Foxhunting on the Lakeland Fells

by Richard Clapham

In addition to the type of hound used, the method of hunting on the fells differs from that in the riding countries. There hounds are thrown into covert, from which in a few minutes they get away almost on top of their fox. While the same thing sometimes happens with the fell hounds, as a rule, their fox is lying in some snug kennel at a height of two thousand feet or more, and before hounds can run him they must find him. To do this they quest for the drag, or in other words, they search for and pick up the line of a fox which during the night has visited the dale, and then before daybreak has returned to his mountain fastness. If the fox has cut his return trip rather fine, and hounds are out early, as they very often are in spring, the drag may prove a warm one. If it is cold and the fox long gone, it may require a lot of working out.

Anyhow, the same end is eventually attained, i.e. hounds gradually work up to the spot where their fox is lying. It may be on the ledge of some crag, or amongst the rocks strewn about the fell breast. Wherever it is, Reynard may wait till hounds are close to him, or he may steal away and, if unseen, gain a long start. As a rule, however, there are a few keen hunters scattered about the fell tops before hounds leave the dale, and the fox is lucky if he can slip away without the sharp eyes of some shepherd spying his movements. A series of shrill view-halloas soon bring hounds to the spot, and the run begins in earnest. Although such a halloa saves time when a fox has stolen away, it is a much prettier sight to see hounds find and unkennel their fox in a crag by themselves. It is an exciting moment when Reynard springs up from his heather-covered ledge and goes shooting through the dangerous crag-face, en route for the open fell top. Hounds may be practically all round him at the time, but he dodges first one way and then another until he is clear, and amongst the rocks and rough débris of the fell-side, he is more than a match for the fastest hound.

If it is a clear day, with not too much wind, you can both see and hear hounds at some distance. If there is a mist, the music is your only guide to the whereabouts of the pack. If scent is at all good, not many minutes will elapse ere hounds have disappeared beyond your ken. You follow on, keeping to the good going on the fell top, and ere long you hear them again in another dale, still running strong. A thorough knowledge of the country and the run of the foxes will enable you to go far and more or less keep in touch, even on a misty day. If you are a stranger, you will be wise to stick to some local hunter, who will pilot you safely, although possibly at a rather faster pace than you deem compatible with such rough going. Mist is the fell hunter’s greatest bugbear. It may roll up suddenly and block out your entire view, shrouding you in a damp, grey mantle. Then all you can do is to pray for an occasional rift in the vaporous screen which will afford you a glimpse of your whereabouts, and possibly reveal the hounds.

Sometimes when the dales are thick with mist the fell tops stand out quite clear, and you look down on to a white sea. Next to mist hard weather—especially when there is much ice on the crags—may stop hunting for a time. Snow is not so bad, for though it makes hard work of it for followers, hounds can get through it all right, and scent is often good when the white covering is damp.

I must not dwell on the dark days, however, for there are times when weather, scent, and all the rest of it goes right, and a day of this kind is a day to remember. The morning is fine and still, and the atmosphere so clear that every rock and stone stands out distinctly. The distant hills are tinted from indigo to mauve, and you wish you could transfer the glorious panoramic view to canvas. You are out early, having made a slow and easy ascent of the fell, and you sit down where you can command a view of the dale and the rough ground below you. Far away in the bottom you espy the huntsman’s scarlet coat, and those little white dots moving here and there are the hounds.

ULLSWATER FOXHOUNDS: OPENING MEET AT BROTHERSWATER, OCT. 11TH, 1919.

A faint note sounds, and then another, and gradually the music swells and grows louder. Hounds have struck a drag, and are making their way towards a frowning crag which juts out from the rough breast beneath you. Your companion, a hill-shepherd, moves off a few paces in order to get a better view, then suddenly turns and points with his stick, exclaiming, “Sista, yonder he gars!” You look quickly towards the point indicated, and there you see him, a fine fell fox, his brush held stiff and straight behind him, moving along with the smooth gliding action peculiar to his kind. Once he halts and looks back, then he resumes his easy pace. Your companion runs a few yards down the breast, and you are treated to a sample of a dalesman’s view-halloa. Scream after scream rings out, echoing from the crags. The fox, still in view, and unhurried, stops at the sound, glances back, then mends his pace and disappears round the end of a jutting crag. Hounds come like mad to the halloa, scrambling up the steep ground at a wonderful pace. The leaders strike the line, and there is a burst of music as the remainder of the pack settle to it, and go racing through the breast. You watch them until hidden by a shoulder of the hill, then scan the fell head anxiously for their reappearance. They are almost out of hearing, but suddenly the cry is carried back to you clear and distinct, and you see them climbing out at the fell head, looking like white ants in the distance. One glimpse you get, and they are gone over the fell top, heading for the rough ground beyond.

Although you meditate following them, your better judgment prevails, for this dale has not been previously disturbed, and you know that a litter has been bred there. It is more than likely that the fox will return ere long, so you walk a short distance up the narrow trod leading to the tops, and sit down to listen. Scattered about the fell slopes are the little Herdwick sheep, tiny things in comparison with a Southdown, but famed for their quality as mutton. Overhead, wheeling in wide spirals, a buzzard is rising to a dizzy height, his shrill “whee-u, whee-u,” sounding clear and distinct. Over the fell head you hear the raucous cry of a raven, and catch sight of a black speck floating into the distance. A stoat, not yet in his winter coat of white, darts in and out amongst the rocks below you, and you watch his antics until a distant sound catches your ear. You listen intently, yes, there it is again, surely the cry of a hound, although still a long way off. They must be coming back, for the sounds are nearer now, and louder. You take the glasses from their case, and scan the fell head. Yes, there they come, running fast, and their fox cannot be very far in front at that pace. Quickly you scan the ground between, and at last you see him coming gamely along, but far from fresh. Below you is a well-known earth, which is no doubt his refuge, but to-day there are figures standing about it, so his entrance will be barred.