How small studs are beating the big boys The
British breeders punching above their weight
and it was sad to hear that Jack had died a week later.
There were plenty of foxes (I know, what a thrill to use the f-word) about, and hounds found in Ger Dunne’s plantation and hunted along the Adamstown Road and out to Mick Cuscully’s firs. Here, Mark and whipper-in Adam Bouabbse had to stop them as they were heading into a big wedding venue — not everyone wants to get married to the sound of hound music rather than Mendelssohn, oddly.
There was a notably happy atmosphere among the field – one can always sense when a hunt is pulling together. Mark hasn’t been here a season yet, and Adam is in his first season in hunt service, too. After hunting the Scarteen for the past four years, Mark was working in horse transport when he received a telephone call in November asking him to hunt the Westmeath as a stopgap, as the previous huntsman had handed in his notice. Things have gone well, and he has signed up for next season.
“I’m seeing a lot more hound-work here than I have for the past few years,” he says. “In big, double bank country, hunting is done a lot more by ear and you have to compute the situation constantly without many visual aids. Here, the country is much more open and it is very well managed — there are hunt gates, gaps in wire fences, hunt jumps, so it means it is easier to cross and easier to stay with hounds.”
Mark has had a lot of support, from the masters — Ann Derwin, Dr David Mortell, Dot Love and Wendy O’Leary — and many others. He singles out whipper-in Adam Bouabbse, whose brother Andre was acting as field master on the day I was out, saying: “Adam is a really loyal team player who has my back, and I appreciate that very much.”
Shane Kelly and Darragh Lamb give Mark a hand up front on hunting days, too.
The Derwins are part of the bedrock of the Westmeath, and Ann had one son — Jim — and four grandchildren out, all going like rockets.
HOUNDS HARD AT WORK
IT was a rather frustrating day for Mark, as we repeatedly had short, fast hunts that promised much on foxes which cannily went to ground in land as full of holes as an Aero. The hounds — a level pack, predominately modern English but with some recently introduced old English outcrosses — did their best. They drew effectively and were quickly away when they found a fox, hunting well up together with a sonorous cry.
“They are testament to Niall [Mahon, Mark’s predecessor as huntsman],” said Mark.
“I have been very conscious not to make any changes in the way I handle them too quickly for their sakes. They are persistent — we conclude a lot of hunts and catch plenty of foxes.”
Hounds marked to ground in a gorsey covert, but another fox was seen away and hunted to Dalton’s, where he went to ground. Quickly they spoke on another fresh fox, and we had a nice fast hunt into Adrian Ennis’, Cathal Ennis’ and around the water tower, heading back through Kennedy’s plantation before marking to ground in a wall on Clark’s.
They hunted a couple of circuits around us at James’ firs without actually getting away, but the weather was good, the chat was excellent and we were quite happy to stand and listen to hounds.
Such is the interconnectivity of the equestrian world that despite not having been hunting in Ireland since 2011, I actually knew a few people out. Familiar faces were eventer Michael Ryan and his brothers Hughie and Pat from the Scarteen, and Emily MacMahon, who does great work with pre-trainers and young horses at Lamberstown Stud, as well as “sweetening up” some of Gordon Elliott’s megastars by taking them hunting.
The Ryan boys were great friends and supporters of Mark’s when he was at the Scarteen, and they reminded me of possibly the last time Mark and I went hunting together — about 12 years ago. He was whipping-in to Chris Ryan at the Scarteen at the time, having come to Ireland to whip-in to Will Bryer at the Co. Limerick, and, in a clear attempt to impress me, flipped his horse 360° in a proper rotational fall over a gate I was standing next to.
I remember that day’s hunting so well — a savage Scarteen day from Elton. Dismounting at the end of the day was like stopping banging your head against a brick wall — the relief at just surviving was tremendous.
We are much older, wiser and fatter now, and Mark’s wife, Claire — a really first-class jockey who has evented to CCI3* level and is an exceptionally talented producer of young event horses — is temperamentally much better suited to the lifestyle than I ever
was. Their daughter Scarlett is sharp as a razor blade — it will be fascinating to see whether or not she combines her mother’s talent with horses with her father’s ability with hounds.
MOVING OFF AT SPEED
GLENGORM was blank, as was Jim Carey’s. We headed up into Jim and Joe Glennon’s, whose sister Delores’ pub in Castletown we all invaded later well into the evening. Suddenly, there was a holloa with a real note of urgency to it. We were at the foot of a steep gorse bank, and at the top of it Ciaran Flynn had seen a fox. We shot up the nearly vertical incline — I’m embarrassed to admit that a hunt button popped off in the drama and exertion, although luckily I noticed in time to catch it, as they cost a fortune — in time to see hounds roaring away on our left.
Galloping along, we were able to watch them hunting, tight up together with their noses riveted to the ground, into Ger Lynam’s and then on to his brother Bill’s. We fiddled our way across and through on to a long concrete track, and watched the fox go to ground in a wall on Dan Lynam’s.
I thought the game was up, but hounds quickly bolted him themselves and he crossed the road to Lootams and over the river. We weren’t far behind, jumping up into James Keegan’s over a tricky place where I tore the velvet on my newly refurbished hunting cap (sorry, Mum) and then over a big wall-topped bank into Dan Lynam’s. I always have the same dilemma with single banks and these kind of wall/bank hybrids — should you try to jump it in one, or expect the horse to put down on top and push off again? Whatever I do is usually wrong so I have learnt just to hold the neckstrap and hope. Lovely Cool Hand knew what to do and I tried not to wobble about too much.
It all got a bit messy after that. The majority of hounds hunted on into Garthey bog, but some went right, probably on another fox, and were later found marking.
“Something split them and the lead hounds marked in dead ground to our right,” said Mark.
It was so nearly a really good hunt, if only they could have pushed him away and kept him travelling. But we had enjoyed a busy, active day and no one was complaining, especially not some fairly tired horses, as we hacked back towards the meet.
I had forgotten how much
I love hunting in Ireland; their sheer enjoyment of it all is so infectious. And, let’s not forget, it is the real thing.