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This pack needed no excuses today! I quizzed a few of
local patrons and it transpired that it was unusual for hounds to loose a fox, expect in unforeseen circumstances such as Charlie reaching a massive forestry block or going over a major road. Perhaps, high standard of hound work could be attributed to huntsman, Davey Cowie. All day I had taken notice of how he is different from most huntsmen that I have observed. The hounds work for themselves, they are not called incessantly and horn is not constantly being blown to “get them back”. Make no bones about it, Deerness are one of best packs I have seen. Incidentally only other pack that I thought was exceptional was also a pirate pack. Perhaps there is something to be learnt there.
For next 15 minutes all was quiet. There was only a mile or so of densely wooded valley left to hunt and we thought that day was nearly over. Fortunately we were proved wrong as radio, once again, sprang into life announcing terriermans holy grail: “One to ground”
A flighty journey in four wheel drive and we rushed up a steep banking to find hounds marking a four hole place. What a picture they made, their deep voices echoing as they marked strongly, their breath hanging in air like a lung induced pea-souper. I made a collar up and checked that everything was ticking accordingly. All was well and so we entered a young, inexperinced rough coated, black bitch. Along with another lad we got our knocker boxes out and achieved a mark down banking of about 3-foot. Then, horror of horrors, collar made a painful whining sound before giving up ghost completely. As I am sure you can imagine, we were a little worried, but as luck would have it, bitch tried to pass entrance again and we lifted her. A new collar was attired and fitting tightly to a little red bitch called Meg, that was owned by terrier man, Stanner. Unfortunately Stanner had broken his shoulder in an accident and was hospitalised so Ben, huntsman's lad, was filling in instead. This little chestnut bitch flew to ground as if her life depended on it. After ten minutes she was still in same place, place that black bitch had gone to. Only two foot deep but she was not baying as if she was up to her game. The large group of us deliberated what was occurring below and what to do for best.
“Should we open up” was question on everyone's lips.
The bitch made decision for us and she moved right up to her quarry at a depth of five foot. We had a listen and she was going hammer and tongs at her fox. Despite quite an audience there was only three or four of us that actually got some muck on bank. As we started we found that digging was not easiest in world, only trouble was that it got harder deeper down we went. Layers of sandstone riddled solid earth; grafter was made to earn its keep, helping us to smash through stubborn layers. With only a foot or so to go we could hear Meg plainly working her fox like a dream. Intermittently her steady baying would be accentuated with sounds of her mixing it, probably this was down to fox being a bit pushy as at this time of year their hormones can make them not a little aggressive.
“Clunk”... We hit a tier of solid, unyielding rock that made bones in our arms vibrate. Though it was only four of five inches thick, this layer was impenetrable. A bar was quickly procured from farmhouse and we began to defeat this hard-line substrate. Little by little we fragmented rock with bar and in end we broke through. A swollen red muzzle poked out into cold night air and we lifted bitch. She had done three hours. I slithered down into dig and, by light of a torch; I blocked off behind where terrier was so that this fox couldn't slip back into earth. It was unusual in so much as there was barely any soil at all down there. As I looked around I found that tube was made almost entirely out of sandstone slabs. This place was more akin to a rock pile that had been covered with soil. The little terrier had done well to negotiate such obstacles.
The fox was sat back in its chamber and due to its position Stanners Wheaton/greyhound, Murphy, was utilised to draw this potential lamb killer in order for us to despatch it humanely. Murphy did his task with fire and style. Of course, as you would expect, everyone's eyes were focussed on strong, game, running dog but real hero of day was little red terrier to which all last three hours could be attributed. It was her that had gone into darkness and found her quarry, staying with it for three hours in tight, sandy and, quite frankly, inhospitable conditions. It was down to her stubborn gameness that we had gotten a dig.
A grand buffet with hot soup awaited us back at local hostelry and soon we travelled back southwards with our minds brimming with great images that was had observed throughout day. I would just like to thank Davey Cowie and his son Ben for showing us a great day’s sport. Long live hunting.
Written By J.Darcy http://www.thehuntinglife.com
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