Chapter 07 - Hunting

To ride to Madron feast meet from Mulfra Farm is a fairly straightforward route. Down the lane, up past Trythal School, across Trythal Moor, down to Kitty Noys’ Cottage and down Kennel Lane; but if the lane was muddy Roy and I would ride all the way down Bone Valley and up Madron Hill. After spending absolutely ages getting the horses groomed to perfection, tack cleaned and polished, and hooves oiled, there was no way we would want to arrive at the meet muddy! Within half an hour of riding around Madron Carn, mud was the least of our worries, in fact the muddier we were the happier we were! I never left home to go hunting wondering how many foxes we were going find that day. My only thought was to enjoy riding over open countryside on my horse with my fellow comrades. My main concern was that there were clean sheets in the bed and I had caught up with all my jobs in case I came home in a worse physical state than when I left (which was sometimes the case!)

Roy first went hunting with his father when he was six or seven on his pony Trixie. This was with the Western Hunt which he has also ridden with up until the last few years. As a child he became friendly with Lloyd Bennett, who lived across the valley at Ludgvan, they had a shared interest in pigeons and hunting with beagles. When Lloyd went to farm at Halsetown he had a larger pack of beagles and, with Archie Richards and later Norman Williams, hunted them all over west Cornwall. Norman eventually had some of these hounds as well as some harriers, which were larger than the beagles, and kennelled them at the old milk factory at Sancreed where Mr and Mrs Oates previously kept their pack of harriers with which they hunted hares on Trewey downs.

Norman hunted on foot at first but as he got older he hunted on horseback. Roy used to take his terriers but after a while he also rode with what were then called “The Harriers.” In the late 1970s Frank Berryman, along with Desmond Roskilly, took over The Harriers and they were then named The West Penwith Harriers. These were a mounted pack kennelled at Porthmeor near Gurnards Head and hunted by Frank, with Bryan Roskilly and Roy as whippers-in (assistants to the huntsman.) Over the years we have had several horses: Lady, Bacardi, Ruskin, Rose and Foxtrot, as well as having McCoy from Porthmeor; and sometimes Roy would ride Sarge or Riot. It must have been an awful lot of work, because if Graham was home we would turn out three horses for hunting, I know I could not do that now! Starting to clip a horse at midnight to hunt the next day after Frank and Betty’s generous hospitality almost seemed the norm! I do believe these were the best days of hunting, not only for the riding, but for the enthusiasm of the car followers and walkers as well as for the lively social events that occurred quite frequently!

The WPH were in being for quite a few years into the 1980s until they amalgamated with the Western Hunt. Foxhunting as we knew it has changed, however the guise under which it is now being conducted seems to be working. Farming is such a solitary occupation, so where do farmers meet? At one time the local cattle market at the top of Causewayhead in Penzance was easily accessible for the local farmers to meet up and conduct their business and for their wives to shop in the town. This market then moved to Long Rock, just outside of the town, and some time ago closed altogether, as have Helston and Camborne markets. Truro market is now the nearest, which is a sixty mile round trip from here. It is so important for farmers to interact socially, so that meeting each other while out watching the hounds fulfils that role. Roy’s hunting life has moved full circle as he now goes out with the Lambro Beagles.

I must admit some of the best days of my life have been spent out hunting. I have been put through the whole spectrum of emotions from total elation to utter frustration, absolutely scared stiff to being “high as a kite!” Physically, I have been battered and bruised, suffered broken bones, and been so cold and wet that I have hardly been able to move.

As thrilling as it was out hunting in Cornwall, it could not quite compare with riding across the scrubland and plains just north of Mysore in Southern India, chaperoned by six mounted police officers. It was late on a hot Saturday afternoon, the sun like a huge golden orb was setting just south of Charmundi Hill … an experience like no other … but that is another story!

Monica Olds