The shooting stick

The throne from which diehard spectators survey their sport, the shooting stick has seen more Badmintons than anyone would dare admit, says Catherine Austen

BERYL always buys an Injured Jockeys Fund diary as soon as they are for sale. In it she carefully writes the dates of importance for the coming year: local point-topoints, horse trials, Little Flatworthy Show, assorted team chases. Beryl gave up hunting a few years ago — her knees creaked too much — but she always follows the Bustington

Vale in the car, giving hot sausages at second horses to her favoured few, and does a very speedy threepoint turn when she thinks hounds are hunting in the opposite direction.

Outside the hunting season, her weekends are spent spectating at all sorts of equestrian events. She never goes anywhere without her shooting stick, and she gets to Badminton at the crack of dawn on cross-country day to position herself by the Lake. She can’t help feeling that modern cross-country design has taken some of the fun out of the whole thing — the crowd used to love the splash when someone tipped up in the water, and she remembers

Richard Meade lying on the bank to empty the water out of his boots before getting back on. Oh well, it’s all much more serious these days.

Her Border terrier Archie accompanies her everywhere, and they share ham sandwiches and ginger cake. Beryl has never eaten a burger. The shooting stick — which is occasionally pressed into use to help some ineffective new Pony Club mother load a recalcitrant pony, has a broad, comfy seat to accommodate Beryl’s, um, broad, comfy seat.