The master of the Devon and Somerset staghounds (Mr R. A. Sanders) resides at Exford, and here are the kennels of the pack. The latter are substantial stone buildings with gable ends, and stand on the slope of a hill, close beside the road to Simonsbath. One enters first the “cooking-house,” the lobby of which is hung around with antlered heads, brow, bay, and tray. Some heads are preserved on account of their peculiarities or misshapen forms; and to each head is attached a plate setting forth the date and place of the capture of the animal. Advancing, one is conscious of a pungent odour, which is found to proceed from a chamber where a huge furnace is burning fiercely, and a seething mass of horse flesh is being boiled off the bones for the dogs. Some of this boiled flesh is in a large wooden trough, and, mixed with oatmeal, flour, or biscuit, is undergoing a process of solidification. In the adjoining room are two larger troughs, in one of which biscuit is soaking, whilst the other contains a quantity of oatmeal paste. Both sorts of food are intended for the younger dogs.
The kennels of these hounds, situated at a short distance, are provided with an extensive boarded-in grass plot, which forms their exercise-yard. When heavy rain does not permit of a parade, they will be found on the bench. A magnificent lot of dogs, containing the blood of the most celebrated hounds in the best packs, they are not much disturbed by the entrance of strangers. Some of them half step down from the bench, when you pat and stroke them; they do not attempt to bite, and are, in fact, exceedingly quiet, unless you are foolish enough to strike them. Then you will see. Although the hounds are so much alike, the huntsman has the name of each dog on the tip of his tongue, and when, he calls, the animal is back in his place in an instant—so absolute is his command.
As regards the older hounds, they are kennelled in the same fashion, reclining on a bench with a thick layer of clean straw. They have had a season or two’s “blooding,” and during that time some of them, by their doings in the pack, have made a name for themselves. A few years ago two of them had the honour of appearing on several public platforms in attendance on the huntsman, the late Anthony Huxtable, a merry dog himself, who, as he could troll a rattling hunting-song, was in great request at local concerts, and on such occasions brought the hounds with him as a bit of realism.
Another kennel houses the oldest hounds—dogs which have hunted for seven seasons or more, and are still fit.
It is a curious fact that nothing upsets hounds so much as thunder. A flash of lightning followed by a loud crash of thunder makes every dog spring to his feet and relieve his feelings by low whines and growls.
A Faggus incident (see below, chapter xiv.) is duly credited to Exford by Blackmore, who entrusts the telling of it to John Fry (Lorna Doone, chapter xxxix.). He appears, however, to have robbed the parish of a still more thrilling episode (see chapters xiv. and xvi.).
CHAPTER IX
THE HEART OF THE MOOR
From Exford to Simonsbath the road presents few points of interest. At White Cross enters the highway that leads from Spire Cross to Comer’s Gate, and thence between hedges to Chibbet (always so spelt and pronounced, but query Gibbet?) Post, a rendezvous of the staghounds and other packs; and perhaps the spot where Red Jem hung in chains, but it is more than two miles from Dunkery. After White Cross we arrive at Red Stone Gate, where we alight or not as we choose. Red Stone, having been mentioned in the perambulation records as a landmark of the old forest, has some claim to be considered historic. Then we pass what is commonly known as Gallon House, a white-washed building with a porch, standing back from the road and formerly a public-house. Its proper name was the Red Deer, and it is said to have been called Gallon House from the fact that “drink”—beer is always or often thus described hereabouts—was sold only by the gallon. That may or may not have been the case, but, as regards intoxicants, Exmoor is still under restrictions. To ensure the respectability of the neighbourhood, the “Exmoor Forest” Hotel (late the “William Rufus”) is limited to the sale of wine, no beer or spirits being obtainable. This rule was imposed by Sir Frederick Knight, and is maintained in full force by his successor, Lord Ebrington.