Memories of My Life at the College Valley

A hard frost revealed a memorable hunt, as darkness fell. In the winter of ‘67, after a long stoppage due to foot-and-mouth disease restrictions, hunting was to resume again on February 1st, but within a week or so hard weather set in, with light snow and hard frost. Nevertheless, prior experience of hunting in such conditions ensured that the College Valley hounds went out when our more traditional neighbors stayed in their kennels. Such a day was a Saturday in February 1968 when after a hard frost, the snowdrifts lay in hard white streaks about the hill faces and tracks and river bottoms were iron-hard. Fortunately there was much forestry and rough ground in Bowmont Water, where the frost could not penetrate, so the meet was on. On moving off, there was more than one fox afoot, which necessitated stopping one section of the pack to pursue the main body, which was taking a more likely route. Just as this was achieved, it became clear that my hunt secretary, leading an offshoot group of riders, had substantially headed the fox, just as a hunt appeared to be developing. His excuses fell on more stony ground than the conditions underfoot, and this was reinforced when it was apparent the fox had turned back into a covert, which was the site I’d planned for my afternoon draw. And, once again, fresh foxes split the pack, thus adding to my instincts of lost opportunity. Hounds struggled for some time in a forestry block—usually the graveyard to many a good hunt—until eventually a good holloa signalled a fox away in the right direction. The weight of cry drew all the pack behind the right fox. After crossing Bowmont Water, the fox turned short about the edge of the Duke’s trees, an indication that he was out of his accustomed territory and we were in for a long hunt. When hit by hard weather, the shepherd brings his sheep off the hill ground onto turnips or feed pasture, and our fox’s next move was to turn through a flock of ewes held up in this way, so the pack had to hunt through the heavy foiled ground, with the sheep moving back to the hill before them. Their perseverance was eventually rewarded when they reached clean ground and rove onto Craikmoor. Into the next valley they ran, with the cream of the Border country before them, but with increasing hill fog hanging on the high ground. “Go on, go on,” was my instruction to our small team of motor-bikers—Robert, James and Robby—as only they could keep up with the racing pack in this steep and frozen country. At last hounds checked on the scree of the Callowhope in descending gloom. Returning frost and many miles from home seemed to make closure a sensible option, but seven couple were on with the fox, and their increasing cry made me again question caution. As the horses were done after a hunt of 15 miles, we turned for home as I instructed Robert to keep with the hounds and stop them when opportunity presented itself. As we regained our hunt boundary, more hounds rejoined us showing signs of success, and Robert soon confirmed that hounds had overhauled a barren vixen in a rush-bed at Peelienic, just below the English border, 8 ½ miles as the crow flies from the find. Thus a hazardous ride home down a frosted track became a pleasure, despite the Galloway cattle blowing at us with frosted breath and horses slipping and sliding in pitch darkness to the vehicles parked at Belford. Never was a dram of whisky and a fire at the Border Hotel more welcome and more able to stimulate individual stories of a memorable day. Alas the secretary and his chastened group went home early and missed the hunt. Was it rubbing salt into verbal wounds to give him the details of memorable hunt and our adventures? After consideration, I thought so.