Boxing Day

When I was growing up in England, Boxing Day, named for the boxes filled with left over food and given to the servants on the day after Christmas, was second in my book, only to the gift receiving day itself. By the fifties, few families had servants including ours but Boxing Day was special for another reason. Traditionally, it was the opening day of fox hunting.

My first introduction to this gala event at age 11 is deeply ingrained in my memory for many reasons, not all of which I can be proud. The 'Meet' for the Duke of Beaufort's hunt was held on the lawns of his stately home in Gloucestershire where more than a hundred riders would gather to sip sherry and speculate on the upcoming day's events. Many of the women rode side saddle with long skirted habits while the men wore hunting pink and top hats, I kid you not! The children of these affluent families, dressed in miniature tweed jackets and jodhpurs rode perfect ponies with braided manes and polished bridles. Then there were the others. My sister and I, together with our friends, fit the 'other' category.

On this first outing we rose at daybreak to feed and groom our ponies, clean our tack and stuff a couple of turkey sandwiches into our pockets. By 8:00 am we were mounted and had begun our 10 mile journey just to get to the Meet. By the time we arrived two hours later, damp and mud splattered, our appearance was disheveled but our excitement was intense. The hounds were baying, anxious to get going, the horses were beginning to stamp their feet and the sherry glasses were almost empty. I was loving it. Proudly I sat on my little round pony of no particular ancestry, soaking up the moment, when without warning my pony’s knees buckled and I was on the ground. The wretched creature had decided that he had an itch and it was time for a roll. While he was on his back grinding my saddle into the mud and onlookers were quietly giggling behind their leather gloved hands, I tugged ineffectually on the reins to try to right the beast. That was only the first of several embarrassing moments.

For those of you unfamiliar with this age-old sport, now banned in England, this is how it goes: the huntsmen encourage the hounds to pick up the scent of an unsuspecting fox and once detected the lead hound gives voice and the pack then takes off in pursuit. Once the fox is caught, possibly miles and hours later, it is consumed by the hounds, that is why it is called a ‘blood sport’, and then it begins all over again .The rest of the riders are just followers. Rule #1 – never, I repeat, never go ahead of a huntsman.

Neither my pony nor I were very experienced so my control of him was severely limited. He had a tendency to take the bit between his teeth and run away and no amount of hauling on the reins had any effect. He also didn’t like to jump much. Still my confidence level was high as I positioned myself near the back of the ‘field’ listening for the ‘Tally Ho’ and the hunting horn signifying that the hounds were on the scent.

Within minutes we were away. This huge mass of horseflesh was instantly in full gallop across endless rolling fields separated only by stone walls. What a rush! The first obstacle was coming up fast and much to my surprise we sailed over a low section of wall without hesitation. My, this was fun! Ahead of us the field was slowing to allow the hounds to regroup and one of the huntsmen signaled the field to ‘Hold Hard’. This was not an order my pony understood and by now I had no say. We tore past the other riders, past the Field Master, a major rule infringement, but still a stone wall separated us from the working hounds. Fortunately, at this point my headstrong equine came to a screeching halt sending me flying over his head. Embarrassing moment #2.

As the day wore on the ‘field’ spread out and I found myself hacking to the next likely location in the company of the Duke and Duchess of Beaufort. My ego now restored, I eagerly jumped out of the saddle to open a gate to allow them through. They acknowledged my politeness with a nod and waited to allow me to remount. I was feeling pretty good. As I swung my leg over the saddle that disgusting little four-legged animal moved swiftly to his left depositing me on the far side, flat on my back in a plowed field. Did I mention that it had been raining for days? Embarrassing moment #3.

I survived that first Boxing Day hunt to go on to many more. There were new ponies and more unspeakable moments but the thrill of the chase surpassed all. Yes, the ‘sport’ was ugly but the pageantry was magnificent.