Tuesday, September 15

About a month earlier, I had discussed with my day job boss the possibility of taking off Tuesday mornings to go hunting. I have an excellent boss, who knows I am passionate about riding and hunting (she thinks I live a fabulously busy and creative lifestyle), and is supportive of my non-job-related interests. She agreed to give me a chance to see how it went this first fall Tuesday hunt, while reserving the right to say yes or no to the rest of the season. Tuesday hunts luckily coincided with Wednesday evening classes being held at my place of work, so I readily swapped all my Tuesday mornings for supervising Wednesday nights, and decided having a social life was overrated anyway.

I woke up at about 3:00 AM on that Tuesday, giddy with not just the regular excitement of hunting, but also with the thought of going hunting instead of commuting in to Boston to sit at a desk. Even though my alarm wouldn’t officially go off until 5:30, I did not actually fall back asleep. Instead I tried to calm my double sense of defiance and guilt for not exactly playing hooky. (I had always been a very good child and young adult; breaking rules was not my specialty.)

It was 7:00 AM when I pulled into the driveway at Millborn Farm. I located the trailers, found my horse, and started getting him ready. Grappa was all set in no time, and I mounted up (this time quite easily, as I didn’t move him from his place at the trailer, and his pal Primo was still tied next to him). We trotted around to take any edge off, but he seemed much more relaxed than he had on Saturday, and we quickly joined the huntsman and other whips around the hound trailer. The hounds were let out (9 and half couple, if I recall correctly), and they began milling about in the grass as the huntsman told us the battle plan.

We had two lines laid and quite a few driveways and roads to cross. I would be on the left, Alyse on the right, and other whips behind as was starting to become our system. There were some jumps in the territory, and we were all cautioned to be careful, as always, to make sure the hounds were clear before attempts. With the first section of the hunt outlined to me, we moved closer to the warm-up field, and let a Master gather everyone around to introduce the day.

As usual, Master Tom spoke very graciously to thank our landowners and remarked on the incredible morning weather. He was right; it was very sunny, and being just before 8:00 AM, still fairly cool, but with no trace of the fog that had swallowed up every living creature on Saturday. The grass was impossibly green, and yellow sun shone through the still-green leaves on the trees. With barely a cloud in the sky, the weather couldn’t possibly be better. After announcements, we were ready to begin, and the huntsman blew her horn as we moved off. The hounds perked up, trotting happily around her and on my right, as we headed for an opening in the trees that surrounded the field.

Following the huntsman’s directions, I scooted through the gap first on Grappa, then held a steady left side to the pack of hounds as we moved across the next field. Despite having had a 4-wheeler running the lines the evening before, I couldn’t make out the path of the tracks over the grass in the daylight, but the huntsman mischievously pointed out where someone had fallen off the 4-wheeler the day before. Learning to lay lines is still on my to-do list, even if it means apparently falling off the ATV at times.

We passed into a forest track, and I slowed to fall into line behind the first whip. We kept the pace slow, picking up a trot for a short time, and then coming back down as we crossed a narrow meadow, and then a road (thank you road whips!).

We picked up speed along a soccer field, both the first whip and me on the left at a slow canter to prevent the hounds from crossing a lazy line of conifers and darting across the field. Ever ready with my whip in my left hand—so the hounds wouldn’t see it and avoid the reprimand if I needed to use it—I watched sideways as the hounds kept pace with the huntsman through the trees. None of them made the attempt, and we both moved back on to the trail behind the huntsman and pack.

Our first line was next, a large S curve that swooped from left to right first. With a whoop from the huntsman, the hounds scurried off, noses to the ground, sterns held high. Without hesitation, they picked up the line with cries to heaven and we were cantering, then keeping an easy hand gallop as we flew from the woods across the sunlight-filled field. Knowing that the line crossed the field, and taking cues from the huntsman, I didn’t charge ahead, wary of crossing the scent path I couldn’t see. I stayed to the left of her, wider than I’d been the whole day so far, and watched the hounds race each other, voices lifted joyously.

We slowed up several lengths into the woods where the line ended, smiling and thanking each other for an excellent run. It went exactly as planned, something that rarely happens when working with twenty to thirty creatures with minds of their own.

We continued down the path, through more twists and turns, past driveways and down roads. We checked at a pond, letting the hounds splash around, and in the moment of quiet, it fully hit me that at about this time on a regular weekday, I would be just clocking in, booting up my computer. But here, now, while I was sitting on the back of Grappa and watching the hounds play, the office felt lightyears away.

We continued on and I learned my next lesson for the day. We approached an open gate with a road crossing right behind it, followed by a hack down a graveled drive. As we headed for the gate, the huntsman asked me to move up next to her into a space limited to about five feet and filled with hounds. When the huntsman says something, you do it, and you do it when she asks, so I trotted Grappa up swiftly to the outside and earned myself a quick reprimand for being so quiet about it. After all, if I don’t tell the hounds to “move over” as I come up, how will they know I’m there? While I was lucky and neither did I startle nor step on any hounds as I helped push the pack in tighter for a safer crossing, if I had, I could have startled them forward past the huntsman and into the road. And that isn’t something any foxhunter wants to contemplate for long.

We continued on at a trot and then into a canter, getting up to some speed to give everyone a good time. Cantering along, I saw Usher, one of the hounds, hang back at the side of the trail, doing his best to poop and walk at the same time. As anyone would eventually figure out, it wasn’t working. I moved to the side so as not to frighten him, glancing over my shoulder at the two whips behind to make sure someone held up the field before running into the hound.

But the whip behind me was hot on my heels, riding Grappa’s pasture-mate, Primo, and passed Usher behind me. I could see the field not far behind him and I slammed on my emergency break, Grappa taking barely a stride to get to a full stop. Primo pulled up a half-length behind me, as I immediately pushed Grappa off the trail, my eyes watching Usher, head lowered and now done with his business. A phrase Heather taught me from one of our hound walks echoes through my mind: “Open the door.” Hounds always want to get back to the rest of the pack; if one hound is off running by himself, it means there is some kind of obstacle, like a wall, blocking his path. Opening the door means allowing the hound to take the shortest path back to his place of safety in the pack. With Grappa out of the trail, Usher’s path would be clear to catch up.

Primo, on the other hand, was giving his rider a more difficult time after the hold hard, shimmying back and forth from one side of the trail to the other in front of the separated hound. I could see the wheels in Usher’s head turning as he watched his figurative door open and close with Primo’s side-stepping shenanigans, the whip astride using coaxing language to encourage hound to step up and horse to calm down. Then finally, Usher seized a moment where Primo was completely off the trail, and rushed past us both at full speed. I turned back onto the trail behind him, and followed at a gallop back to the rest of the pack and I take up my place behind the first whip in the woods.

We finished out the day with another run, and a few jumps at the end as the sun began to really warm us in our black coats (Norfolk’s staff wears formal even during informal season). Riding back into the warm-up field full of trailers, we wondered if we had lost the hilltoppers, but they appeared a few minutes later and the huntsman sounded out the end of the day’s fun with her horn.

Dismounting quickly, I pulled off Grappa’s tack and gave him a quick rub-down with a towel. I had been impressed with his jumping for the day, and he was happy and looked like he had at least another hunt or three in him, but unfortunately, it was just after 9:00 AM and I still had to change and get to work!

(Yes, I did make it on time. Boss says I can do the rest! Happy Tuesday hunting everyone!)

September 12, 2015

For the readers who do not know me personally, this past year (and a bit) has been full of struggles and adventures. Here’s the quick version: I applied for the Apprenticeship program with the MFHA, squeaked by the first interview (a lunch date with Andrew B.), and seemingly passed the second (a weekend’s hunting in Georgia with the fantastic Tony L. and Marion T.), and while the program was ultimately not run, I wound up volunteering every Saturday at Norfolk Hunt on the recommendation of the MFHA. I whipped in during spring season and continued to work throughout the summer with hound exercises, stepping in a few times during the week when needed by using personal and vacation days allotted by my day job. Labor Day weekend was a Professional Development Program opportunity to take part in a clinic with Chris R. of Ireland for two days, and then a hunt with Woodford Hounds. With the whirlwind of foxhunting around, I realized I really should start back up on this blog (something I had considered doing last spring season, but didn’t get around to). I think a lot of you are very curious about foxhunting, and I like being able to look back at my experiences…. So, without further ado, tally ho!

Today marked the beginning of hunt season for Norfolk Hunt! Like many hunts in my experience, I woke up before dawn and stumbled into my clothes (I set them out the night before so I didn’t have to scramble looking) and made a to-go cup of tea. Then it was on with the stock-tie. A tip: I always tie my stock before I leave the house; not only can I be a perfectionist in my bathroom mirror versus a car review mirror, but I don’t have to worry about time to do it when all I want to do when I get to the meet is mount up. To keep clean, I wear a zip up sweatshirt that I can easily discard and switch out for my hunting jacket right before I mount.

Since I am horseless, I only had myself to worry about so a single load of equipment made its way into my car and away I went. I feel like just about everything is always an hour from where I live, no matter where I live, so after an hour, I made it to Adam’s Farm, our first fixture. Arriving right at 7:00 AM, I was a little surprised to find myself the first to show up after our lovely hunt secretaries. At Norfolk, the secretaries always check in riders by name and by horse’s name. This way, they don’t miss any guests, and they know which horse and rider (and combination) have racked up the most hunts during the season. What they do with this number still remains a mystery.

I parked and before five minutes had passed, several trailers pulled in. I went down to find Ted E., a longtime member and current President, from among the foggy meadow.

This was, unfortunately and fortunately, the only picture I managed to take today. Unfortunately because I like having nice pictures; fortunately, because I likely would have dropped my phone/camera as there’s no time for that when learning to whip-in.

I found him unloading Grappa and Primo, two polo ponies turned hunt horses. I had ridden Grappa for part of the previous season, so I was actually familiar with him; he’s an excellent boy and I was happy to see him again. (My first few hunts had been a little difficult, as we were still trying to find the right bit/noseband/martingale combination.) But Ted had figured it out over the summer and I tacked him up with his twisted snaffle, flash, and standing martingale.

You know that moment when you are all set to go and ready to mount, but then something stupid happens? The sort of thing that only happens when there’s plenty of other people watching? Perhaps even waiting for you?

At 7:30, the rest of the whips were mounted and I was attempting to do the same. Grappa, however, was not feeling it. Every time I got my foot near the stirrup, he began dancing sideways, and polo pony he may technically be, but I would estimate him around 16 hands. The tack-box-turned-mounting-block would leaving him spinning to face me, and my laughable attempts to lift my feet to my shortened-for-galloping-and-jumping stirrups were just that… laughable. After two tries of hopping along on one foot after him, Ted was kind enough to offer me assistance (thanks be to all gentleman hunters), and he snuggled in Primo so that Grappa didn’t have anywhere to go the next time he tried his sideways dance. The way the stars lined up made it so that I was mounting from the right, and while Ted offered to rearrange, I was more in a hurry to finally get on this merry-go-round and declined. As I placed my right foot into the stirrup I had two simultaneous thoughts:

1) I can’t remember the last time I tried to mount from the right. (My best guess now is my D-3 rating when I was 10.)

2) Oh Jesus, he’s either crow-hopping or preparing for airs above the ground.

The few seconds it took me to find my left stirrup were the most harrowing of the entire day as Grappa pranced underneath me. I immediately decided it was in my best interest to start trotting in circles as soon as possible. To my relief, after only about three minutes, he took a deep sigh and relaxed, slowing his trot to better match my posting.

And with that taken care of, I gathered with Heather P., our huntsman, and the other whips as we released the hounds from the trailer. I settled into position on the road, and we watched carefully for the next half hour as the field mounted, warmed up, and Master Tom L. welcomed them and thanked our landowners.

Then, with the sound of the horn, we started off. Today, my position was on the huntsman’s left. This meant that whenever we turned right, I generally had to move ahead and block the hounds from wanting to continue straight. (This was something I had been learning on hound walks, but now, as Heather put it at one of the checks: you are on a horse; you can get there fast enough.)

And fast we went! The hounds caught the line and opened up into a joyous baying. We crossed a field, the hounds running along a stone wall, then turning left through an opening into the adjacent field. I followed just behind Heather on her left, pulling up sharply as she turned and jumped the wall to catch up with the hounds. (It’s a little strange being a whip and not knowing where the drag hunt intends to go.) Grappa, being a good sport at my sliding stop, followed behind and over the wall. For a horse who’s only experience jumping is the few times I had to get over something the previous season, he seemed to have figured out what he was doing that day, as we encountered a number of stone walls and logs later on as well.

We continued on past the first line, and down a single-track in the woods, where Alyse P. (our professional whip) and I switched sides and I moved to the right. Then, we opened up into a large field with mist hiding the opposite side. While the forested areas were clear of fog, the white stuff hung low and thick across the grassy fields. The hounds were instantly out, their cries and the sound of the horn ringing in my ears as they raced into the white distance and horribly out of sight. Alyse was off after them, her horse Gilligan a grey blur. Heather cut diagonally across the field and I trailed at a hand gallop somewhere in between, a little unsure of where I was supposed to be and very unsure of where I was going in the fog.

Suddenly, Gilligan was pulling up short, and Alyse shouted at me to head back–wire! The hounds were white shadows around us and I headed back closer to the darker shape of Pilgrim and Heather. Gilligan was cantering like a show-jumper now, and I kept my eyes scanning the ground as best I could for dangers. I barely made out Usher, one of our best hounds, running on my left until we rode up an incline to a less dense patch of fog. At the end of the field, we counted ‘all on’ (10 couple), and quickly moved on.

The rest of the hunt was less dramatic as the sun burned off the mist and the day brightened. While not a very hot day for the beginning of September, the humidity felt close to 100% and the air was sticky all around us when we stopped for checks. We let the hounds play in a pond to cool off before we moved out, and walked near puddles to give them a chance to drink on the go if they chose. The staff’s main duty is the welfare of the hounds–without happy hounds, a hunt just can’t happen. Usually that means preventing the hounds from getting into danger, like our aptly named Trouble who just wants to investigate everything. But it also means keeping an eye on the day’s weather to consider how well the hounds would be able to work.

Other times, it means the whipper-in needs to ride up and body block hounds from picking up the scent of a deer and rioting after it. This was the specific lesson I learned today! Knowing that anything large and living can be a fun scent for a hound, we whips are always on the lookout for animals that can be a distraction from the laid scent, including cats, dogs, and quite frequently deer. So when I spotted one flitting through the trees up ahead, I called out to the huntsman. She let me know that whenever I saw something hazardous, I should take immediately action to prevent problems and told me to ride up. We kept the hounds tucked in neatly between us, with Alyse watching carefully to make sure no one slipped out behind and away. I think it’s a testament to our huntsman’s training that the hounds didn’t even pause to take another sniff as we continued on down the trail.

We arrived back at the field next to all the trailers and paused with the hounds while the field did a victory gallop around and through a short course in the woods. All in all, we finished up just before 10:00 AM, the smiling field returning to gather round the now-quiet hounds.

Dismounted and amidst her pack, the huntsman blew a traditional end of meet melody, chasing the last bit of mist away with the sound of the horn.

MFHA Foxhunting Apprenticeship

Have you ever considered working with horses and hounds professionally? Didn’t know you could? Well, the MFHA is recruiting! All you need to apply are proficient riding skills, an understanding of dogs, and a love of the outdoors. As Chair of the USPC Foxhunting Committee, I would especially invite members of USPC who are 18 years of age or older and have earned their C3 Traditional or higher certifications to apply. Pony Club on your resume CAN help you get your dream job! The MFHA is hoping to find the next generation of foxhunters among Pony Club as not only our horsemanship is solid, but our ties to the foxhunting community have lasted several generations already.

Below is the official information about the MFHA Professional Development Program Apprenticeship, and you can find more at http://www.mfha.org/pdp-apprenticeship.html.

The MFHA Foundation and the Hunt Staff Benefit Foundation (HSBF) are pleased to announce openings for their apprenticeship program for the 2015-2016 season. This is a wonderful opportunity for one or two individuals who have a love of horses, hounds and the outdoors. A career in mounted foxhunting can be a rewarding and exciting way to make a living. This program is open to any, interested persons, and is ideal for those looking for an exciting way to make a living in the world of mounted foxhunting. The person who will succeed should have riding skills and an understanding of dogs and a feel for nature.

The apprenticeship will last one year. The chosen applicants will be placed with a fox hunt; housing, salary and insurance will be provided. In addition to the hands on experience working with hounds and horses, the education will be supplemented with a curriculum of books, pamphlets and CDs. There will be written assignments and a representative from the MFHA will visit on a regular basis to evaluate the student’s progress. The Huntsmen, Masters and staff they will work with will be of the highest caliber. In addition they will visit other hunts, hounds shows and any of the MFHA seminars being held during their apprenticeship. Every effort will be made during their year to expose them to as much of the hunting world as possible.

Applications will close on December 31st. Candidates will be chosen through extensive interviews at a two day get together of all the applicants in March of 2015. The place and date will be announced at a later date.

Upon a successful completion of the course the MFHA will assist in placing graduates into a position of employment with a recognized pack.

Old North Bridge Hounds (Part 2: With a New England Tally Ho~!)

November 2013

I woke up Saturday morning with only a few butterflies in my stomach. It had been quite some time since I’d dressed up in my formal attire and I felt a rush of nostalgia (even though it hadn’t REALLY been that long) when I pulled my yoga pants over my breeches and a sweatshirt over my ratcatcher and stocktie. (I always tie my stock tie before I get to the horses–why? Because my hands are invariably dirty after brushing, braiding, and tacking up and then my beautifully white stock becomes closer to a cream color….)

With my boots, hunt coat and a to-go cup of tea, I climbed into the car and drove out to the barn. Once arrived, I assisted with brushing and loading so that before long, we were on our way. Since my horse was located at the farm of our huntsman (Sandra B. is her daughter), we caravanned behind, knowing that if we followed her, the hunt wouldn’t start without us!

The hunt territory we arrived at in Pepperell, MA was gorgeous. An enormous white farm house jutted out of the ground in a vast empty field nearby as we pulled our trailer into the neighboring one. I paid my cap to the secretary as we entered and then I felt that bit of nostalgia again. Trailers crowded together, clean and happy horses in various states of dress tied to them. I smiled at unmounted riders, who also seemed to be in a variety of dress still, running back and forth with thick pieces of leather, shouting hellos and jokes, and basically doing all the last minute things necessary before putting a foot in the stirrup.

My host and I joined in the fray as soon as we parked and unloaded. We mounted up a little early and joined the other early birds in walking circles around the trailers. I introduced myself while limbering up my borrowed mare and fielded questions about my red collar (go Woodbrook!).

Before too long, the hounds were let out of their trailer and I could hear a few notes of a horn to keep them close to their huntsman. I followed my host through a gate and we lined up with everyone, our backs and horses’ behinds to a small row of trees. The huntsman followed, the pack swarming around her horse’s hooves. Once in front, she made several typical announcements (including another introduction for me and other guests) and then the hunt officially began.

Lined up and ready to go!

Knowing hunt policy of staying with my host, I followed her as first flight headed out and we tagged along at the end of it. We started out at a brisk trot, and I relished the feeling of a bit of friskiness in my mare. She was ready to go, and was as excited as I was to be out in the fresh air. At the back, I didn’t get much of a view of the hounds working, but I was able to discuss some of the differences between my hunting experiences and those that I immediately found in New England.

1) The color. And it sounds weird to say that, but I’ve only hunted in Western Washington in the fall before, and all we have is pine needles, scotch broom, and blackberry bushes, all of which are green. All year. Massachusetts held gorgeous fall leaves, all firetruck-red and sunset orange and goldenrod yellow, sometimes even on the same leaf. Many of the leaves had fallen as we crossed into a shady woodland run, and they swished beneath the horses’ hooves.

Did I also mention the lack of underbrush? This looks like territory from out of a dream!

2) The roads. Now, I know this is because I’ve been spoiled so much by having 40,000 acres on the Ft. Lewis base, and I’m sure each territory is slightly different, but we crossed a road every single time we went to a new run. Sometimes, it was simply stepping straight across, but a few times, we all walked patiently on the side until we reached our newest destination/field. And each time, the hounds needed to be collected and transported across and/or down the road. (If we didn’t account for each hound before moving on, chances are that hound would never make it home.) It really made me aware of how little open land we have left for foxhunting (or really, outdoor sports in general) in this area and how lucky we are to still be able to continue what we do. Our hound caravan was full of some very dedicated people to let us enjoy the mounted side of the sport!

Crossing roads in the States is also quite different than across the pond. I had been hoping for New England to be more similar to England itself in terms of being able to freely move at moderate speeds along roads when necessary, but it seems the American way of not believing horses will survive asphalt (with the proper conditioning of course!!) prevails. And it seems drivers in the New England countryside are much less likely to see and understand a group of foxhunters than those around English or Irish villages as well. For the most part, all the drivers were overly polite (which was nice), but seemed a bit confused. I suppose I can’t blame them!

3) First flight does not mean the same thing. I remember being shocked when I had to explain first/second/hilltopping to English foxhunters. Isn’t that where those terms originated?! I had thought wrongly. I learned those were American terms and there was generally just one field per hunt and you stayed in it, or you didn’t and went home at your own leisurely pace. Here, I was expecting first flight to mean something similar to what I experienced back home with Woodbrook and Fraser Valley: gallop lots and jump whatever is available.

Old North Bridge Hounds, despite also being a drag hunt which tend to be a bit faster, was a little different. According to their website, Old North Bridge Hounds slows their pace purposefully to give the field a better opportunity to watch the hounds work. To that effect, our flight did a lot of walking, a goodly amount of trotting, and when it came to cantering down a singletrack, a crotchety woman in front of us decided she wanted to walk and wouldn’t let anyone behind her pass because she thought the roots were too much in the way. My little mare, who had been eager to please and wanted to just gallop the entire hunt, nearly fell asleep at this point. (To be fair, I think everyone behind was just as upset as I was–we are capable of judging if our own horses will trip, no need to hold the rest of us up if you aren’t the fieldmaster!!) Unfortunately, this particular territory didn’t have much in the way of jumps: there was one 3-foot coop at the top of a hill where it couldn’t be seen until basically past it and I had been advised that only the bravest (or craziest?) of the field would jump it because it was too big. The constant stop-and-go of having to catch and load hounds between every run also took up some time, but because it was check time, it gave us a chance to socialize and pass around flasks, which is rather more traditional in hunting than the fast pace.

After close to two hours, we came back upon the farmhouse and the trailers. We cared for the horses first (not too bad after cooling out along the road home) and headed inside the enormous white house for the Hunt Tea. Inside rooms that looked straight out of the 1800s were delicious stew, wine, and other munchies like grapes, crackers and veggies. We chatted, ate, and admired the house for another hour until it was time to go.

Despite the pace (which was probably better for me and the lack of horses I’d been riding), I loved every minute of the company of the Old North Bridge Hounds members. Being on a horse in the crisp weather, reins in my hands and feet in my stirrups was magical after so long away. I am eternally grateful for the opportunity I was given to ride another’s horse and be invited to the hunt field with Old North Bridge Hounds. Thank you!

Old North Bridge Hounds (Part 1: Getting There is Half the Battle)

November 10th, 2013

For those unaware, I had sold my horse in April and moved 3,000 miles away from home and hunt club. Shortly after moving to the East Coast, I found myself surrounded by horses as I worked for Cavalia’s Odysseo. Yet, somehow, the thrill of watching other people ride was wearing off (despite the amazing feats that show pulls off).

As with all things, it takes persistence and a bit of luck to get where you want to be. My journey first began with a bit of luck, in that I met a member of the Old North Bridge Hounds while I was working at Odysseo. Sandra B., daughter of the huntsman, told me that she had some spare horses, and that once the season started, I was welcome to ride with her. My task that night would be finding her on Facebook and we would continue our conversation there.

This is where the persistence came in. With no shared networks or friends, I sorted through dozens of potential Sandra B.’s, finally realizing that privacy settings were probably the culprit. Luckily, I remembered the name of her hunt club, looked it up online and shot an email off asking to be put in touch with my acquaintance.

Then I waited. Days later, I received a message that mine had been forwarded to the correct party. I continued to wait.

After a few weeks of scrambling after jobs, moving to a new apartment, and general shenanigans of being broke in a new city which is famed for the season, I found myself in certain foxhunting withdrawal. I had just accepted the position of USPC’s Foxhunting Committee Chair for the upcoming year and it painfully threw into the stark light of day that I hadn’t actually been foxhunting for too long. I emailed Old North Bridge Hounds again, this time to introduce myself properly and hope the club would prove responsive. Upon their recommendation, I was made a member of their Facebook page and I introduced myself yet again where all the members could see.

Almost immediately, Sandra B. reappeared, congratulating me on finding her and through an exchange of numbers and information, I was out at her barn within the week.

Tucked away amidst a gentle forest and surrounded by barns and farms, the stable was just what I’d been missing. I met the horses, and chose one that reminded me the most of Lily, my former hunt horse. (I really should have figured to do side-by-side comparisons with photos here!) Miss Bet was a dark bay Thoroughbred mare, 17 years old, and somewhere around 16 hands. She was cranky about blankets and saddles, but in truth, a sweet cuddler at heart. While her age and temperament made her a steady hunt horse, it was actually her first full season in the field and she was quite new to jumping.

We started off with a warm-up in a grand indoor arena, and then moved to the trails. Leaves that were once all red and gold, now faded, littered the forest floor as we picked our way through the trees. We crossed a stream, Miss Bet showing her fearlessness in the face of running water, and looped around an old sandpit. We returned back across a stream and then up to an aqueduct making a majestic smooth road that sloped down to a field on one side, and a lake on the other. The flattened ground was perfect and we let go at a trot that quickly pulled into a canter. (Albeit, with many half-halts as reminders to not bury herself on the forehand.)

With the wind whipping my face, I couldn’t help the smile. Next week, I would be dressed in my traditional clothes, and listening to the music of the hounds.

Congratulations: 2nd Place Winner of the USPC Foxhunting Writing Contest

I am super pleased to have a guest post today from a very good friend of mine who not only foxhunts with Woodbrook Hunt Club, but also goes above and beyond to support our hunt by helping care for the hounds. Kathryn C. is an excellent role model for what it means to be a Pony Club foxhunter and I’m proud to see her accomplishments rewarded! For 2013, she submitted a piece of writing for the Hildegard Neill Ritchie Writing Contest, also known as the “Joys of Foxhunting,” and placed second! She won $100 to be spent on Pony Club or Foxhunting fees, and will be published in Pony Club News and the Chronicle of the Horse. Below is her winning submission:

The Working Student

Silence fell across the field as the hounds scoured the covert for any trace of a scent. I took the chance to breathe in the crisp morning air. I looked around at all my fellow hunters, and thought about the tradition. Looking down at my colors on the collar of hunt coat and my once clean boots I feel as though I am part of history. Before my mind could wander too far, I heard the music. The freight train of a thoroughbred between my legs grew an entire hand when he heard the sound of the horn. The meadow ahead offered up a good run. I shortened my reins, intertwined my fingers in his wiry mane, leaned over, and whispered “Ready?”, and then we were off. I didn’t feel a single hoof touch the ground. The wind in my face wiped away any worry.

BEEP! The sound of my reality echoed relentlessly through my bedroom. Today I am off to the hunt club for a more realistic experience. There is a hunt today, I just won’t be riding. It is my job to make sure kennels are kept clean and to help the kennelman take care of the hounds. While I grab my work jeans, an old sweatshirt, and muck boots, I think about how at that very moment members of the hunt are scavenging for their breeches, hunt coats, stock ties, and tall boots. I must say I will be much more comfortable than they will be. On my way out the door, I grabbed my freshly brewed coffee and I’m off to the club.
Today the hunt was going out to a fixture where we have to trailer the hounds. When I arrived I helped the Kennelman make sure the hounds had plenty of water and anything else they would need for traveling on this unusually warm day in the Northwest. Once everything was packed, the Kennelman asked me to put collars on all the hounds that would be hunting that day as they flooded into the catch pen. The hounds knew what was going on; this is what they were bred to do. Once everyone had collars it was time to load. I got to be the one in the trailer being handed hounds one at a time. Once everyone was ready and loaded, I had to jump out the window to get out of the trailer. The whole process of drawing the hounds is actually pretty amusing; those of us playing “chase the hounds” look no different than people herding children within a candy store.

When the hunt moves off, I stay behind to tend to the kennel. Just because everyone left doesn’t mean chores don’t have to be done. Taking care of the hounds is a lot like taking care of a horse barn, in the sense that they need fresh water, clean bedding, and the runs have to be mucked. Those hounds who stay behind offer wonderful company while chores get done. They always make a point of checking to make sure you are doing the job right.

As I finish up cleaning the kennels, the hunt returns. Once the hounds get unloaded and sorted out into their designated runs, I take the Kennelman’s horse back to get untacked and hosed down. The staff horses deserve a little extra appreciation. Without their willing attitude the hunt would not be the same. In our hunt, the Kennelman is also the one who spreads the drag. If it weren’t for her horse carrying the scent for the hounds to follow, we would not have a hunt.

After all my chores are done, I make my way up to the club house for a traditional hunt breakfast. On my way, I take one look at the little red kennel house, smile, and I think to myself; it may not look like much, but who said looks mean everything? I have been working at the hunt club since I was about 15 years old and every day that I go out the club only strengthens my passion for the sport. As a girl growing up in the Pacific Northwest I couldn’t be farther away from the Virginia roots of American hunting. If ever I feel I need a good run, I can plop down in the sun and read my Rita Mae Brown foxhunting
novels and go for a ride. Hunting is a sport driven by passion, and it is that passion that gets me up at the crack of reality to come to the club. Yip Yip! Tally Ho!

Congratulations to all out Joys of Foxhunting Contest winners. To read the 1st and 3rd place submissions, please go to http://www.ponyclub.org/?page=Foxhunting and click on the respective links.

Home Again with Woodbrook

9 March 2013

I hadn’t hunted with Woodbrook Hunt Club since December. As January had been full of icy conditions and all the hunts were cancelled, I had missed those. The Pony Club Exchange meant that while I was certainly foxhunting in England, my horse was just as certainly not hunting at home. My week touring Ireland after the Exchange meant that it was the end of February when I returned, jet-lagged and already signed up to judge horse management at a rally the very next day. It was also a hunt (February 23rd), but as my jet-lag meant I was dead-tired at 4:00pm, I was glad I was doing something without a horse of my own to worry about.

By the time March 9th rolled around, I was more than ready to be back in the hunt field with my own mare in my own territory. Armed with her new hunting bridle from Ireland, Lily and I were dressed to the nines–I slaved away in the morning to give her a quick version of a bath (as it was still a bit chilly and very foggy) with hot sponges, braided her mane, and even painted her hooves. For myself, I wore my sturdy (British) Pony Club stock pin, freshly brushed and lint-rolled coat, nicest breeches, and with boots that were polished and I even cleaned the bottoms of. (Yes, the part that I promptly walked on before I could even mount up.) Something in the way of English preparation may have rubbed off on me; either that, or I had spent so much time having horses beautifully prepared for me, I missed all the brushing and tack-cleaning of my own.

I did more in terms of preparation for this hunt than I normally do for Opening Day or Blessing of the Hounds. I think this might become a normal thing for me….

Knowing that Lily had only had two rides on her in the last week after having almost two months off, we decided on second flight. Nicole K. would be leading first flight, and while I would have loved to follow after her quick pace, I knew that Lily would be dying before the first check.

I was happy to be able to ride with Linda H. on Paris and Meaghan O. on Ammon as it was one of my first opportunities to catch up with them after I had returned. We took it fairly easy, and I could tell Lily was just as relaxed and happy as me to be out and about in the sunshine. (Crazy that we had any sun in March!) It was also a bit nostalgic as it might have been my last ride on Lily with Woodbrook (she was for sale as I’m now on the East Coast), so I was happy to get this opportunity with such good company.

We started out with a short jaunt to the Hunter Trials field, where we cast off and crossed the road and railroad tracks to reach the Craig. After having been away for so long, it was almost like I was seeing it for the first time. (Maybe the sunshine made it all look different too, haha.) Our jumps looked a bit smaller and quite a bit safer than the trappy drains and wire-filled fields. Sure, we had some puddles here and there, but nothing like the muck of soft once-plowed fields in the rainy season. And the pine trees! I can’t quite describe how much I like pine trees, especially the grand old ones that tower high enough to have lost any low branches. I also really enjoyed knowing where I was, and that if needed, at any moment, I would be able to find home.

After jumping through the Craig, we moved next to the Kellogg, a place where I hadn’t actually hunted since last season and one of my favorite runs. We kept a steady pace through the trees and managed not to trip over any roots or low jumps overrun with scotch broom. This is often the most challenging part of the Kellogg!

Our check in the sunlight-dappled shade.

We checked after the Kellogg, and I began to feel the heat of the day in my thick hunt coat. Lily, still with most of her winter fur, was also feeling it, especially with her out-of-shape body. Still, with her Thoroughbred energy, I knew she could handle at least one more run at our second flight pace, so we continued on to the Ditch.

Following Linda and Paris, I was surprised to see Paris jump out halfway over the large log triple and do one helluva sliding stop (the skid marks are still there) as Linda reprimanded him. Lily, calmly as could be, popped over them without batting an eye at the unfolding drama to her left, almost as if to let Paris know he was being a complete juvenile. We finished the Ditch smoothly and with those three runs under our belt, and with a consult with my friends Linda and Meaghan, we decided to do a coolout walk back to the clubhouse, at which point we would probably meet the faster but more circuitous route of the main field roughly at the same time.

Just past the beginning of the Kellogg, we met up with a few more riders who had the same idea of returning early, but let them trot ahead, keeping our meandering pace in the sunshine. I was able to entertain my friends with stories of adventures abroad and I might also have been coerced into agreeing to think about being the Pony Club Foxhunting Chair within the next few years…. Uh oh! Let me just be on the committee for some time first, Linda! (She is the current Foxhunting Chair for Pony Club.)

We returned just in time for breakfast, a wonderful spread as always with delicious gnocchi in white sauce, a fresh salad, baked lasagna, plenty of finger foods, and rich cakes for dessert. And almost unbelievably, the punch was something that didn’t knock me off my feet with its alcohol content! I’ll be looking into getting some cherry liqueur for myself one of these days….

Overall, a fantastic day out hunting with some of my favorite people and favorite hunt! I couldn’t have asked for better weather either. England and Ireland have nothing on us at Woodbrook!

Waterford Hunt

19 February 2013

Up early, Áine and I left New Ross and drove to Shirley O.’s in Waterford. Shirley was the Irish chaperone last year (2012) when the US had hosted. Knowing as many international hunters as she did, she had come along with her daughter to England for the first half of the exchange. She had graciously offered to take me hunting with her local hunt when I mentioned I would be traveling in Ireland afterwards. How could I pass up the opportunity?

Once at Shirley’s, we had a bite of breakfast (with tea) before Áine  left for work while Shirley and I moved out to pick up Charlie, the horse I would be riding. After the quick pick up of the big bay, we drove off to the pub, where the Waterford Hunt would be meeting that day.

At the pub, I had some lovely warm port and was introduced to some even more lovely people. As Shirley was not hunting that day, she instructed me to follow her friends Tim and Jo, who would be sure to keep an eye on me and make sure I didn’t get lost or left behind too much.

Charlie and I at the first draw.

Then, we mounted up, and I made it twenty feet across the road only to realize that one side of my running martingale was already broken. I’d only been walking so far. Hoping it wasn’t an ominous sign that all my tack was about to fall apart, I made a mental note and then we drew our first covert.

Almost immediately, the hounds chased out a fox who went just into cover on the other side of the field. And to ground. Seeing as how he hadn’t gotten much a chance to run around and be foxy, we called in the terrier men. After climbing through the bramble, the few burly Irishmen had located the entrances to the fox’s den. Then the fox was bolted, meaning the terrier men captured him live and gave him another chance to save himself with a head start before the Huntsman cast the hounds again in pursuit.

This however, must have been a super lazy fox. He popped over one more field and back into yet another ground. Annoyed, the hunt decided to simply move on and find another fox.

Not sure what to put here yet.

It seemed like every covert we picked that day had a fox, however, and despite our first lazy friend, we picked up several incredible runs for the five foxes that we found around the countryside. All wound up outsmarting us (as foxes usually do), and found their ways back to ground after a fast-paced run in the sun. Charlie the horse was magnificent as well, listening closely to where I was steering him around fields and over hedges. Having been on a few hunts with Àine already, I was thankful I was no longer used to queuing as we had done in the English hunts–it was all up to the rider to choose which section of the hedge to take and the two I was ‘following’ were certainly not responsible for making sure I arrived safely on the other side!

At the end of that first long run, both Tim and Jo were happy to see me, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say surprised. I was still considered the plucky (or is that lucky?) American as we passed around flasks. Then the hounds were cast again and away we went.

There is a fox in that covert somewhere… if only we could flush it out for more chase!

We encountered lots of wire as we continued, and only once or twice did one of our whips horses decide not to wait while he was handily cutting the wire before letting the fields through. As the day progressed, we started to lose members however, as some people decided it was best to go one way or another to keep around fields and follow the hounds and Huntsman. We crossed and recrossed several drains and small brambled hedges covering dangerous wire, until finally jumping down off a road, over a drain, across a large open field, and to a sudden halt on a dirt road overlooking a forested valley and mountain in the distance. There, we paused, letting our horses catch their breaths, passed around flasks again, and let stragglers trickle in with news of the fallen.

Apparently, the most notable had been a member who seemed to have broken his collarbone while going over a drain… ‘that big one.’ Try as I might, I couldn’t recall where a big drain had been, to which it was slowly pointed out that I had been practicing on drains in Wexford, which had much bigger ones. To me, the newbie American, even the ‘big one’ had looked normal. (This story, when recalled to my friends with the Wexford Harriers, brought more laughter than I had anticipated.)

A good example of the Irish countryside. Very green.

As the day was drawing to a close, it was just a few of us diehard hunters left. Some had tumbled, some had gotten tired, and a few had had horse difficulties (Jo had to leave early with a lost horse shoe). A this point, I noticed that Charlie’s noseband was now broken. Add that to the martingale from our first twenty steps. As he had been a perfect gentlemen the whole day, I wasn’t too concerned about my control over the big man, but I was now worried that I’d feel obligated to replace all of Charlie’s tack after riding him bareback to the pub with random strips of rotting, mud-splattered leather in my arms that may have once been pieces of a saddle and bridle.

Luckily, it was at that point in time when the hunt decided to return to the pub anyway, so we walked back to the village in the late afternoon sun. It was one of those beautiful moments of camaraderie and a job well done between people and animals in beautiful countryside and warm sunshine. Also bittersweet as I knew it concluded my last hunt before I had to return home to the States.

Once back at the pub, Shirley (and the horse trailer) had disappeared, so I managed to track down a phone and her number (thanks Tim) to let her know we had returned. Luckily, she had timed it right and was already on her way. I untacked and brushed down Charlie, we loaded him up, and then headed into the pub for Guinness and sandwiches. Another reason to love hunting in Ireland.

Shirley and I took Charlie home and then I went back to New Ross. While I had no more foxhunts to look forward to in England or Ireland, I still had one more day in which I been promised a beach ride on Grey Horse before I had to leave my new favorite country.

Thank you to the Waterford Hunt for letting me ride with them!

Hound Exercise with Wexford Harriers

20 February 2013

All things considered, this post should really be known as ‘Hunting for Leprechauns.’ My hosts were very happy to show me around and teach me about old Irish things, especially traditions that were common in the countryside. (And as most of Ireland seems to be countryside, I figure this worked out well.) While I did learn many new words, many of them centered around obstacles and terrain often seen out hunting, some of which are unique to the southeast part of Ireland. So during the previous day, as soon as I heard we would be hound exercising near a very old type of pasturage called a ‘fairy fort’ that they wanted to show me, I immediately asked if we would find any leprechauns.

That’s what anyone would do, right? I became determined to find a leprechaun or at least some kind of mythical, magical creature near the fairy fort… whatever that might be.

From Derek’s place in New Ross, we hacked roughly five minutes (at a walk) to the Wexford Harrier’s kennels. We met the huntsman and another whipper-in at the entrance and then took another hack out to the area where we would be exercising, which turned out to be near the plantation where I had done my drain-training the day before.

Believe it or not, this is NOT a one-way street. It’s just an Irish country lane, with little or no speed limit markers.

As we continued along, we turned off to move down the hill and through a driveway. Little did I know that there I would find my first leprechaun already! (This is ‘String,’ a supporting member of the Wexford Harriers.) Although the leprechaun was a bit shy and only appeared after the hounds had moved along, and the rest of the huntsmen didn’t get the chance to see him in his natural habitat, I was patient and managed to get a picture of the elusive creature.

Found one!

We continued down to the fields slowly, and it felt like a fun, leisurely trail ride with all the hounds hanging out with us. I felt almost like I was part of the staff with all the camaraderie and easy-going nature of the people I went out riding with.

The completely black one is actually a Labrador.

We took a slow hack around the fields, jumping some drains and letting the hounds run around and frolic along the drains. As it was just an exercise, we weren’t concerned about moving very quickly ourselves or sending the hounds out to specific coverts. We were, however, interested in showing me around and after circling a few fields we came upon the fairy fort.

I wasn’t really sure what I was expecting, but something much smaller along the lines of a ‘fairy ring’ or a circle of stones. No, this was actually a field roughly an acre in size and completely surrounded by a natural looking wall… or really, the more I looked at it, the more I decided it looked like a reverse drain. Instead of huge ditches, the ancient Irish had built up steep walls of stone and dirt to keep their livestock separate. As farms became larger over the years, or land changed hands, many of these walls were no longer necessary and were allowed to erode or taken down. Some however, grew trees to help the walls keep their shape and as time passed, many people forgot what their original purpose was. This is when they became ‘fairy forts’ as some decided the rather perfectly square structures must have been created by magical creatures. Being in Ireland, I think they should have been leprechaun forts, but then it would lose its lovely alliteration.

One corner of the ancient fairy fort. The sides are worn in some places where we pass through with the horses frequently!

We continued our walk around the fields, and just as we were about to leave–in fact, just as we returned to the road back up the kennels, the hounds picked up a fox scent. We heard the hounds start making some yelps of music, and then I watched as just a couple yards in front of me, a fox darted out of the covert and sprinted across the field. The hounds, relying on scent instead of sight, took a few moments before they picked up the hot scent and gave chase to the little rascal.

However, we quickly realized that only half the pack was following. The pack had split, and while a slight majority were going after the fox we had seen, the others were running in the complete opposite direction on the far side of the covert. Thinking we were unlikely to see any foxes, here we had found two foxes in the same covert. This is usually abnormal, except this was the very beginning of mating season… and so half the hounds chased the dog fox, and the other half went after the bitch fox. The huntsman went off immediately after the first group of hounds while the whips needed to cross a few drains to get around the other side of the covert to call back the hounds after the bitch fox.

Staying just behind Derek, my host whipper-in, I watched part in horror as he had a most spectacular fall off the Grey Three Year Old. While getting around to the other side of the covert, he approached the double drain as usual, but when Grey Three Year Old landed on the center divide, he started to slide back down into the muck of the drain. Not wanting to get stuck with the horse, Derek did the most commonly practiced technique in these circumstances and began an emergency dismount. With one foot over the middle of Grey Three Year Old’s back, Derek wasn’t expecting the horse to suddenly find purchase and lurch up to the top of the drain. His face connected neatly with the top of Grey Three Year Old’s skull, as he was leaning forward to get off the beast and the horse was jerking his head up to bounce up the drain.

In this precarious position, Grey Three Year Old decided to take the next drain immediately, and Derek, still only halfway on the horse and with a newly-broken tooth, did quite an excellent job of staying on over the drain. It was the landing when Grey Three Year Old did a quick left turn and began bucking down the side of the field that he finally fell… and landed with his leg on a rock.

(Of course, broken teeth and landing on rocks or in drains are a natural part of hunting in Ireland. Just as landing in blackthorn bushes with inch-long thorns that always turn septic if not removed immediately are a commonality in England. Makes the pine needles and moss of home seem positively inviting!)

Grey Three Year Old could be seen galloping up the road and after a couple shouts across the double drain, we heard an okay from Derek. At this point, Ciara was already on her way across, leaving Freddie in my capable hands alongside Grey Horse.

From glimpses through the heavy brush and trees, I watched Ciara and Derek make their way up the road on foot in search of Grey Three Year Old. I followed, leading Freddie with me until I reached the gate at the top of the field (in which I then had to keep a filly away from the two of them as well… yes, there was a horse stationed in the field already). Ciara and Derek had turned away from the field at some point and as I began to wonder just how long I might be sitting here alone in an Irish field, only vaguely sure of where I was, Ciara came back to claim Freddie with news that Grey Three Year Old had trotted all the way home by himself and had been waiting for them at the front gate.

Just as she mounted back up, we found the hounds and the huntsmen returning towards us. Full of the usual Irish hospitality, the huntsman lamented how I had missed the excitement of the run and told me I could follow one of the other whips to crisscross some fields at a faster pace in a mock run. Thus, I followed Jemma through several fields, back around the fairy fort, and then up the road to join the returning hounds. At this point, I was starting to gain my eye for good jumping places along the drains, so I wasn’t always following exactly behind nor jumping only from spots someone directly in front of me was jumping. Happily, Grey Horse was just as steady and careful going solo as I expected him to be.

At the end of the exercise, I was pleased to have accomplished all my goals: finding a leprechaun and improving my drain-jumping abilities. And when we went back for tea, we got even another surprise:

More leprechauns! There we have the huntsman in front, and our previous leprechaun behind. THANK YOU!

Just another day in Ireland!

Hack to the Bog

17 February 2013

While I had been very successful on the hunt the day before, my Irish hosts Àine, Derek, and Ciara still thought I should get more practice jumping drains. I agreed, mostly because I wouldn’t get the chance to jump drains again for many years. I’m not sure if they thought my form was terrible the day before, but since I had stayed on, most of the field out that day figured it was some kind of miracle for someone who had never seen a drain before.

For the first time since I had left America, I was given the chance to ride the same horse more than once. I was again on trusty Grey Horse, and happy to hack out in something other than my poor, mud-stained hunt coat. Àine rode the most-interestingly named Sylvester, Derek on the Grey Three-Year-Old, and Ciara on Freddie. At the base of the hill on which the yard was situated was a large plantation–or rather, a planted forest–and we took a small dirt and rock lane down to it. All the trees were in neat, narrow rows and the hopes were that these trees would help suck up the water and make the nearby fields workable. They were crisscrossed with older drains, and as such, was a perfect year-round training area.

How to reach the training area. This is the lane, not the plantation itself–that has many more trees and much closer together.

That being said, it still had been one of the wettest winters in recent memory and as such, we had to be careful to not get caught in any boggy areas. The horses were quite responsive and could feel any gripping suction almost immediately and would dance quickly out of danger. The problem was only when large roots nearly float above the boggy surface and a horse sinks up to his hocks, and tries to wrench himself free only to get caught and twisted on a root. With all this tricky terrain, it was easy to understand why most of our rides were done at a walk.

Once we had twisted and turned our way over small ditches, under half-fallen trees, through narrowly planted pine trees with all their branches intact and with only a few retreats and redirections, we finally made it to the training area.

And I started my drain-training in earnest.

Go Grey Horse!

I learned a lot about staying balanced in the saddle and even started to pick up the right timing for when a horse needs to jump. It takes a lot of movement to go from a downhill backwards lean, to a two-point over a jump, to far forward going up a hill–all in the space of one to two seconds. I basically sat a light three-point and let my shoulders stay balanced over Grey Horse’s center of gravity and never even lost a stirrup. As for reins, who really needs them? I kept a very light contact on the creep down as Grey Horse needed to stretch his neck to see where he was going and then simply gathered them up on the other side once we had clambered up the other side. (For more on how a horse jumps drains, see the previous post: Wexford Harriers.)

Light three-point over fences. He doesn’t have much of a bascule (and doesn’t need one) so I didn’t feel too bad about gently sitting on him over the drains!

After many attempts over single drains, we clambered through the underbrush to find the double. The center land mass was a narrow pinnacle and the opposite side was completely hidden behind it. As Derek left with my camera to the other side, he disappeared too. I probably should have been nervous, but after jumping Grey Horse for the last two days, I felt confident in his ability to keep us both afloat. I just had to watch for trees (this is why I’m leaning in the picture below) and he would watch his footing.

And he didn’t disappoint! Here we are coming off the middle peak of the double.

It was a grand day out schooling me, and I also managed to ask about how the horses were trained to be so careful and to creep down the sides of ditches. The answer? Long-lining. Often, even before horses are broke to ride, they are lead down to the plantation-bog and coaxed over their first drains: the easy ones where there is little danger of getting stuck. A trainer will stand on either side, with the line held by the trainer across the drain. The horse is asked to come across, and inevitably, at some point or another in the early stages, the horse will land itself inside the drain. This is the turning point. Either the young horse will learn to look carefully, take his time, and do everything in his power not to fall down in the muck again… or he’s just not cut out to be an Irish hunter. (The horses that rush repeatedly, and consequently fall, can just be sold to the English–the get all their best hunters as Irish cast-offs.)

This long-lining technique made a lot of sense with what I had seen the previous day hunting as well. At one point, a man had gotten off his horse in the middle of the hunt and slapped it on the rump to let it cross a dirty double drain. Unbelievably to me, the horse promptly stopped and waited for his rider to clamber across somewhat less gracefully. There, he remounted like nothing had happened. In the States, people only dismount in dire emergencies or in unplanned and unwanted circumstances. But since it was the safest way to cross with a green-ish horse, it was natural to continue training out on the hunt field in a sane manner. I would later see the same dismounting-to-jump in other hunts around the area.

After many jumps and finally getting Àine to say she’d stop worrying about me while out on the hunt, we headed back in to the yard. Time for more tea!!

For a (very) short video of that double drain: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VKwFq0gb2qI&feature=youtu.be