What Fox Hunting Is All About

What Fox Hunting Is All About

Britain is famous for maintaining its traditions whether outmoded or not. We still have a royal family whose only purpose is to help the paparazzi make money and the tabloid newspapers sell more copies. We maintain a House of Lords within our governmental system which is made up of unelected indviduals who either made it there by accident of birth or were raised to the peerage through patronage, usually political.

So it is not surprising that we had to use an emergency parliamentary procedure to outlaw fox hunting, an activity that started in the 16th century, was formalised in the 18th century, and carried on as a countryside pursuit right through to the 21st century.

Never before, since David Beckham changed his hairstyle, has the nation been more divided about such an issue. The hunters on one side demanding their right to gallop around our green and pleasant land with hounds in an attempt to keep the vermin fox population under control, and on the other we have bodies such as the League Against Cruel Sports claiming that this is just an excuse to corner a fox and tear it to pieces.

Some sympathy must be allotted to both sides as each has reasonable justification, the hunters wanting to limit vermin - only about 3% of foxes are killed this way - and the anti-cruelty protestors who believe that all animals should have the right to a peaceful existence just as humans do.

Conversations over the dinner table, and glass in hand at cocktail parties, have made it clear to me that most people understand the case against hunting, but precious few people really understand the reason why hunters persist in this archaic sport. Given that very few of the general population have experienced the hunt, this lack of comprehension is not surprising.

In essence the hunt is a social event, not a means of chasing an animal for the sheer pleasure of seeing it ending up in bloody pieces by a hedge. One meets one hunt friends at the stables, goes riding along country lanes with them, has a drink in the pub with them, and puts the world to rights with them over a well catered meal.

The meet as it is called is another excuse for a social occasion, often outside a country inn, dressed up in one's pinks, blacks or even greens if the meet is informal. Shiny black riding boots, black safety helmet, a glass of something warming - usually alcholic - in one's hand and an impatient horse beneath one's saddle itching to gallop for all its worth across the fields.

Courtesies and conversation are exchanged with fellow riders and supporters. The sun is shining in a bright blue English sky and the trees on the village green opposite rustle as a light breeze tickles their leaves. Nearby the hounds are yelping, their handlers trying to keep them under control because they know that soon they will be unleashed to follow their instincts as nature intended.

Then at a signal glasses are handed back, the horses turn towards the five bar gate at the edge of the field and the hounds are led into the open countryside. The air is full of expectation that soon the pack will discover the scent of a fox recently passed by on its way home from a morning's feasting upon the local wild life. Suddenly the horns sound, the hounds bark and yelp, the horses thunder off and the riders feel the air rushing past their faces as they race across fields and leap over hedgerows.

Horses pant and strain at the reins, riders struggle to keep control whilst standing in their stirrups, and the dogs race ahead following an invisible trail that only canine noses can discern. Eventually the small red animal, the whole raison d'être of this antiquated past time, comes into view and the chase hots up. The horses close in, the riders become excited with anticipation, and the hounds give their instincts full rein.

Minutes pass, time becomes irrelevant until at last the quarry is captured, the yelping of the hounds takes on a new more primitive tone, and the bloody remains revealed when the handlers manage to haul their charges back from the tiny corpse.

Congratulations all round, the cheek blooding of any youngster whose debut it was with the hunt, and then a gentle trot back to horse trailers and stables before a final social drink and a shower.

That is what fox hunting is really about. Not tradition, not vermin control, not even some sadistic desire to see a helpless animal suffer the agonies of being torn to pieces. It is just the pleasure of seeing one's friends in a stimulating social context, the joy of galloping at top speed across open fields in the fresh air, and the excitement of flying over high hedgerows with a pack of hounds at your feet. So why won't the hunts give up their current ancient practices and revert to using a bag full of aniseed to set the trail instead of destroying a hapless animal each time? That's a good question.



	Britain is famous for maintaining its traditions whether outmoded or not. We still have a royal family whose only purpose is to help the paparazzi make money and the tabloid newspapers sell more copies. We maintain a House of Lords within our governmental system which is made up of unelected indviduals who either made it there by accident of birth or were raised to the peerage through patronage, usually political. So it is not surprising that we had to use an emergency parliamentary procedure to outlaw fox hunting, an activity that started in the 16th century, was formalised in the 18th century, and carried on as a countryside pursuit right through to the 21st century. Never before, since David Beckham changed his hairstyle, has the nation been more divided about such an issue. The hunters on one side demanding their right to gallop around our green and pleasant land with hounds in an attempt to keep the vermin fox population under control, and on the other we have bodies such as the League Against Cruel Sports claiming that this is just an excuse to corner a fox and tear it to pieces. Some sympathy must be allotted to both sides as each has reasonable justification, the hunters wanting to limit vermin - only about 3% of foxes are killed this way - and the anti-cruelty protestors who believe that all animals should have the right to a peaceful existence just as humans do. Conversations over the dinner table, and glass in hand at cocktail parties, have made it clear to me that most people understand the case against hunting, but precious few people really understand the reason why hunters persist in this archaic sport. Given that very few of the general population have experienced the hunt, this lack of comprehension is not surprising. In essence the hunt is a social event, not a means of chasing an animal for the sheer pleasure of seeing it ending up in bloody pieces by a hedge. One meets one hunt friends at the stables, goes riding along country lanes with them, has a drink in the pub with them, and puts the world to rights with them over a well catered meal. The meet as it is called is another excuse for a social occasion, often outside a country inn, dressed up in one's pinks, blacks or even greens if the meet is informal. Shiny black riding boots, black safety helmet, a glass of something warming - usually alcholic - in one's hand and an impatient horse beneath one's saddle itching to gallop for all its worth across the fields. Courtesies and conversation are exchanged with fellow riders and supporters. The sun is shining in a bright blue English sky and the trees on the village green opposite rustle as a light breeze tickles their leaves. Nearby the hounds are yelping, their handlers trying to keep them under control because they know that soon they will be unleashed to follow their instincts as nature intended. Then at a signal glasses are handed back, the horses turn towards the five bar gate at the edge of the field and the hounds are led into the open countryside. The air is full of expectation that soon the pack will discover the scent of a fox recently passed by on its way home from a morning's feasting upon the local wild life. Suddenly the horns sound, the hounds bark and yelp, the horses thunder off and the riders feel the air rushing past their faces as they race across fields and leap over hedgerows. Horses pant and strain at the reins, riders struggle to keep control whilst standing in their stirrups, and the dogs race ahead following an invisible trail that only canine noses can discern. Eventually the small red animal, the whole raison d'être of this antiquated past time, comes into view and the chase hots up. The horses close in, the riders become excited with anticipation, and the hounds give their instincts full rein. Minutes pass, time becomes irrelevant until at last the quarry is captured, the yelping of the hounds takes on a new more primitive tone, and the bloody remains revealed when the handlers manage to haul their charges back from the tiny corpse. Congratulations all round, the cheek blooding of any youngster whose debut it was with the hunt, and then a gentle trot back to horse trailers and stables before a final social drink and a shower. That is what fox hunting is really about. Not tradition, not vermin control, not even some sadistic desire to see a helpless animal suffer the agonies of being torn to pieces. It is just the pleasure of seeing one's friends in a stimulating social context, the joy of galloping at top speed across open fields in the fresh air, and the excitement of flying over high hedgerows with a pack of hounds at your feet. So why won't the hunts give up their current ancient practices and revert to using a bag full of aniseed to set the trail instead of destroying a hapless animal each time? That's a good question.