Special care should be taken of saddles for this work, for there is no country where horses suffer so terribly from sore backs as Exmoor. The steep climbs up and down hill, the great heat, followed by standing still till a horse is chilled, then another gallop perhaps, and lastly a long ride home, horse and man, or oftener woman, dead beat, work absolute havoc in a stable full of otherwise sound horses. I would advise anyone hunting with the staghounds to have all saddles thoroughly fitted, if possible one for each horse, the horses' backs hardened a little, and above all to see that the saddle is left on the horse for some time after he is cool, whenever he comes in from hunting. Very few persons will take the trouble to do this, especially when a horse comes home about eleven o'clock at night, but it should always be insisted on.
Towards the end of September is to my mind the pleasantest time on Exmoor, and from the middle of the month to the time stag-hunting ends, about the tenth of October, sport is generally far better than earlier in the season. The deer break covert quicker, and run better, the weather is cooler, and Cloutsham which has in the earlier part of the season, been the happy picnic ground, to crowds of delighted strangers, now affords a sure find of a good Stag. This is, thanks to its kind owner and his son, who though not hunting-men themselves, are most desirous of showing sport to others. So much has been said about this opening function at Cloutsham and the beauty of the surrounding scenery, which in fact cannot be over-rated, that I will not allude to the "vast leafy combes," the "hazy outline of the Welsh coast," and the "stately purple-clad hill of Dunkerry," except to warn those who have never tried to gallop over the said Dunkerry that it is the most deceptive bit of going to my mind in the whole of the stag-hunting country. It is covered with rocks and stones, alternating with bogs, and is generally productive of a lame horse. I never saw it look so lovely as one day during hind-hunting.
It was a soft muggy day in November, and I was standing in a field behind Cloutsham farm, when a hind went away over Dunkerry. As I was riding a pony, I stood still and watched the proceedings. Anthony laid on, and the whole hunt swept away up the hill, and as they did so down came the fog like a curtain, but only covering half the hill. By and bye, back came the hind, and ran into Sweet Tree, as the extension of Cloutsham Wood on the Exford Road is called, and the hounds, huntsman and field all came one by one out of the mist. It was like a ghost hunt. Twice did that hind do the same thing, and then sent a young sister to take her place, but hounds were luckily stopped and the wily lady was captured, after a great deal of twisting and doubling up and down the water.
Very few people have any idea of the different aspect the country wears in the hind hunting season to what it does in stag-hunting time. In August on your way to the meet, you pass dozens of people, walking, riding, or driving, the latter with huge luncheon hampers, which are most welcome later on. The meet may be at Culbone Stables, in which case the Lynton road outside Lord Lovelace's plantation will be packed with carriages, etc., and people will idle about and stand in groups among the stunted fir trees, looking out on a calm blue sea. The stag may after some time "go to moor," and then away go the field after him, but for hours there will be carriages on the Lynton Road on the chance he may turn back and go to sea, which he may very likely do. In this case, those of the riders who have had enough, will turn round at the top of the hill and go home, but the majority will ride down through the Ashley Combe woods to the sea, and wait in the warm August afternoon till the stag is brought to land. The fishermen from Porlock Weir are always on the look out on a hunting day for a possible windfall in the shape of a deer going to sea, which means a sovereign in their pockets. The field meanwhile refresh themselves and their horses at the picturesque little hotel, the Anchor, and after the last rites of the chase have been gone through, ride home in the cool of the evening.
In hind hunting on a bitter December day, we have a very different picture. About four shivering women, or perhaps fewer, half a dozen sporting farmers, the Master and the hunt servants form the field. The women generally make a bolt for the little cottage at Culbone Stables, and sit round the fire there till Anthony comes for the pack. The wind is blowing half a gale, and sleet is falling, but once we are started no one cares for the weather. Deer, unlike foxes, will run in the teeth of the fiercest gale, and sometimes one is literally nearly blown out of the saddle. The hind which has probably left her calf lying in her bed, will run a big ring out to the Deer Park and back. With the ground at its heaviest, the small field has to gallop its fastest to keep the flying pack in sight. Back into Culbone the hind comes, and we stop and listen, and wonder if she will go to sea, trying in the meantime to get a little shelter from the icy wind under the larch trees. But our friend has not had half enough yet, and may take us over the same ground again, if she fails to induce another deer to take her place, or possibly we may go away after a fresh hind without knowing it; heart-rending work this for horses and hounds. Ultimately she will go to sea, either down the steep cliffs of Glenthorne, or from Porlock Weir, and the boatmen have to follow her, supposing it is not too rough for their safety, while the field, by this time of still smaller dimensions, wait patiently for the end. Then home we go. Porlock Weir was comparatively sheltered, but once on top of the hill again, the gale seems to have increased, and the sleet to be thicker, and by the time we get home we are nearly frozen, and it is pitch dark. Yet to my mind notwithstanding the horrible weather, hind hunting is a finer, wilder sport than stag-hunting, and a run after a straight-going hind in the spring when the weather is better, is hard to beat. Fog is the great enemy to hunting in the winter. Often the hounds have to go home from the meet, after waiting a couple of hours and more for it to lift.
F. Downer. Watford.
HEADS AT WATERMOUTH CASTLE.
I do not think casual visitors have any idea of the immense strain on hounds, horses and men that hunting from July to April entails, or they would not grumble as much as they do when they get a poor day's sport. Rather let them follow the example of one most genial tripper, who when a friend of mine remarked we had had a shocking bad day, nothing but wood work, said: "Well, I 'ear folks say they 'aven't 'ad a gallop, but I always 'as a gallop, and what I do is this. I watch one of them 'scarlet bounders' (presumably the huntsman), and when he lays on to the stag, I don't care where 'e is, I lays on to 'im. It takes a bit of doing too, and I always 'as a gallop!" Whether the "scarlet bounder" was equally pleased with a noisy follower, when he wanted to catch the slightest sound in covert, is another matter, but a jovial sportsman of this sort is far more welcome to the West Country than those people who go down and grumble at everything, and generally depart with the donation of a few shillings to the deer damage fund.
It is out of this fund the farmers are paid for the harm done to their crops by the deer, and richly they deserve some compensation, for without their help stag-hunting on Exmoor would soon be a thing of the past.