Goodnight Tessa Waugh’s hunting diary
Preparing ponies and children for hunting in glorious autumn country proves worth the effort, says Tessa Waugh, as she counts her lucky stars for the chance to get out at all
“Every day is a blessing at the moment”
EVER wondered how many weeks of your life you have spent getting ready for hunting? With Mary and Alec home for half-term, whole days are absorbed with exercising and washing ponies, cleaning tack and getting ready for the next morning. I am in awe of two super-mums I know who hunt every Saturday with their three children, aged 12 and under. As well as time, it requires serious levels of organisation and energy.
Yesterday, we arrived 45 minutes before the 8.30am kick-off, worried that we wouldn’t get a parking space. Once I’d got the children on board, made sure their girths were tight, taking the necessary photographs for the family WhatsApp group, I didn’t feel like getting on the horse and going hunting; much more like lying down on the backseat under a coat and having a nap. The ponies looked clean and so did the children, but I’d obviously run out of steam with Jim and he was plastered with mud around his ears and head, bits that I’d missed in the scrabble to wash him off.
We set off through the bracken up the first hill, with Rusty – my little chestnut sidecar – pinned determinedly to Jim’s side. I am still pinching myself that Mary is over her broken wrist and keen to join me and Alec on these morning escapades. She hasn’t said “I hate hunting” for at least a year.
Up on Yeavering Bell on the edge of a grouse moor, hounds ran in circles close by in the bracken and then up and over the scree at the top. When we reached the summit, they were in the stubble field some 361 metres below and heading towards some gorse bushes next to the road. Down we went, slipping and sliding, a great carpet of country laid out below us – a church, a village, a herd of feral goats, trees and bracken in the bright raiment of autumn. Stirring stuff and well worth the hours of preparation.
When we got home at midday, there was an invasion of stick-toting elderly folk. Our local beagle pack were here. They go like smoke, as I have mentioned before, and I can’t understand why there aren’t more young people involved; beagling needs rebranding as a seriously sexy sport like beach volleyball or Formula One. The sun was shining and it wasn’t a great scent, but they still managed to rip, taking in a big lap of our neighbouring farm and back in again. Dotted all around were people keeping their necessary distance while squinting into binoculars and chatting to friends.
Every day is a blessing at the moment and we must seize each one while we can.