Rick Down The Quantock Staghounds huntsman on 28 years’ service
With his remarkable way with hounds and 28 years’ service, Rick Down will be sorely missed by the Quantock Staghounds, says Rebecca Jordan
“HE’S just got ‘it’,” Martin Watts shrugs his shoulders by way of explanation as he glances across at his childhood friend Rick Down. “Even my terrier goes straight to Rick. He’s more popular than the Land Rover.”
“It” is a remarkable way with hounds. There is no packaging. Rick, who is retiring as huntsman of the Quantock Staghounds after 28 years, was simply born with the deer on Exmoor.
From his surroundings, from his father Gerald — who was a harbourer for the Devon and Somerset Staghounds — and his uncle Gilly, who whipped-in to them, Rick absorbed a profound perception that established itself as an almost telepathic trust between him and hounds — whether hunting with 20 couple pre-ban, or just two hounds today. Without seeking it, Rick has earned the universal respect and admiration of every huntsman throughout the country.
Yet at 56, after a testimonial meet at Honeymeade on 26 April, he retires the following Monday from Bagborough House on the Quantocks. The necessity of a hip replacement forced this decision way before time. If it is any consolation, he hangs up his boots at the zenith of his career. The blow is softened as he hands over the horn to Martin Watts, and Rick’s daughter Becky’s boyfriend Ryan Baugh takes over from Martin as whipper-in.
Rick and Martin’s classroom was the moor out the back of Simonsbath, riding ponies bareback. Rick caught his first hind when just 13 off his pony Peebles. There have been a few capers over the years.
“Rick was brought up the
right way, shadowed Gerald and worked under some brilliant, but hard, professional people,” says Andrew Pollard, Rick’s brother-inlaw. “He always has time to speak to people. He is such a friendly, professional person; everybody respects him and the way he goes about his business.
“He’s always on the ball: he stops hounds once pheasants have gone to roost and won’t travel where partridge are on the ground. The relationship he has built up with the shooting community has done so much good for our sport.”
INVALUABLE GUIDANCE
RICK served his apprenticeship for three seasons as second horseman with the Devon and Somerset before whipping-in for two. Here he met his wife Lucy, an integral and long-suffering cog in this well-oiled team. Rick then left to work under Paul Larby at the Eggesford for a season before coming to the Quantocks, first as whipper-in to Walt Perry.
“I was lucky to work with some good bosses,” says Rick. “Walt and his wife Joan weren’t the easiest, but they were very good to me. Joan cooked all my meals and washed my hunting clothes.
“John Fewing was invaluable when I started. He harboured for many years, was so sharp. Robert Rowe also played a big role.”
The history of Rick’s career hangs on the walls all around you at the kennels. Pride of place, however, facing his armchair in the “Antler Inn” (the valeting room cum bothy everyone gravitates to after hunting) is the head presented by Didier Varenne last year when these hounds held their own against their French counterparts.
For the past four seasons, the annual pilgrimage to Didier Varenne’s family pack, L’Equipage de Rivecourt, has been a blast of fresh air. For Rick there was also a sense of pride in his hounds’ performance in such traditional and esteemed surroundings.
“It was wonderful to go there each year, hunt a pack again and hear that music,” he says.
There is a constant stream of people coming through the door of the Antler Inn after a frustrating day in gale-force winds from Sixty Acres. A three-year old stag with a poor head had been picked out but lost.
“Those are the most difficult deer to catch,” explains Rick. “They’re very tough; with just two hounds it’s very hard to keep with them. Our remit is to manage a healthy herd of deer. It is very frustrating we can’t cull stags like that so they don’t breed.”
There have been many memorable days. Uppermost is a hunt on 13 September 1993 from Sixty Acres to Haddon. The Fiddington stag has also made it into folklore: three times one season it eluded Rick and his hounds. On another occasion,
Rick changed horses four times to keep hounds up with a spring stag.
‘THE FIRE STILL BURNS’
AND then, of course, the hounds. Rick has only ever hunted bitches.
“Walt built up his pack from drafts from the Blackmore and Sparkford Vale. We never had a bad one so I didn’t need to change a thing,” says Rick. “Gadfly had an exceptional brain on her. I could trust her to come out on the right deer. Picnic was nearly as good.”
Post-ban, Rick improved voice by introducing Minehead Harrier breeding to hunt just two hounds effectively.
He says: “Some hounds adapted to hunting without the pack seamlessly. When things got difficult, Rosette and Romance were invaluable. Romance went like hell on her own. You could trust your life with Rosette; it didn’t matter what people were saying on the radio, she was always right.”
Pre-ban, for Rick there was nothing better than when the tufters parted out their deer and got it away. “I would blow for the pack, give the deer 20 minutes’ grace then put them on,” he says. “It was their music which was the most exciting; what we all miss the most.”
Rick freely admits he struggled for a while after the ban came in.
“Early the following Sunday, I had a call to pick up a couple of stags that had hit a car on the outskirts of Taunton. It was obvious the copper had had a bad Saturday night with drunks and wanted to finish his shift. I got out of the truck and told him to get Tony Blair down to do it — he couldn’t have it both ways.
“Poor chap got it both barrels. Exasperated, he just patted me on the shoulder, said he agreed and could I just get on with the job in hand.”
Which he has done, time and again. The fire still burns fiercely inside; you need only have
‘He is such a friendly, professional person;
everybody respects him’
ANDREW POLLARD ABOUT HIS BROTHER-IN-LAW RICK DOWN
seen the gleam in his eyes when Wishful fresh-found the young stag earlier in the day.
Martin Watts knows Rick will always be on the scene, albeit in the wings — as “Bonnie” Langford, his previous whipperin, found out when Rick attended the then treasurer’s funeral and he hunted hounds.
“They met at the far end of the Quantocks and during the service, which was miles from there, I heard hounds,” remembers Rick. “As soon as we carried the coffin out and buried Adrian Little, I was gone. I found the stag at bay under a gorse bush; my suit was filthy all over.”
So, as Gerald always said, bye for now. And thank you.