there from all sorts and conditions of life. Important and no one in particular. Young and old. Rich and broke. Clever and not the sharpest. Beautiful and not so much. Strong and weak.

And everyone joined in. No one was too good to get dirty, pull hard, break a nail. No one had something more important to do. People used to wielding authority every day let others guide instead. The whole group was like a single thing, each individual abandoning self for the greater purpose.

Funny, it just crossed my mind that in the commercial marketplace N is probably a $5000 horse. On a good day.

You wouldn't get Dr. S to spend Christmas Eve grubbing in the mud for any $5000, or a bunch of the other people there either.

But for a horse in danger...

I like being part of the family that chose each other.

I'm sorry, Coyote. And thanks.

A Liecestershire Day...

2011-12-05T09:38:00.047-05:00

Off to Liecestershire! A famous old pack on a leaden skied day. Farm yard meet:

Stars of the show. I like the one brown hound, he must be pretty good!

And here's something one does not see every day! The current law allows the use of hounds to flush game to hawks. Including Golden Eagles!!

Which reminds me, check out my favourite "waste of tax dollars"!

A fairly small field. Have to apologise for the picture quality. This camera is new and appears to have a drinking problem.

Definitely a galloping country!
Drawing, drawing.
Powerful horses running hard!
Now what goof would park a hire car out here in the middle of a field...

Wait, is that a...

Hare!

Big open spaces by home standards.

Hoped to see some jumping of these hedges, but no.

Hounds ran into this wood, and rolled around for a bit. That rough, coarse throaty sound again, not as strong as in the West but still magnificent.

So I rolled well ahead, just doing and not thinking. Found myself alone at the end of a farm tack on a hill top. Nothing but me and some sheep.

Oh well.
Did get to see hounds charging hard down a hillside, loud and strong. Beautiful to see their strength and power, the way they just fling themselves after the scent. That's all hounds are really, nose delivery vehicles.

Hey, whats that in the corner of my eye?

Well look'ee there!

Up close:

"Out of my way, sheeps!"

Fortunately my camera sobered up a bit for these pictures.

Just over a minute and a half and over the hill they came.

Running mute, but well.

Then into these sheep, not as many or as dense as the last flocklet...

And whoof!

Um, uh, what were we a smellin' of?

No holloa from me of course, that would be illegal!

Crossed right where the fox did- well past the sheep. Nothing at all, not the slightest sign that hounds smelled anything. Amazing.

And a wide, around your hat cast. Nothing at all.

A fiery steed!

On we went, drawing and drawing through this prosperous country.

Alright. My camera is drunk but I am cold sober. WHAT is that in that field??

Il Porcellino !!

Full size, too!

Hounds were now faaaar away, still drawing but no luck. Evening, and rain, coming.

Waiting at a gate, another fox crossed right to left. He actually IS in this picture- you can see him entering the left hand tire track, about two or three strides out from that little cabin thing.

He brought hounds along- just over seven minutes-

And as you can see,
And as you can see,
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again, absolutely no interest. Zero. Not a feather, not a yip.

All this, again, under text book good scenting conditions.

Oh well. At least we were out, when they ran they ran hard, the music was great, and the hounds were lovely to see.

As was that fox! Interesting fodder for my upcoming "Scent is like God" meditation.

Moratorium...

2011-12-04T02:11:00.001-05:00

Because the place where I'm staying has a wood burning internet connection, no posts until Dec. 12. Sorry...

For all your Pyramid Needs...

2011-11-29T14:34:00.002-05:00

Driving Around France...

2011-11-26T12:59:00.001-05:00

... sometimes history just slaps you right in the mouth.

Racist England

2011-11-25T01:01:00.003-05:00

Look at all the Perfectly Legal Hound Work...

2011-11-15T13:48:00.023-05:00

(Remember you can click on any picture to make it aggrandize iteself.)

So off with some foxhounds. I know, I know, but they were the only thing going that day.

Meet was at a little hill farm. This huntsman is known for controlling his hounds lightly and from a distance, and as we met in the farm yard they frolicked on the hill beside us.
"We want to go! "
Ready to roll...

Then, as I looked over at where hounds played, a swirl of action! From the gorse bushes on the right, between the two hounds - I know, in every fox-hunting story that I've ever heard there's been a fox and some gorse-bushes...

A hound went in and bolted one! His partner joined in, the others in view tailed on, and they had their own little hunt.
All on their own, completely silent, no human involvement.

A blow on the horn, and back they came.
Then off we went. Drawing this big gorse field for a trail, hounds worked hard.
But we had only half the pack...
And from over the hill they came. Louder and louder...
Something brown right to left across the gorse...
Toward where the other half of the pack were drawing!
Uh oh...

Another blow and they left the bad thing, looking for legal trails again...

They continued to draw, and spoke!
Uh oh, look above those four fence posts...
Yes, another incipient crime!
Yet hounds paid no attention, even when crossing the live fox's path!

And that was about it for what we could see. We heard hounds from time to time, and caught a glimpse, but that was about the end.
My lovely hostess modeled...

But she is pretty not smelly, so that failed to draw hounds toward us.

The end.

My Sister’s Virginity of Hunting…

2011-11-13T09:14:00.061-05:00

And the Villiers-Cotterets’ first day of the season! Off with littermate, whose comment as we approached the meet was “There sure is a lot of STUFF going on!”

Our guide was mine from that lovely day in the snow . Who had the bad luck to see me after I had already seen her…

Waiting waiting waiting…

Might want to huile that bridle!

My littermate likes the chiens- they sure pack a lot of them into this little van.

The Road of Fate, Hanging…

Wouldn’t be a V-C report without this whipper-in putting one back .

Je suis avec stupide…

Getting ready for the first draw…

Watching and waiting. ..

And off! A couple of casts and hound found. They pushed the deer into a little obstacle…

And back out. A couple of stags and biches, who separated. Biches crossed the road…

Of course a few hounds had to be sent back from chasing the women. Whipping in is much the same everywhere, fortunately these hound were not trying to err too hard. One was named Arthur…

Heard anything?

Happy to be out!

Hounds were at fault, but then three hoooots from someone in the field!

Lift and lay on…

A few from the truck…

And the land rover…

A brief run, a check, a long draw, and a find…

A run through the forest…

A view down an allee! And another!

Here’s a closer shot by the Littermate…

And what did he do?

That’s right, he laid down!!

Testament to their camouflage. If I had just looked down that allee while he lay there, I never would have seen him. And I had never seen one accouche in an open place before!

“What are you lookeeng at? Go away, zere is nozzing to see ‘ere!”

Up and away. Hounds held back to get them all on. Ensemble en Francais…

And through the woods again…

A long wait while they drew…

Alas rien…

The sun began to go down,

And they found him again! Recule, passé, derriere, montez…

The race now between a hard pressed stag on one side...

Even after seven and half hours, those first day out hounds were still fired up…

Don’t tell the French dog union!

All sorts and conditions of people still watched and followed…

Back to the chemin de fer! Then, quell horreur!!!!

Oh NOOOO!!!!!

Potential CARNAGE!!!

I believe my Littermate may be... interested...

/>

Darkness and the stag won. Still hounds were afoot for eight hours, a pretty good first day by any standards!!

Not in THIS 2500 Meters!
I can hear him now- "Ah, today I saved all you biches from ze 'ounds... Truly I am le Roi de Foret!"

Armistice Day...

2011-11-11T10:55:00.004-05:00

A misty, cool morning

to visit one of the most terrifying things man has made.

The Thiepval Memorial.
At 11-11-11, a memorial service with all sorts and conditions of people.

The names' contemporaries were the old people of my childhood. It is good to know they are

Every one of the dead is named. And each had a trio of unnamed companions- one totally crippled, one only somewhat injured for life, and a widow or orphan. So it is worse than just epitaphs.

No more mass graves this trip.

Arromanches and the Mulberry...

2011-11-10T14:07:00.004-05:00

Winston Churchill was full of ideas, and this one paid off. Everyone should know the story of the Mulberry harbours, and as a logistics professional my sister could not miss seeing their remnants. I figured there wouldn't be much to see, a couple of caissons on the beach or something. I was very wrong.

Utterly astonishing.

Pirou Castle...

2011-11-10T02:38:00.009-05:00

This was lovely. An 11th century manor castle of the sort which once existed every 10 or 15 miles across the fertile parts of Europe. These were the domains of local knights with maybe 200 or so people on their land. This castle, in the middle of noplace, gradually fell into disuse and ended up as a farmhouse. Unlike most, it was not completely removed as a source for building stone, and it has been cleaned up and made habitable. Beautiful, especially on a balmy autumn morning and with no one else there.

Now, go away, or ah shall you know...

Have Fun Storming the Castle!

2011-11-10T02:29:00.001-05:00

I Think We Stayed...

2011-11-09T12:57:00.004-05:00

in the big hotel...

Avranches and Mont St. Michel...

2011-11-08T15:24:00.012-05:00

Off south. First stop Avranches. Museum of manuscript illumination. Scores of beautiful works of the calligrapher and miniaturist's art. Especially interesting were the exhibitions of how it was done- making the parchment, creating the coloured inks, and so forth. Incredible pains and details, everything had to be perfect. No erasures! Yet within the practical constraints of "copy the book", a whole world of art and craft emerged and throve.

Art, the joy of expressing feeling, is as much a part of human beings as breathing oxygen.

And here is a bad picture of a lovely little ivory's expression of peace:

Then to Mont St. Michel. A foggy day so it arose out of the mist, suddenly just THERE.

It was just magnificent. Varied from cute and charming, to amazing, to puzzling, to awesome.

Maintenance and reconstruction on these places never ends.One of the things we were privileged to watch was a man replacing stained glass in the refectory.

What a lovely thing to do, and to know that your work will, even just a little, make beauty, please and touch people you will never know, centuries after you are dust.

Or until the tide comes in.

Gettysburg and Grasmere...

2011-11-07T15:45:00.003-05:00

are not the only places that live off history.

St. Hubert in France, first day 2011-12...

2011-11-06T14:55:00.055-05:00

(Remember, you can click n any picture to embiggen it!)

So after spending the night in the car in front of the hotel, up for a lovely breakfast (Merci, Sandrine) and to the staghounds at Paimpont.

Of course in the local abbey:

Church was actually jammed full, this was as people were leaving.

Of course the focus of it all had a representative:

And there were all sorts and conditions of people. Hunting is really open to anyone interested, and here's an example.

I like it that the French have a proper full service. My faith is no great exemplar, but it seems fair and true to show respect to God, creation, providence, nature, Diana, or whatever you believe made all the things we are and do. And a bit to seek forgiveness, or at least try to obtain and offer an understanding of what the Priest called "practical naturalism".

At least that's what I thought he said. Bit like being some medieval peasant, listening to the service in Latin.

Outside, of course,

Four sides to this, and this town has about forty houses.

Germany is a very lucky place.

Enough philosophy, time to go huntin'!

Lots of one-horses here.

Hunt truck, you can tell by the glint in their eyes that hounds and horses are ready to get rolling!

Good old fashioned hammerhead staff horse!

Shiny, well kept, and came boiling off the trailer ready to go.

Hunters are the same everywhere, smoking food locusts!

Also having a few cigarettes.

A boat of course.

Speaking of hammers, a last minute tune up:

And for the riders too:

Very much a family event, just a few of the youngest.

And very friendly too, the lady with the baby in her arms and I practiced our language skills on one another. She won!

Even coming off the truck, hounds were very well disciplined.

Suiting up. I like this four horse van, very practical.

These looked like serious hunters.

(And during the day I noticed the lady in green always seemed to be on the spot!)

Bicyclists of course!

And their trusty steeds.

Priest came out to bless the pack:

More of the next generation at the Rapport.

Regardez those serious expressions! If I were an Anti I might avoid making them cross.

Recycling!

That's a Chassepot rifle bayonet, 1870 or so.

Friendly au revoirs,

and off!

En voiture!

Any kind of voiture!

This will be a pretty short write up. Everyone set off along a road. As all my reader knows, I often like to be clueless on these visits.

I can hear it now, "As opposed to clueless at home as usual."

But this time I was unpiloted. Followed the mass up the road and pulled over- to hear the pack in full cry headed back toward me from this wood!

Then along my left...

I'm turning around! In my- yes, they named my car after a communist wife beater:

So back, past the rendezvous, only this lady (you may see her again too) in front of me.

Managed to get past her, and kept on until I was all alone. And to the perfect spot. Without
another car, velocipede, rider, or anyone in sight I heard those hounds scream! In this part of the wood...

Swinging to my right...

Then farther...

and back again. For the best part of an hour, they never stopped, not for a minute, and I heard it all clear as could be. Lovely horn calls and waves of hound music. Just perfect, like my own private hunt.

But they never dropped over the ridge toward me, so after they headed back past the rendezvous until I was stopped by a lake.

Pretty good fishing shack!

Bore to the right, and what did I tell you?

On point...

Whippers in...

And all that water was behind us. So I hung with this bit of the crew... And what happened? He reculed, and back everyone barreled. Dishevelment occurred...

but hounds were running! They rolled around behind us...

across the allee back toward the lake. Across the road- into the water?

But Cerfboy swirled right again, another valiant try.

Teams like this are not as often seen in France as in England and the United States. I particularly liked daughter's chic coat, mother's flashily subtle kick rag, and their mutual cheerfully determined bearing.

The Priest made it a point to go along.

I wonder if the Pope lets his men of the cloth hunt? He did seem to be interested and paying attention, and I thought it was good on his part to see it through. His footwear gave me suspicions...

So the stag crossed back, away from the water.

Then silence as they ran out of my hearing.

Although I did not have much of a feel for this hunt, I was at the 50-50 balance point. Hounds had run hard and worked well as far as I could observe, and the stag had put them to their proof.

Would hounds meet their challenge? Would a gallant stag make good his escape?

Maybe not exactly 50-50...

Then I committed a hunting misdemeanor.

Although maybe not, hounds were not actually running...

I LEFT to meet my sister.

Curse you, stupid commitment keeping gene!

At least it wasn't a Felony...

A really good day in which these western hounds showed a visitor good sport.

Merci!!

The Bizarre Public Statuary of Jersey…

2011-11-05T09:31:00.007-04:00

The Bizarre Public Statuary of Jersey…

It is the law in this place that whenever a new building is put up, the builders must also erect a piece of art outside the building. Or, as one lovely resident has it, “Something that is art to them”.

All my reader knows that I enjoy some statuary- although I have yet to post my survey of the naked equestriennes of Denmark. One day, really.

But for the time being, here is the

naked flying girl of Jersey.

Life size. A day will come when that cable breaks, and the lawyers will have a field day.

Nearby, we have

Toad on a pole.

Pretty good giant bronze toad, as they go. For some obscure reason his/her column is inscribed with the punishments for crime as they were a hundred and fifty years ago.

Which brings a question to my mind. When criminals and their allies/minions/parasites go on and on about the savage punishments of the past. Why are they stuck on England in the time of Walpole?

I mean, I know why. Because they are ethnocentric and have a propaganda goal. They hate to recognize that before then punishments were worse, and that pre colonial punishments outside Europe were far more horrid.

The ones on the post don’t seem bad. Petty theft first time stocks, second time stocks and a beating, third time an ear.

Rape and incest, the rope.

Imprisonment is for weak, rich cultures.

And the requirement that the punishments be carri
ed out in public, and all schools required to take their pupils to watch, an excellent one.

We act like we feel guilty when we lock criminals up.

Visiting Jersey...

2011-11-04T10:09:00.006-04:00

Not the cheap scruffy new one, the original. Home of the dramatic checkout,of which more anon.

Slept like the dead on the flight, off and back on the flight to Jersey, and into St Helier. Ditched the suitcase at Condor Ferries, then strolled into town. Stopped at the Tourist Information center, where the staff were very helpful and directed me perfectly! Started to get ouchy feet, but thanks to the crew from Esprit UK

all fixed!

And if you need any snake knowledge...

By the way it is black in England and they call it "gaffer" tape.

Luncheon on the square

at the Cock and Bottle, cared for by the charming and attentive Carrie. `

Which is the locale of the above mentioned dramatic checkout. The bullet damage has been repaired, in typical English fashion-

with perfectly round, contrasting colour, plugs that stand proud of the surrounding surface. This time I think it was on purpose.

Tomorrow, the odd public statuary of this place!

Last Day's Cub Hunting...

2011-10-29T14:18:00.011-04:00

For the OHH and me this season anyway. Not so much to tell, started out with a slightly foggy, slightly frosty meet:

But by the time they crossed the road to the first draw...

An easy day to whip in, as they go:

In the shaded places still an odd dry fog, but no coyotes!!

That was fun! Lets go home!

Sheesh, have to be an electrical engineer to carry a whip these days...

Yep, it works!

Come back Trae!

"Esmé" Brought to Life...

2011-10-20T09:53:00.003-04:00

by recent events in Ohio-

"All hunting stories are the same," said Clovis; "just as all Turf stories are the same, and all--"

"My hunting story isn't a bit like any you've ever heard," said the Baroness. "It happened quite a while ago, when I was about twenty-three. I wasn't living apart from my husband then; you see, neither of us could afford to make the other a separate allowance. In spite of everything that proverbs may say, poverty keeps together more homes than it breaks up. But we always hunted with different packs. All this has nothing to do with the story."

"We haven't arrived at the meet yet. I suppose there was a meet," said Clovis.

"Of course there was a meet," said the Baroness; "all the usual crowd were there, especially Constance Broddle. Constance is one of those strapping florid girls that go so well with autumn scenery or Christmas decorations in church. 'I feel a presentiment that something dreadful is going to happen,' she said to me; 'am I looking pale?'

"She was looking about as pale as a beetroot that has suddenly heard bad news.

" 'You're looking nicer than usual,' I said, 'but that's so easy for you.' Before she had got the right bearings of this remark we had settled down to business; hounds had found a fox lying out in some gorse-bushes."

"I knew it," said Clovis; "in every fox-hunting story that I've ever heard there's been a fox and some gorse-bushes."

"Constance and I were well mounted," continued the Baroness serenely, "and we had no difficulty in keeping ourselves in the first flight, though it was a fairly stiff run. Towards the finish, however, we must have held rather too independent a line, for we lost the hounds, and found ourselves plodding aimlessly along miles away from anywhere. It was fairly exasperating, and my temper was beginning to let itself go by inches, when on pushing our way through an accommodating hedge we were gladdened by the sight of hounds in full cry in a hollow just beneath us.

" 'There they go,' cried Constance, and then added in a gasp, 'In Heaven's name, what are they hunting?'

"It was certainly no mortal fox. It stood more than twice as high, had a short, ugly head, and an enormous thick neck.

" 'It's a hyena,' I cried; 'it must have escaped from Lord Pabham's Park.'

"At that moment the hunted beast turned and faced its pursuers, and the hounds (there were only about six couple of them) stood round in a half-circle and looked foolish. Evidently they had broken away from the rest of the pack on the trail of this alien scent, and were not quite sure how to treat their quarry now they had got him.

"The hyena hailed our approach with unmistakable relief and demonstrations of friendliness. It had probably been accustomed to uniform kindness from humans, while its first experience of a pack of hounds had left a bad impression. The hounds looked more than ever embarrassed as their quarry paraded its sudden intimacy with us, and the faint toot of a horn in the distance was seized on as a welcome signal for unobtrusive departure. Constance and I and the hyena were left alone in the gathering twilight.

" 'What are we to do?' asked Constance.

" 'What a person you are for questions,' I said.

" 'Well, we can't stay here all night with a hyena,' she retorted.

" 'I don't know what your ideas of comfort are,' I said; 'but I shouldn't think of staying here all night even without a hyena. My home may be an unhappy one, but at least it has hot and cold water laid on, and domestic service, and other conveniences which we shouldn't find here. We had better make for that ridge of trees to the right; I imagine the Crowley road is just beyond.'

"We trotted off slowly along a faintly marked cart-track, with the beast following cheerfully at our heels.

" 'What on earth are we to do with the hyena?' came the inevitable question.

" 'What does one generally do with hyenas?' I asked crossly.

" 'I've never had anything to do with one before,' said Constance.

" 'Well, neither have I. If we even knew its sex we might give it a name. Perhaps we might call it Esme. That would do in either case.

"There was still sufficient daylight for us to distinguish wayside objects, and our listless spirits gave an upward perk as we came upon a small half-naked gipsy brat picking blackberries from a low-growing bush. The sudden apparition of two horsewomen and a hyena set it off crying, and in any case we should scarcely have gleaned any useful geographical information from that source; but there was a probability that we might strike a gipsy encampment somewhere along our route. We rode on hopefully but uneventfully for another mile or so.

" 'I wonder what the child was doing there,' said Constance presently.

" 'Picking blackberries. Obviously.'

" 'I don't like the way it cried,' pursued Constance; 'somehow its wail keeps ringing in my ears.'

"I did not chide Constance for her morbid fancies; as a matter of fact the same sensation, of being pursued by a persistent fretful wail, had been forcing itself on my rather over-tired nerves. For company's sake I hulloed to Esme, who had lagged somewhat behind. With a few springy bounds he drew up level, and then shot past us.

"The wailing accompaniment was explained. The gipsy child was firmly, and I expect painfully, held in his jaws.

" 'Merciful Heaven!' screamed Constance, 'what on earth shall we do? What are we to do?'

"I am perfectly certain that at the Last Judgment Constance will ask more questions than any of the examining Seraphs.

" 'Can't we do something?' she persisted tearfully, as Esme cantered easily along in front of our tired horses.

"Personally I was doing everything that occurred to me at the moment. I stormed and scolded and coaxed in English and French and gamekeeper language; I made absurd, ineffectual cuts in the air with my thongless hunting-crop; I hurled my sandwich case at the brute; in fact, I really don't know what more I could have done. And still we lumbered on through the deepening dusk, with that dark uncouth shape lumbering ahead of us, and a drone of lugubrious music floating in our ears. Suddenly Esme bounded aside into some thick bushes, where we could not follow; the wail rose to a shriek and then stopped altogether. This part of the story I always hurry over, because it is really rather horrible. When the beast joined us again, after an absence of a few minutes, there was an air of patient understanding about him, as though he knew that he had done something of which we disapproved, but which he felt to be thoroughly justifiable.

" 'How can you let that ravening beast trot by your side?' asked Constance. She was looking more than ever like an albino beetroot.

" 'In the first place, I can't prevent it,' I said; 'and in the second place, whatever else he may be, I doubt if he's ravening at the present moment.'

"Constance shuddered. 'Do you think the poor little thing suffered much?' came another of her futile questions.

" 'The indications were all that way,' I said; 'on the other hand, of course, it may have been crying from sheer temper. Children sometimes do.'

"It was nearly pitch-dark when we emerged suddenly into the high road. A flash of lights and the whir of a motor went past us at the same moment at uncomfortably close quarters. A thud and a sharp screeching yell followed a second later. The car drew up, and when I had ridden back to the spot I found a young man bending over a dark motionless mass lying by the roadside.

" 'You have killed my Esme,' I exclaimed bitterly.

" 'I'm so awfully sorry,' said the young man; 'I keep dogs myself, so I know what you must feel about it. I'll do anything I can in reparation.'

" 'Please bury him at once,' I said; 'that much I think I may ask of you.

" 'Bring the spade, William,' he called to the chauffeur. Evidently hasty roadside interments were contingencies that had been provided against.

"The digging of a sufficiently large grave took some little time. 'I say, what a magnificent fellow,' said the motorist as the corpse was rolled over into the trench. 'I'm afraid he must have been rather a valuable animal.'

" 'He took second in the puppy class at Birmingham last year,' I said resolutely.

Constance snorted loudly.

" 'Don't cry, dear,' I said brokenly; 'it was all over in a moment. He couldn't have suffered much.'

" 'Look here,' said the young fellow desperately, 'you simply must let me do something by way of reparation.'

"I refused sweetly, but as he persisted I let him have my address.

"Of course, we kept our own counsel as to the earlier episodes of the evening. Lord Pabham never advertised the loss of his hyena; when a strictly fruit-eating animal strayed from his park a year or two previously he was called upon to give compensation in eleven cases of sheep-worrying and practically to re-stock his neighbours' poultry-yards, and an escaped hyena would have mounted up to something on the scale of a Government grant. The gipsies were equally unobtrusive over their missing offspring; I don't suppose in large encampments they really know to a child or two how many they've got."

The Baroness paused reflectively, and then continued:

"There was a sequel to the adventure, though. I got through the post a charming little diamond broach, with the name Esme set in a sprig of rosemary. Incidentally, too, I lost the friendship of Constance Broddle.

You see, when I sold the brooch I quite properly refused to give her any share of the proceeds. I pointed out that the Esme part of the affair was my own invention, and the hyena part of it belonged to Lord Pabham, if it really was his hyena. Of which, of course, I've no proof."

A lovely tune...

2011-10-03T21:16:00.000-04:00

I like to hear Nina Gordon, "Horses in the City" speaks to me and "Now I Can Die" reminds. But THIS is hilarious! WARNING, parental advisory strong language!!

More Proof that Central Planning is Evil!

2011-09-20T18:06:00.002-04:00

Pure beauty, pure art, pure imagination, pure effort.

This- this RIGHT HERE-

is why I HATE collectivism, central planning, tyranny, all outlooks that DARE to PRESUME to decide ANYTHING for ANYONE. What master, what leader, what bureaucrat, what smartest person in the world who knows what's best for others, could have imagined this???

Presidents Bush or Obama? Hilary Clinton or Paul Krugman? They can't even run their own $%^&* pantries!

Go, liberty!

First Day Cubhunting 2011-12 Season...

2011-09-17T17:53:00.011-04:00

All RIGHT! It's about time, I have been developing vices.

Morning temperature in the fifties, cloudy, humid. Looked like a good scenting day for the OHH.

Let's go, girls and boys, ladies and gentlemen! (Remember if you click on a picture it gets much larger!)

This is about half the field!

Up the road a way, lurking with a temporarily horseless whipper in and a cereal heiress.

I might add, a charming, also HARSH and COLD whipper in. More on that another time...

So anyway, due to a fortunate technical foulup- wait, I meant fortuitous- he had no radio! It was like 2001! Or 1801 for that matter, all we had were our eyes and ears!

And surely enough, from behind us- the opposite direction from the planned draw- we heard- well, something. Coming from this ridge:

Yard dogs? Well it sounds like hounds, but, not really. Not right sounding, but dwelling, back and forth in the same area. Sounded like only a few voices but the same ones, and it is cubhunting after all. Too weak for a deer breakout, and these hounds are pretty well not a problem that way. Not enthusiastic enough for a bobcat. Possum? Random feral cat? Biscuit?

I forgot- Turkeys. Woods are full of them!

Well that was about all the excitement I heard for a long while. The other people with me went in search, and I disciplined myself to stay. Yes, I am resolved this season to try to break myself of haring off and of thinking. May as well try to control one vice...

So I tried to dope it out, and eventually did. There was cellular telephone usage, but I was already going there anyway.

Pretty day to be out...

and to whip in.

Hounds did try, but no game to run.

The end.

Yet More Wildlife Doom Pottery...

2011-08-08T07:44:00.002-04:00

What is this I don't even

Actually it looks more like hound doom...

A Specialty Publication...

2011-07-25T08:58:00.004-04:00

So the other day I was wandering past the magazine display at the Wal Marts, and this caught my eye:

I couldn't wait to call the only actual professional magazine writer I know to describe it.

"Seems like a fairly narrow market", I said. Her immediate response:

"No, if it was narrow there wouldn't BE a market..."

Quick Thinking Norwegian Teens Take Down Killer...

2011-07-24T10:15:00.007-04:00

"We knew we were on our own" is often repeated by young heroes talking about their successful resistance to a killer on Norway's Utoya Island, near Oslo, site of the Scandinavian kingdom's worst mass murder ever with 34 people dead.

The island was at the time the venue of a Labour Party youth conference. But the holiday atmosphere turned to horror when a man in Police uniform appeared and began shooting the campers.
"At first he asked some of us to come over to him, when we did he started shooting at us. I saw several of my friends hit, then a bullet hit me and knocked me down." said one injured witness.

According to another teenager on the scene, "As soon as he started shooting, everyone ran for shelter. We had all been through the active shooter resistance class at school, and since we could get away, we did."

Then, witnesses say, the killer began to stalk his victims. According to another of the teens, "He just walked along the shore, and when he would find someone hiding he would kill them. We were all behind some rocks a few yards inland from the beach, and he was coming our way. "Hilda" (name changed) was beside me, and she said, "He's killing our friends! It's an island, we can't just wait until he kills everybody!".

According to this witness, "Hilda" suggested that the small group of teens fight back when the killer approached. "We learned in school that these murderers are in a high state of stress and are usually as incompetent at violence as they are at life, so resistance generally stops them. So Hilda suggested that we distract him and then attack from another direction".

"She said that we should gather up stones, and we did. Then she said she would run out from one side of the boulders we were behind, and the rest of us should attack him from the other when he saw her. "Gustav", who is 18, said he should do the running, since he was the 400 meter hurdle champion at his school, and he and "Hilda" argued over it. But she is not very fast and only 14, so we all told her to let him."

"When the man came close, watching along the shoreline, we counted down and "Gustav" took off. The man was startled to see him and pointed his rifle at "Gustav". "Hilda" said "NOW!" and she charged."

"The man shot at "Gustav" who was running in a serpentine pattern. It was about 40 meters from us to the killer, so he got a couple of shots off before "Hilda's" yelling distracted him again. She threw her rocks as she ran, the rest of us did too, and before he could get his gun pointed at us we were on him. Six of us piled on him and it was like Gulliver, we just buried him."

"Gustav" came back and joined in. We held the man down even though he struggled. We took his guns away, and a couple of us who have similar guns at home carried them some distance away and put them on the ground so no one would think they were the murderer. Other people helped the wounded. We waited for the Police and they took the man away."

Police arrived at the island crime scene about an hour and a half after a gunman first opened fire, slowed because they didn’t have quick access to a helicopter and then couldn’t find a boat to make their way to the scene just several hundred yards offshore.

The killer was taken into custody and according to sources treated for multiple fractures and dislocations.

Isn't that better than "Survivors of the shooting spree have described hiding and fleeing into the water to escape the gunman, but a police briefing Saturday detailed for the first time how long the terror lasted — and how long victims waited for help"?

How do you say "United 93, motherf*cker!" in Norwegian?

I am a tremendous advocate for teaching children, because it's true, that

"Five or six seventh-grade kids and a 95-pound art teacher can basically challenge, bring down and immobilize a 200-pound man with a gun."

Just like a bunch of farmers can drive off a King.

"I Want To Use This Hammer For Good...

2011-06-24T09:15:00.001-04:00

...but somehow I always end up hitting myself in the head with it."

-M. E.

How Corrupt Can A Project BE...

2011-06-22T09:21:00.003-04:00

that you can just "find" SEVEN HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN MILLION DOLLARS-- ONE #$%^& SEVENTH of the total, when you are pressed?

"...the savings are thanks to the extra efforts made by industry to curb costs and from an improvement in the management of project resources as a whole." Riiiiight....

The real headline ought to be "500 Billion Euros of Galileo Project Is Corruption". But it won't be, because the BBC wants us to be grateful to our masters for their care in watching out for our welfare.

It's not inefficiency or waste, it is ALWAYS corruption. Because someone gets it.

Andre Maurois Must Have Been To A Hunt Do With Me...

2011-06-14T13:31:00.001-04:00

"Since the British nation deems worthy of the name of sport any exercise which is at once useless, tiring and dangerous, I am quite ready to admit that dancing answers this definition in every way."

Being Compared to Nazis by Someone Who Knows...

2011-05-17T09:03:00.004-04:00

Prosecutors are used to Nazi references and it goes with the territory. But not many of us nowadays have been compared directly by someone who knew us both.

Years ago, fairly early in my car following days, the OHH had a joint meet with Midland. Mr. Hardaway had just started going in a vehicle himself, and they had him ride with me.

It wasn't so much of a day, up and down hills and through some water. There was very little sideways motion of the Cherokee. And we did keep up.

The next day, an old friend of my passenger showed up, and he chose to occupy that truck instead of mine so they could catch up.

The denouement came that evening at the feed. I was around the corner from Mr. Hardaway, and he was talking about the day with his friend and others.

"I"m glad I rode with you today!

That fellow yesterday, the last time I was that scared in a jeep Hitler did it!"

Unfortunately I have to surrender my crown to another person. In his case, Mr. Hardaway actually got out of the truck in the middle of the day.

Ben Hardaway Changed My Life...

2011-05-17T09:00:00.004-04:00

So a while back I was at a hunting do, and Mr. Hardaway told the story of how he unintentionally joined the MFHA. The parts of his life he has chosen to tell fill a thick book, and I'm sure that much was left out. There are lots of stories other people tell about him, too- usually they are like the stories about Jack Mytton.

I have one of those myself, but I have another one too and this is it.

Long long ago, when I was still a groom, I had an interesting day. It was #$%^& COLD, and I was out in the ten inch deep snowy paddock breaking ice out of water buckets. As the chips of slush frothed up, I thought, "This is all fun now when I'm 20, but I don't want to be doing it when I'm 40." And that stuck in my mind. Along with the usual background drumming of my low grade white hat fever.

A couple of months later, maybe March. I was knocking off a horse when the intercom buzzed that I had a call. Picked it up and it was my stepfather, who had never called me before, on the line.

"I've been thinking. Taking care of horses isn't really the best use of your talents, is it?"

(A little irritated on behalf of all my groom/hunt service/horse bum friends, but remembering the icy buckets)

"Probably not."

"You ought to go back to school and finish your degree. If you will, I'll pay for it."

"Thank you. I'll start next term."

I finished with the horse, put it in its stall, fed, and gave in two months notice. Hated to do it, too, because my New York family is the BEST.

So a month or six weeks went by and I was sitting in the kitchen reading the Chronicle, starting of course at the help wanted adverts. (This, O best beloved, was before there was an internets.)

And there it was, whipper in wanted, Midland foxhounds.

Mind you, this was in the very heyday of Mr. Hardaway's career hunting hounds. I considered it (fwmoiw) one of the two best hunt service places in the country.

So I called, and Mr. Hardaway called me down. By this time I was like a week away from leaving New York and going back south to University. I spent two days hunting beside him, looking at the arrangements, going out with fifty couple of hounds.

It wasn't some fake out interview either, like law firms do where they treat you like you're on the first date and then once you sign up you're the scullery drab. No, he showed it with the bark off, so I knew what to expect.

It was like the apotheosis of hunt service to my eyes. No way would I get this opportunity.

And then as I was about to head back to the airport, he offered me the place.

And my head was just full. Not just because the back to school offer might not be made again. This was long term, it was a decision about the general direction of my whole life.

And I explained that to Mr. Hardaway. That I wanted the place, but because of the University offer this was absolutely a fork in the road for me. I knew that I would say yes, and I told him that because it was so important I wanted to be sure, to sleep (as if I could sleep!) on the decision.

And he said, "No. If you aren't sure now, you don't want it badly enough. I'll find someone else."

I know still that I would have said yes in the morning, without any reservation.

I might have broken my neck in the Georgia woods the first week, or fallen in kennel and been eaten except for my skul, and my feete, & the palmes of my hands. Perhaps someone else would have trod the path I did more effectively.

Would it have been a good decision, or a bad one?

I do know that ten or fifteen people are alive now, and some dangerous predators are locked up, because I didn't get to make that decision.

So Mr. Hardaway didn't just change my life that morning, he did others' lives as well.

I'm sure Mad Jack changed some lives too, but no one tells those stories.

Killing Bin Laden...

2011-05-05T07:47:00.000-04:00

Killing Bin Laden- another failed policy of the Bush administration.

Arrest the TSA Perverts !!!!!!!!111!!!!

2011-05-03T10:34:00.003-04:00

Or so I read around the blogs.

Lovely idea. Dropping fantasy for reality for a moment if I may.

I'm an actual State prosecutor. There is an actual airport in a nearby State. It is staffed with actual TSA screeners. They actually screen. I've seen a hundred or so pat downs here and maybe 400 elsewhere while going through it myself.

Here's a link to the the actual State criminal code of sexual offenses in that State.

In the actual world, which crime can I convince a jury of twelve, unanimously and beyond a reasonable doubt, that an actual screener commits when screening/patting down?

This is a serious question, I'd like to know what commenters here see as the crime GIVEN THE ACTUAL LAW, not fantasy law.

Go SEALs! But the Real Credit...

2011-05-02T08:50:00.001-04:00

Extra fish and beach balls all round.

But the real credit goes to someone he hopes we will never know.

That Pakistani who walked up to some American and said "I have some information..."

An Horrific Act of Child Abuse...

2011-04-29T11:36:00.003-04:00

or as it's called in English, cruelty to a child.

I thought giving a child the name "Páj-uh-mus" (spelled P a j a m a s ) was the worst. Not now.

His last name doesn't matter, it's a perfectly ordinary Smith/Brown/Robinson sort of name. As is Pajamas'.

His given name- the one his mother selected from all possible combinations of the alphabet- is:

Mister.

How much did she hate him to do that!

Tax Day Reflections...

2011-04-18T11:08:00.002-04:00

Usually I decide on Tax Day to attribute some government purchase to my own payment. Sometimes it makes me feel better to think that I've bought something specific- half a Marine, a wash job on half oif one face of the Washington Monument, something like that.

This year is a little different. One reason is that, for the first time, I've had to write a used car sized check to cover the difference between withholding and actual taxes. Which is a good thing, if momentarily irritating.

Second, the value of the money has declined by about 40% in two years. Infuriating.

Also, the things I've been focussing on as purchases aren't things I'd have bought myself- a month's pay for a Goldman Sachs thief retained by TARP, or fifteen minutes of Secret Service protection for Mrs. Obama in Spain. InfUUUUUriating.

Then I got to thinking about my lifetime taxes, the aggregate.It's a lot.

You know what it bought?

Not once did I hear the march of an occupying army. Never was I (when at home) more than an hour away from fire fighters or police officers who would protect me, even at the risk of their own lives. And ambulance drivers and doctors who would have treated me, without first questioning whether I could pay. I never saw servants of my government turn me out of my house or take my property without lots of chances to legally protect my rights. Blue lights in the mirror never meant extortion or a beating. If my government turns tyrannical, I can use the same tools for defense against it that I can use to defend myself from private predators. I work in government, and have never been asked to do something wrong. Power companies trust enough in the courts and laws that they will give me electricity on demand and on credit. I can go to a library and get any book ever written for the price of a sandwich, if I can't get it on the government internet in my own house. If I can't work, I might live rough, but I will never starve to death. I've never faced conscription. No warlords. No ethnic cleansing. No streams of refugees. No vanished friends. No midnight knocks on the door for opinions or religion or race, not for me or anyone I knew. No running and hiding when governments change. For most of my life, and maybe still, nuclear weapons were pointed AT MY HOUSE and they never went off.

I spent my taxes on exemption from the ordinary, natural state of mankind.

Deal.

Speaking of Buses...

2011-04-12T14:41:00.003-04:00

Hello, there should be more advice about dealing with depression when you're stupid and worthless, so here is a self help exercise.

Today's assignment is simple. Just go out and get on the bus.

It doesn't matter which bus. Whichever bus comes next. Get on, and just go. You could ride that bus to the very end, thank the driver, and then walk into the woods and just die. Just lay down right there and wait and wait until you were dead. Who is going to miss you?

Really, think about it. If you went out to the middle of nowhere and just sat down in a ditch and cried by yourself until you were dead, who would be the first person to wonder where you'd gone?

Call them up! Maybe they want to get ice cream.

And I have just been informed that today is free cone day at Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream!

Heathens, Jews and Protestants Burn I Suppose...

2011-04-09T15:51:00.002-04:00

Or do they just mean it's for emergencies peculiar to Catholics, like someone comes on the bus with a Big Mac on Friday?

Special Medical Needs...

2011-04-07T22:37:00.004-04:00

Hotgirl: "I can't see."

Staghounds: "Maybe you should go to the eye doctor for glasses."

H.: "I need to go to the Tourette's doctor for my foul language and bad attitude."

S.: "Your attitude is not that bad."

H. "F@ck you."

S.: "I stand corrected."

I am the Doctor Andrew Hatch of Hunting...

2011-03-30T18:53:00.016-04:00

I've more than once been referred to by fishing friends as the "Doctor Andrew Hatch of hunting".

And, aside from the late start, it's not an inapposite comparison.

The story's source is on the last picture, remember to click on each individual picture to make it a readable size.

In My Continuing Quest...

2011-03-04T09:44:00.002-05:00

to compete with Tam in the "crazy gun nut song department:

Bonus, since we used to live in Ney..., uh, Knoxville:

Traditionnn!

2011-02-21T21:12:00.002-05:00

How is it that sometimes the best of friends are the ones you see now and then?

I was thinking about that today on the way home from one such meeting. How you can see or talk to people and pick right up. Maybe distance and infrequency enrich intimacy.

I've been fortunate to have three families. The New York one taught me that a family can be about joy and trust and encouragement, love.

My New York sister was one of those relationships, it was like yesterday even if we hadn't spoken for months. I thought, I'll call her tomorrow.

And then I get home.

A Good Staff Day with the OFH...

2011-02-20T05:05:00.014-05:00

Monofixtural today. It's getting to where I almost feel deprived if having only one hunt!

There were some good bits though. First, the day was not as fast and busy as is usual with this pack. Some running, which we were not in a position to get very close to, but lots of drawing. I do love me some thorough drawing, and of course like those odd scenting illustrations.

It was a warm and fairly clear day. There was a period where to my eye hounds couldn't generally smell much, and they acted like they were on a walk in the park.

But two minutes later in another field, it was a different story. They snapped to and paid attention, you could tell they were smelling things. Why? A little cloudier and cooler, but not much. Maybe that was it, maybe just a different spot. Again, just curious to see the contrast.

Whatever the reason, they gave a good exhibition of hard drawing at one particular covert. Although it was thick and rough, not a single hound stayed out. And again, they went in enthusiastically.

That is a tribute to a huntsman, I believe.

Only seldom do I think much about hunting hounds, I am by temperament and experience a whipper-in. Interesting, considering my absolute lack of game sense. More of my losing insurgency against real life!

Often when hounds draw, you'll see some not bothering to go in, skulking- or just cruising along- outside of covert. Sometimes you'll see them all go in, but it's obvious that they do it sullenly to avoid a worse fate than scratched ears. It's much to my taste to see the WHOLE pack plunge in, do it cheerfully, and pop out the other side with that "Nothing in there! We looked! Take us to another one!" expression.

Anyone can take them there. And there are plenty of hounds who love to draw. Anyone active can drive the rest in. But it takes a bit more to get them all to WANT to go in.

End of day came, drawing back to the meet. And what happened?

Yes, an alert whipper-in saw a "red" fox sneaking away. She holloaed them on. It was well done and distinctive. The field were pleased, according to the later reviews!

Not as pleased as they were about to be. Hounds ran him through the woods, and then he turned back across an open field. When he came up out of the dead ground at the edge, he had a surprise- there was the mounted field, in the same pasture!

You could almost hear him think- "Well, I've never had a horse and rider try to bite me in the bottom, so here goes!"

And there he went, right across the field among the riders! it was pretty spectacular, especially since he was a bright glowing safety orange- almost lemon color!

Here's my picture:

And one by a real photographer:

He crossed the field and into the woods.

Actually hounds were a pretty good distance behind.

But they were burning hot across this field when they got there!

They lost him just a quarter mile along from this picture, in the woods. Up a tree, down a hole, or just really awful scent.

It was a good day for staff, though, at least to my eye. Lots of "right place, right time":

Ms Logan " Was Asking For It..."

2011-02-17T07:23:00.002-05:00

No, she wasn't. What happened to her was terrible and everyone should be safe everywhere.

Having said that, I despise the news coverage.

She was in a RIOT, one that she chose to attend. None of the Egyptians that have been beaten, raped, or killed have been worthy of national front page coverage.

Nor have any of the women who were raped the same night right here in the riot free U. S.

Ms. Logan could have had the same experience in many American cities, just walking down the street at two A. M.

And saved the air fare!

Millions of Americans live in a place like an Egyptian riot every day.

As long as they keep voting right, their masters don't mind, it's not news.

The Official Song of the Nanny State...

2011-02-16T07:36:00.001-05:00

Here you go!

Great, Now I Have A New Nickname At Work...

2011-02-15T09:49:00.000-05:00

Honey prosecutor don't care.

A Musical Valentine This Year...

2011-02-14T07:29:00.002-05:00

No embed, so smack the link up.

The Humpty Dumpty Was The First Journalism Professor...

2011-02-14T07:14:00.005-05:00

A few thousand Egyptians use violence to overthrow an elected President. Some Generals then send the elected government home. Our masters in the media , in THE ONLY STORY OF THE WEEK, tell us this is a triumph of democracy.

56% of the most highly informed and educated voters in the oldest republic on the planet make a choice in a highly contested, single issue, free and open election, and they tell us THAT is all about deception, framing, and false consciousness.

I'm sure American journos would say that too, but I suspect that we don't need to know. Look, King Tut!

My favourite quote by a loser: Martine Brunschwig-Graf, MP, said: "Women in Switzerland have only had the vote for 40 years and they aren't engaging in politics yet, even when the issue concerns them."

`I don't know what you mean by "glory,"' Alice said.

Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. `Of course you don't -- till I tell you. I meant "there's a nice knock-down argument for you!"'

`But "glory" doesn't mean "a nice knock-down argument,"' Alice objected.

`When I use a word,' Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, `it means just what I choose it to mean -- neither more nor less.'

`The question is,' said Alice, `whether you can make words mean so many different things.'

`The question is,' said Humpty Dumpty, `which is to be master - - that's all.'

Getting shot at...

2011-02-09T09:30:00.002-05:00

Every time a police officer here becomes long term unavailable for court, that department sends us a letter.

Going through the mail today, there were three notices. I told Day Wife, "Smith, Jones, and Robinson are leaving the Big City police department. Well, Robinson is on military leave for deployment. He's going to spent the next year being shot at."

"You mean, shot at somewhere different."

C O L D

Joint Meet...

2011-02-07T21:53:00.000-05:00

(Remember, you can click on the pictures to enlarge them.)

So the OFH hosted visitors. I was fortunate to have three days out!

First, the Friday and our hounds. (I can say ours now, I think.) Sloppy and cold, and it looked like rain.

Getting the plan:

Tembo showed off his new coat:

A.J. suggested that we might watch out for a strike on the part of the pack, demanding warm jackets.

Misty...

Mysterious...

Mystified...

Dashing around to try to get to hounds...

And they did try!

A pretty good bit of running for a while, but things just died out. Grr.

Next day, a mixed pack. And an extra huntsman!

So, off to the first draw. And on the way to it, hounds opened! Into a covert, and out the south side on a coyote.

Meanwhile, on the north side out popped two!

The field swung out, then back- the race was on.

Hounds couldn't hold on to the southbound critter. No problem, up to ours, and away:

He crossed the road east, and I thought he'd turn north and along the river. Wrong agin, south. Then a loop west, across the road, and- a silver singleton this time, out of the same covert! A little slip north and east and then:

No , this is not number 307 of my ongoing "There was just a coyote here, really!" series...

Yes, they are still back there...

But a fair distance. First on the scene was our spare huntsman. Lifting his hat to show where the game went, as one should:

"They are going to have this one! I'll eat him myself if I catch him first!"

I don't know. Those hounds are pretty far behind.

Again I ventured to wonder if he'd swing north. There was a little flutter that way, but back south. Hey, it worked before! And again, west across the road:

And north again! Well, it worked twice before. Crossing the same field east? You bet:

A little faster this time!

I wonder how much better A. J.'s shot of this 'yote is than mine:

"Sheesh, what is WITH you people! L8r-"

" I am not EVEN taking my hat off this time."

Hounds were farther behind than before, and Wile E. did not look beat to my eye. Between the soaking ground and his jinking and turning, he was lengthening his lead.

I'm always beating the drum of how scent varies from hound to hound, and here was what I took as an illustration. When hounds came across the field, they were on his track, but spread out like a cloud. And they weren't really running in the classic sense- drifting and swirling around, and fairly quiet. This picture gives an idea:

But then from the back edge of the field we could hear one hound- a fairly high pitched voice. Along she came, dead on the line, head down, and speaking at every stride. To my mind, the scent in that field at that minute was just no big deal to two dozen hounds. But to that one, it was the thing!

She came straight, right through the rest of the pack. They got the message and fell in.

Alas it was not to be. They lost him on his third try in the woods. Unless, as I believe possible, our extra huntsman caught and ate him!

Hmmm...

Naah.

No way he'd have kept it to himself...

Good boys and girls!

A moment for sincere and respectful condolences from one professional to another on the silver coyote's escape:

And then on to the next draw. In the brilliant "Parkinson's Law", Cyril Parkinson scoffingly suggested that if the ordinary trends of bureaucracy he was outlining held true, a day might come when the Royal Navy had more Admirals than ships.

That was intended as a ridiculous and impossible straw man, but it actually has come true.

And now because of stupid Parliament and its jackass laws, the D&S and QSH have more staff than hounds.

I don't think we'll get that way any time soon. But...

here's one per couple and a half!

That was pretty much end of day. Hounds worked well together as far as I could tell. The visitors and home hunt didn't pick different coyotes and run in opposite directions at least. And a fun hunt party to round off the Saturday!

I stayed in a remote cabin that night, courtesy of a very generous fellow hunter. And had my very first experience like this ever!

I woke up...

(No, not what you think.)

AT THE MEET.

No driving required. Shock.

This was at the N. F. H.

Pretty day, alas:

A lot of scampering! The pictures are pretty lame- shots of the truck roof, grass, sky, random tree branches. We moved out, my pilot believes in getting there!

Did see a pretty self cast by these hounds, coyote came arrow straight into one side of a big jungly covert and turned ninety degrees right handed in he middle of it. They worked it out just fine:

Covered some distance:

Hounds, as these do, worked hard and there was much running. We didn't catch this clever and woods-bound coyote:

But he had a good workout.

One funny incident. The G. L. E. are still in effect. Pictures available on request...

Well,

2011-01-14T18:01:00.002-05:00

What he said. I'm back now.

Facebook Hates Itself...

2011-01-11T22:49:00.000-05:00

Facebook's spell checker underlines Facebook as a misspelling!

Break's Over...

2011-01-05T13:08:00.002-05:00

Well, the one from work is anyway.

Clemence said something to me one day in the snow last month. I was trying as usual to get by in French, and said that I spoke French like a child does.

"Would it not be best if everyone could only speak as a child does? No cursing, no words to tell lies or to break a heart."

I was all exhilarated at the time, but even so it struck me as a lovely thought. More so today.

"Boots on the Ground" with the Boarhounds…

2011-01-04T18:06:00.002-05:00

I despise that phrase, it’s the free center place on the network “war news” buzzword bingo card. But it actually applies to this little story…

Out the other day with the boar hounds. The meet was up in the forest of St. Gobain, and there was a pretty good fall of wet, cold snow on the ground. I’d left early, and was first to the rendezvous.

On really raw weather days, I wear Corcoran jump boots. They fit me well, are comfortable, and keep my toes warm and dry. Developed for the first American airborne soldiers in 1943, this particular pair is black and dates from the 1950s. (I’d be happy to wear new ones, but they haven’t made them in narrow widths for years.)

So, people started to show up, the usual friendly French hunting people. No one spoke English, and with my poor French there was a lot of silence.

I was standing there waiting for things to get rolling, when I heard a quiet voice beside me:

“Where did you get those boots?”

The speaker was a tall, distinguished looking gentleman.

“Oh, I’ve had them for years.”

“I recognize them, they are from the American Army. My father wore boots like that for five years.

I am seventy three years old, and I remember when the Americans came. French people who can remember are still very grateful for what they did.”

What a generous and kind thing to say.

“Thank you, sir. We remember that French people like your father were fighting the Germans for two years before Americans were, and we are grateful for that.”

And even if we forget, we are.

So thank you, Corcoran, for providing an excuse for a little international friendship.

Well, THIS Won't be Much of a Day...

2010-12-16T04:55:00.073-05:00

Read all the way on this one!

So off to the Futaie des Amis. A sharp, cold, grey, ice-breath day. The meet was in the forest not far from Compiegne, which s a pretty tightly compacted city. As usual here, there are no suburbs- the wheat fields go right up to the tower blocks.

They aren't all hammerheads. Although every time I've tried to take a picture of something I'd take into the hunter ring, something gets in the way! Still, this fellow looks useful and is pleasing to the eye:

There's no rapport picture!

The Rapport is that event before the hunt. Everyone lines up in front of the Master. The (usually four) people who have taken out tufters then each describe what, if any, huntable game they have found in their section of the forest. It's practical and interesting. Even with my idiot foreign baby French, I can see the tufters compete with each other to "sell" what they have found, and sometimes it's an occasion for a little ribbing.

This time, there wasn't one! Why?

No one found anything! They would have to draw blind! In the land of Marshal Berthier, this is no light matter.

Everyone seemed much bothered by this. Snow started coming down, there was lots of talk about hard and slippery ground, and so forth. A couple of people said to me that it probably wouldn't be a good day.

What do I know, I looked at hounds and they seemed sniffy.

So, into the forest:

Waiting as the snow came down a bit harder.

Looks cold, doesn't it?

My pilot was excellent, and spoke very little English.

He was driving a big Toyota four wheel drive. The only other occupant was his son, maybe four years old. While we were creeping through the woods, he climbed into the front and up onto his father's lap, and his father let him drive. I suppose fathers do that universally- the first one with an oxcart probably did.Suddenly I remembered how my own used to do the same thing with me oh so many years ago, and how it felt. I didn't know the last time I had that memory, and it just teared me right up.

Enough emo. I did notice that we were with some familiar faces, keen hunters I'd seen out before in the right places, afoot today. So I was thinking good thoughts...

And they struck! Pretty quickly it got strong, then loud. Coming this way...

Droit au gauche! Really, there was a stag there!

Look down the next allee.

Hey, wait a minute... Let's have a closer look:

Yes- taiii-o!

And it was on.

Here's where I become even more useless as a correspondent. (Read on to the end for proof, even though none is required.)I don't know the geography, so can't tell the places. But there was some running! It seems every time we stopped, along the deer came. He started out with the usual bunch o' biches, but hounds parti'd them pdq. He was a three atop:

And hounds started right on him:

Of course he opened a lead soon, and kept it. Lots of waiting at allees:

And security on busy roads.

My horse is on fire!

This stag was clever. He kept swirling around, picking up women to help him out and get hounds confused. He even managed to get one larger stag to get on foot, trying to seduce them away. (Remember this picture, you will be reminded of it later.)

Hounds paid little attention to the horned tempter, but stayed on the hunted three atop:

My camera was drunk, alright?

In this picture, I had just taiii-o'd a stag, I thought the hunted one but maybe not. He came from the forest and topped just inside the tree line, above where the Land Rover's hood is.

When the whipper-in arrived, I explained what I saw by pointing to this scene

and saying ( I think )

"Stag here come,no street, to, in wood on land, wood down."

No wonder people think foreigners are stupid.

We had been joined by the sister of my pilot.

Wow! I thought I was enthusiastic, on my wildest day I am in a coma compared to this lady! And speaking of dynamos, these two stayed up all day:

Sometimes you have to kick on:

And others, keep it on the down low:

So on toward later afternoon, we stopped- halalli in the woods. Apparently this was cloooose to Compiegne-

But he was afoot again! Off we went, again back and forth in the forest, view after view.

A final halalli, and he was killed.

I paced it off, 40 yards from the Avenue de Royallieu.

Thirsty hounds!

A welcome sight:

Curee in the dark, and home.

Now, why all this read to the end stuff? Also out that day was Didier Delahaye. I thought all my reader would like to see what a REAL observer noticed. Most if not all of these pictures were taken in my presence, the last one- the stag we didn't chase- literally over my shoulder just before I took my futile snap.

For serious, I saw some of these things with my OWN EYES and they didn't look nearly this good.

Enjoy!

"Yeah, they ARE that good."

"Gotta go!"

Rivecourt 2010...

2010-12-13T05:03:00.050-05:00

Always love me some Rivecourt! Friendly people, dedicated hunters, and plenty of activity.

Grey skies and cool:

Cold enough that a fairly good sized lake was frozen over.

Patientez:

Hey- if it will take you hunting and break your neck...

Au rapport!

What's the plan?

"Ah rapport
Zat ah lak' 'avin' moi ear scratched."

I was wished onto two very good pilots- Merci!

Drawing into the forest:

Busy roads always a problem. Ten wild pigs (and one errant hound) crossed here, but no one followed.
Then hounds stuck, and off we went! They were in the jungly bit right below this road, and this whipper-in is, like us, trying to figure out which way they will go:

Which I don't know why it's so difficult, there is an arrow RIGHT THERE.

Across a cut place. FAR more people a half hour after the meet than before it!

Now waiting on this road- even busier:

Then, hounds speaking, bundled into the truck and away! Looking off to my right- what's that, coming out of that dead ground?

Taaaaai-o!

No pricket this!

Definitely a slow track:

He went on, we moved, and he crossed behind us. Like our coyotes, these stags are bold and take little notice of humans or roads if they have a point in mind.

Continuing through a village- hey, this looks familiar!

As it should, we had returned to the scene of my hunting crime. All alone for a while, we were joined by a whipper-in and a bicyclist. Patientez...

Hounds, running right across in front of us!

And away.

Back en voiture, and another familar spot- gunpit lane.

Onward still, to the place of last year's rainy Rendezvous. Sure enough, again he ran right in front of us again. No picture, grr.

What's French for "Come on, hound!"

Later another lost hound got a free ride:

While we waited by the woods.

Aristocrats, capitalists, millionaires every one!

Lost him, so regroup and redraw:

He ran, again, right in front of us.

Around to a new place, all by ourselves in some old forest. Wait, whats that sound? Pad pad pad thud thud thud CRASH, again across the allee twenty yards (sorry, 18.288 meters) from us. We couldn't hear hounds at all, just the approach of the King in his forest. Well, Count anyway. Just beautiful.

Then on to wait at this allee:

But, because I had the camera ready, he went another way.

It came on to be rainy and dark, and he was given best.

But there were hounds and hunters scattered all over, far from the rendezvous. They were still coming in at a Forester's lodge as darkness fell.

There was the usual ferry back to get trailers, and it was black night before the scene was clear.

A Spectacular Snowy Saturday with the Villiers-Cotterets

2010-12-12T08:45:00.002-05:00

I often say that one thing I like about hunting is its relative timelessness. It’s been the same for hundreds of years, and hunters from eras long past would fit right in.

Generally. “Meet at the

cell tower” might give the Empress Eugenie pause.

But then again, lots of things did.

I wanted to hunt with Rivecourt, but they had le cough du chenil. Those bedspreads are dusty!

So off with the Villiers-Cotterets again.

“I ‘ave niege on moi nez!”

More snow today:

Le trompe:

And off. After seeing her performance last year and four days ago, I took chance and begged a very generous and skilled, dedicated lady for a place.

I may not have any game sense, but sometimes I can figure out who does!

We arrived at this carriere:

to see a few roe deer running from the racket hounds. On they came:

but hunting red deer, not the roe we saw. Off into the forest:

Alas it was biches, so regroup and draw again. The snow got heavier:

And hounds struck!

Our pilot dashed us to a recently cut section of the forest, which was exactly the right spot!

I swear, there was a stag right there a second ago, droit au gauche!

See? Hounds right on him:

And off into the forest. Back en voiture, barreling down the road, when BOOM! Stagboy crossed right in front of us, if we had been going even a little faster w would have hit him!

Easy to say, yet another "He was right there!" post, but here are his tracks:

He was to my eye a hunted stag, but a couple of other followers showed up and, I think, disputed that.

But you know how it is, two Frenchmen saying hello sounds like four Americans getting ready to have a bar fight.

Hounds came along in a few minutes and settled the question:

Interesting how much of a distance the stag had opened up, and how quickly.

Hunters a little behind hounds:

Then, as usual, looking for a good spot and waiting.

Hound music approached...

And, again, he was right there!

Into the forest:

We picked up a passenger:

Then, again. he crossed in front of us and then just inside the tree line along an open field:

He's coming...

THERE! A perfect shot, Stephan Lavoye watch out!

Then the usual dash, zipping along. Is he here? There?

And more, slipping and sliding while hounds crashed along out of our sight.

Then up into a village beside a little two room house.
There was a LeClerc (like the Home Depot of France) van in the driveway, and you guessed it:

The man came out, with his daughter who looked to be about 15, in a t shirt and ballet slippers. The daughter I mean.

Well, it was like the circus had come to their very own yard! There were only a few mounted hunters in at the end. One's horse tried for a nip:

And this girl on her (sadly outgrown and I could see why sadly) pony were among them, the toughest of the day.

Back to the Rendezvous.

But there are still hounds out! No radio collars here, either.

Recovered some,

Then back for the curee:

The Master had done exactly the right thing, invited Mr. Leclerc back for the event and then offered him the head for his wall!

And so we bid "au revoir" to the forest of Villiers-Cotterets...

Bifixtural my First Day in France this Year...

2010-12-10T12:06:00.001-05:00

So- the Villiers-Cotterets (AKA the Pond Hounds) first day in France. They were just around the corner. Still a bit shocking not to have to drive three hours.

It's like an Alabama divorce:

"Get out of the truck!"

Not you!

Making friends for hunting. For serious, it's a public road!

"We aire Ver ready to 'unt!"

Intent faces at the Rapport:

Suited up and ready to roll.

And trot. I’m told that many of these French hammerheads are too-slows off the trotting track. Not pretty, but they go all day!

A full sized camion de pick-up Americain:

Come on, catch up!

Just a dusting of snow:

But that awful sunshine:

Even so, deer en l’allee:

And they ran! A blistering dash and hallali in the lake:

And it was fairly early, so off I went to see if the Buckhounds were still going.

Alas, they had just stopped. But still in time for the feed. I agree, Mademoiselle!

A St. Eustache Buckhound Day...

2010-12-07T05:28:00.002-05:00

The first day's hunting I had on my own in France was with this Roebuck pack. I just heaved up, not a one of them spoke English. It was one of those clear, ice-cold winter days, and they FLEW. The courree was deep in the forest after dark. The bottles came out, logs were thrown on the fire,... and they blew until nearly midnight in that crystalline, star spattered blackness.

Good times.

A St. Eustache Buckhound Day…

So, off with the buckhounds again. I think this pack’s motto is, “We hunt well and no one goes away hungry.”

I was almost first at the meet, only my Nivateur from last year was there before me. He is a tufter, and so was bringing his hound in.

This sort of view is always pleasant:

And inside:

The dog hut is a step up from my house, though a little smaller:

And thank you, Francois:

More tufters arrived:

Hideous weather AGAIN:

What I didn’t know was that this was St. Eustache day, which is St. Hubert for this pack. Our generous hostess made everyone very welcome indeed!

One of the hunters told me, “We do not have the Mass.” Depends on what you call a Mass, I expect. There was certainly a Cathedrale du Chevreuil:

And communion, whoa! For serious, among half a hundred dishes and wines, gateau where there was only enough flour to bind the sugar to the butter. And of course, the best apple crumble on earth! And:

But hounds were waiting:

On the Rapport. Note the man in the centre’s invisible horse:

And the cool wolf fur hat!

Love to see children at the meet. This one was very chic:

Although it was fairly cool, tradition was maintained:

Not only the sun threatened to melt the snow:

And we were off! In and out of the whitened woods and allees:

My pilot knew what Nashville was:

And where to go to find hounds. Unfortunately the action was usually some distance away, so although we could hear, there wasn’t much to see. At the point that picture was taken, for example, we were dead right and all alone. Hounds ran from in the forest toward us- he’s pointing to where it sounds as though the roebuck will break out. But she reculed across our front and we took a chance, a big loop around on a main road. A bit too large, because the hallali was over a couple of minutes before we arrived:

And back for the curee:

I really like the style of this pack. They are very light, the Master appears to love his hunting and his hounds, and they seem to return it. The joy of the day is evident on this lady’s face: