Memories of a Foxhunting Man
Rappahannock County, over the years, is blessed to have been home to a remarkable number of the great and the good of the world. Roger Scruton, who with his wife Sophie, and children Sam and Lucy, for a time inhabited “Montpelier” on the FT Valley Road, was one such notable. Sadly, his death on Jan. 12, came far too soon and took from us one of the most original thinkers of the past 100 years or more.
Tens of thousands of words have been written about Roger since his death, extolling his genius, praising his graceful writing, and marveling at his capacity to absorb and analyze cogently, and with a deft precision, all manner of cultural and political phenomena. There was neither an art nor a science that he did not study, understand, or teach. He was, arguably, the most respected of classical conservative philosophers since Edmund Burke. This earned him as many friends as detractors, but I’ll leave it to others to sort that out.
One of the things that attracted Roger to Virginia, and Rappahannock in particular, was his passion for foxhunting. This area is renowned as the cradle of the American foxhound. Roger wanted to experience it for himself, especially as the sport had been gelded in his native England. So, he came here and purchased “Montpelier” (which, he insisted, was properly pronounced “Monpell-yea,” not “Mont-pell
ear”). We were introduced by a mutual friend and my reaction was exactly that of the 19th century English novelist R. S. Surtees’ fictional Mr. Jorrocks: “Tell me a man’s a foxhunter and I loves ‘im at once!” Roger’s slim volume called “On Hunting” is an affecting memoir that chronicles his induction into the sport and reflects brilliantly on its larger meaning. I had read it before we met and felt an immediate kinship, though having no idea at the time who Roger Scruton was.
Roger and Sophie became subscribers to the Rappahannock Hunt and spent many happy days riding to hounds, integrating themselves into the community, and endearing themselves as friends and neighbors. They were gracious hosts to the hunt and to their many friends.
One hunting morning Roger had no mount, so I offered to supply him one. Following a two-hour battle,
I had failed to persuade the horse meant for Roger to load onto the horse van. I had no recourse but to leave the obstinate beast behind and rush to the meet, arriving late, to lend Roger my own horse. “He won’t put a foot wrong,” I assured Roger, who seemed sincerely touched. Hours later, at the end of what turned out to be a frenetic day involving a change of horses and a bruised knee, a dejected Roger returned my horse. “He didn’t put a foot anywhere,” he grumbled. I’m not sure he ever forgave me, but it did not stop us from enjoying many delightful occasions together over dinners, at hunt breakfasts, and at his marvelous Guy Fawkes Day bonfires.
When, after too short a time, the Scrutons pulled up stakes and returned permanently to their farm in Wiltshire, England, the loss was keenly felt. While my lasting memories of Roger mostly involve foxhunting, I came to understand that he saw the sport as a metaphor for the treasured traditions of an ancient past. Knowing who we were helps us finally see who we are, and who we may become. He was a lover of nature and all things natural. He respected the countryside and the country life and did all he could to preserve and protect it.
Roger Scruton was a man of many parts, but genuinely one of a kind.
Gus Edwards, of Reva, is a Master of Foxhounds with the Rappahannock Hunt.