Horse & Hound

Goodnight Columnist Tessa Waugh’s hunting diary, plus our weekly cartoon “The Final Straw”

Tessa Waugh swaps the quad bike for a 12.2hh as her nostalgia for autumn hunting is edged with deep depression about the wayward Rusty, who has no intention of playing ball

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‘My feisty 12.2hh ride and agricultur­al ensemble — welly boots and a beanie hat — got a few askance looks’

WE had our first morning’s autumn hunting this week. From a hunting point of view, it went well. A great start for huntsman and hounds. Alec was pleased, too. He was on saintly Sally, the new pony, zipping about and enjoying every minute.

There is an incredible romance to these first mornings. Mist rising, hounds swirling at foot. Pulling on breeches in the darkness, I always get nostalgic. Having made these mad morning dashes for over 30 years, a big part of me wants to share that fun and excitement with the children. I don’t think Mary was feeling it when I woke her up at 5.30am.

The plan was that she would go with

Laury, who helps us with the horses, because sometimes reticent children are better when their mother is nowhere near. They hacked up from home to meet the hounds on the boundary of the farm but sadly, once again, Rusty was not playing ball. Jack and I were chugging up a hill on a quad bike when we heard a lot of frantic whinnying. The combined excitement of returning to the fray — Rusty is a hunting pony through and through — and a sexy mare, Sally, in the vicinity was blowing his brains. Mary froze. It was clear that this was not going to work and Laury kindly offered to take them both home.

THERE is something deeply depressing about giving up so early in the day and I wasn’t having any of it.

“Don’t worry, leave Mary and Rusty with me and you go on,” I said blithely.

Mary by this time had dismounted and Rusty was like a coiled spring, cantering around me in circles, shrieking for Sally, who was long gone. As Laury and the rest of the field disappeare­d from sight, I realised I had made a big mistake. Here I was, stranded on an open hill with two children, a quad bike and a mad pony who was desperate to join his pals. It was a bit like the riddle of the fox, the chicken and the sack of grain — get it wrong and someone would perish.

In the end Mary drove the bike, smiling now, with Jack as co-pilot. I jumped aboard the pony. Catching up with everyone else, my feisty 12.2hh ride and agricultur­al ensemble — I don’t think welly boots and a beanie hat are considered correct hunting dress — got a few askance looks.

“The master’s wife, coming out like that,” said a former master, in mock horror. Dignity? I lost that ages ago. Looking like a prize numpty? All in a day’s work. With any luck, Rusty will be calmer on the next outing.

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