All of the fell country Hunts have some low ground adjoining the fells, which they visit once or twice during the season. This low ground will appeal to those who find fell climbing too strenuous.
The Coniston hounds, which hunt the Windermere district, visit the Winster valley, making their headquarters for the inside of a week at Strawberry Bank. This low country is rideable, inasmuch as it is possible to keep in touch with hounds by making use of side-roads, bridle-tracks, etc. The country consists chiefly of woodlands, with large heather-covered allotments, merging into grass fields in the valley. There are plenty of foxes, but sport is never quite at its best until rain or snow has beaten down the luxuriant growth of bracken, which flourishes everywhere. Here a mounted man has the advantage over one on foot, as when hounds run fast it is difficult to keep in touch with them, and, owing to the woods, quite impossible to see for any distance. I have enjoyed some very good sport there at different times, though I much prefer hunting on the open fells.
Many of the dalesmen are extraordinarily keen on hunting, nor does age appear to daunt them. I know several men over seventy years old who follow hounds at every opportunity. One keen hunter lived to be over ninety, and actually climbed to the top of Coniston Old Man on his ninetieth birthday. It was the immortal Jorrocks’s huntsman, James Pigg, who said, “Brandy and baccy ’ll gar a man live for iver!” but in the case of the north-country dalesman I think it is fresh mountain air and lots of exercise that “keeps the tambourine a rowlin’!”
The various inns throughout the country have harboured many a gathering of hunters after the death of a fox in their vicinity. It is the custom in Lakeland to take the carcass of the fox to the nearest inn, where it is hung from a “crook” in the ceiling of the bar-parlour, for all to see.
CONISTON FOXHOUNDS: AFTER A KILL IN THE LOW COUNTRY.
Fell hunting engenders a considerable thirst, therefore jugs of beer are in great demand. A pint or two usually incites some hunter to song, and soon the house will be echoing to the chorus of “John Peel,” “Joe Bowman,” or some other local hunting ditty. Gradually the gathering breaks up, the hunters wending their way towards their respective homes, and occasionally, en route, some of them will see more than one fox.
Talking of beer reminds me of the sign which used to grace the famous “Mortal Man Hotel” in Troutbeck; and read as follows:—
“Oh mortal man that liv’st on bread,