After unkennelling a fox on a very windy day, I have heard people exclaim, “Oh! he’ll never face this wind on the top.” Despite such opinions the fox generally does face even the strongest wind, if he has made up his mind to reach some particular point.

It should be remembered that a fox stands a great deal lower than a man, and offers much less resistance to the wind.

I once remember sheltering on Wetherlam behind a boulder, my companion being the huntsman of the Coniston Hounds. It was a wild, windy day, in fact, the wind was so strong that when facing it we could scarcely breathe. There was snow on the ground at the time, and hounds were running on the breast far below us. We were just about to leave our shelter when we espied a fox coming towards us. He was travelling right in the teeth of the gale, which did not appear to trouble him much. He never saw us till we ran in and loosed two couples of hounds at him, when he quickened his pace, and was soon out of sight.

I have, in a previous chapter, mentioned the fact of a fox lying on a ledge and refusing to move until a well-aimed stone dropped almost on top of him. That reminds me of another occasion when I was blackgame shooting on some rough ground on the fell. I fired at a blackcock which flew over me from above, missing him with the first barrel, but stopping him with the second. As I was reloading, I happened to glance downhill, and much to my surprise saw a fox curled up, apparently asleep, on top of a big flat rock. I threw a stone at him, which caused him to raise his head, and a second missile made him get off the rock, and take refuge underneath it. I waited a minute or two, but as he did not appear I rolled a big stone down the slope. It happened to land square on top of the fox’s shelter, and out he shot, jumping into a thick bracken bed, from the harbour of which he kept stopping to look back at me. It seemed strange that a fox should lie curled up on a rock, and allow me to make a noisy approach, in addition to firing the gun, without his showing the least sign of uneasiness.

On another occasion, near the same place, I was shooting with a companion. The snow was deep and the going very bad. I was well up the hill-side when I heard my companion exclaim, “Look out!” Expecting a hare, I got ready to shoot, when over a knoll appeared a fine big fox. I could have blown his head off, but instead I saluted him with a halloa, and away he went towards the high ground. Evidently he, too, found it bad travelling, as I saw him flounder and slip several times before he went out of sight.

As an example of the pace of a fell hound on rough ground, I will relate the following. The Coniston Hounds found a fox in a ghyll on Roughsides, overlooking the Kirkstone Pass. A very fast hound named Chanter, gained a long start with this fox, and crossed the Kirkstone road not far behind him. The fox made straight up the steep side of Dod End, when it suddenly dawned on us that the hound was fast gaining. In a very short time he overhauled his fox, and I expected to see the latter rolled over. Instead, the fox whirled round and “set” the hound, and there they stood, fangs bared, grinning at each other. I was watching the scene through field-glasses, and not till the remainder of the pack arrived on the scene did Reynard make a bolt for liberty. They turned him in very quickly, however, and rolled him over close to the road. It is only fair to add that this fox was slightly mangy, which probably accounted for his not being able to get clear. I have his mask on the wall now, and never saw one armed with bigger fangs.

Railways are seldom a danger to the fell hounds, though occasionally the latter run foul of them. On March 9th, 1911, the Blencathra Hounds were running their fox between the metals of the Cockermouth, Keswick and Penrith Railway. Neither fox nor hounds noticed the approach of a passenger train on its way to West Cumberland. Luckily, however, the engine-driver managed to bring the train to a standstill, when the fox was only a few yards from the engine. A few minutes later hounds accounted for their fox close to Bassenthwaite Lake.

A rather amusing incident occurred on one occasion at Wythburn, near the head of Thirlmere Lake. Two of the Blencathra hounds got well away with their fox, and were not caught by the rest of the pack until after they had rolled him over in the fields bordering the Lake. A zealous youth, instead of leaving the fox for the pack to run up to, ran in, and thinking Reynard was dead, picked him up. He quickly dropped the supposedly defunct carcass, however, when two rows of remarkably sharp white teeth met in his hand.

Nothing stops a really keen fell hunter from enjoying the sport he loves best. I know at least two men with wooden legs who regularly follow hounds, and would shame many a sound person when it comes to travelling on the hills.

There is a story concerning two hunters who used to follow hounds above Dockray. I believe one of them was a relation of Joe Bowman, the well-known huntsman of the Ullswater. Anyway, this ancestor of Joe’s was deaf and dumb, while his friend and hunting partner was blind.

The latter’s stock saying to his mate, when hounds were out, was, “Thou mun lissen, an’ I’ll leak (look).”

That big foxes are not altogether confined to the fell country is attested to in Frank Gillard’s “Reminiscences.” Gillard mentions a big, mangy dog-fox which the Belvoir Hounds killed at Aswarby. Had this fox been in good condition he would have weighed over eighteen pounds; as it was he turned the scale at seventeen and a half pounds.

Apropos of the famous “Dun Bull” inn, in Mardale, mentioned in a previous chapter in connection with the shepherds’ “Victory Meet,” is the following yarn.

The Ullswater had a good hunt in Longsleddale, eventually running their fox to ground in Mardale. A terrier was put in, and the fox bolted, affording another scurry before he was killed.

At the finish of the hunt a youth approached Mr. Farrer, of Howtown, the owner of the terrier, “Lucky Jim,” which had bolted the fox; and the following conversation ensued:

Youth: “Did your Jim worry the fox?”

Mr. F.: “No, my lad, he bolted.”

Youth: “Ay, an’ thou’ll bolt summat when thoo gits to t’ Dunny (Dun Bull).”

That a promising day may finish in gloom, the following experience will prove. In the last week of October, 1910, the Coniston Hounds found a fox at Pinch Crags, in Scandale. After a short but fast hunt, they rolled him over in the open. The day being still young, hounds were taken to High Pike, where a second fox was soon unkennelled. After a fast hunt this fox took refuge on the face of Dove Crag, dropping from ledge to ledge, with three hounds, Crafty, Rally and Ringwood in pursuit. Eventually the fox, in attempting to cross an impassable ghyll, owing to pressure from the young hound, Crafty, slipped and fell several hundred feet, and met its death on the rocks far below. Unfortunately, the hound shared the same fate, whilst Rally and Ringwood became hopelessly crag-fast on one of the numerous ledges. A rope and willing assistants were brought from the quarry on Red Screes, and eventually the hounds were rescued from their precarious position. It was an exciting adventure, and one which, thank goodness, does not often happen.

It was a coincidence that another fell pack, the Eskdale and Ennerdale, should have got some of their hounds crag-fast on Scawfell during the same week. Charmer, one of the best hounds in the pack, was found lying dead at the foot of the crags, and another hound, Melody, was badly injured. Ropes were secured at Wastdale Head, and J. Gaspard, a French guide, with two others, roped themselves together, and went 180 feet down the crag face. They rescued the remaining hounds, despite a continuous downpour of rain and severe cold.

Occasionally a fox ends his life in one of the many lakes scattered about the fell country. On New Year’s day, 1912, the Mellbrake Hounds got on to a fox which had stolen away near Foulsyke. They had a screaming hunt, towards the end of which hounds raced through the shrubbery at Loweswater Hall, and forward across the Lamplugh road to the lake. At the edge of the water one of the hounds “clicked” the fox, but could not hold him, Reynard plunged in, but sank when a few yards out from shore.

On one occasion the Blencathra Hounds ran a fox from Wanthwaite Crag to Grasmere village, where he “benked” on the window-sill of a cottage. A woman rushed out of the latter, armed with a broom, and forbade either huntsman or hounds to enter the garden, which was well fenced in. Eventually, however, she was persuaded, and after fair law had been allowed the fox, the hunt continued.

At another time a certain pack ran a fox into a crag where it “benked” in rather a difficult place. Hounds could not get to it, so a man was lowered in on a rope. He succeeded in shifting Reynard “out of that,” and away went hounds in hot pursuit. Oblivious to all else but the hunt, the men on the top utterly forgot their mate dangling in mid-air below them, and not until his frantic yells reached their ears did they set about the business of hauling him up.

It is not often one has the chance of seeing the finish of a hunt from a motor-car, but on one occasion I remember doing so. Hounds were running hard on Gummershow, overlooking the lower end of Windermere Lake. I was heading towards the lake when a friend’s car overtook me. Jumping in, we careered down a side-lane, and turned sharp into the main road, just as hounds forced their fox across it, and killed him near the lake shore.

On one occasion the Windermere Harriers brought a fox to hand at Blakerigg at the head of the Easedale valley. Anthony Chapman, now landlord of the famous “Mortal Man” hotel in Troutbeck, was huntsman at the time, and that day the only follower was one Isaac Thompson. The carcass of the fox was laid upon a flat rock when Anthony turned to his friend and exclaimed, “Why, Isaac, we’ve never halloed!”

To kill a fox without a death halloa was a sad omission, so a combined who-whoop rent the air, and awoke the echoes amongst the crags. In fact, it did more than that, it brought the supposedly dead fox to life, and sent him helter-skelter down the rough fell breast in a final dash for liberty. Hounds viewed him and flew in hot pursuit, and after a smart burst, rolled him over in the bottom near the tarn. To this day Anthony delights to tell the tale of the fox which was “killed twice over.”

On another occasion the same pack had a good run, which ended with a check near a gateway in a lane. After casting round with no result, a boy suddenly appeared on the scene, and exclaimed:

“What are you laiting?” (looking for).

“I’se laiting a fox!” replied Anthony.

“What, So-and-so (giving the name) has it tied up i’ t’ barn,” said the youth.

On making investigation, sure enough there was the fox tied up with a collar and chain in one of the farm buildings.

The party responsible for the deed was a local of the “not quite sharp” persuasion, who had arrived at the gateway just as hounds ran into their fox; and had rescued the latter little or nothing the worse.

Anthony, determined to let hounds have their reward, bought the fox from its captor, and after giving it due law, the pack was laid on. Having received his money, the “not quite sharp” gentleman mounted a near-by wall and commenced to stone the huntsman for all he was worth. Anthony, to escape this fusillade, hurriedly departed in the wake of his hounds, the latter rolling their fox over in the open, after a sharp scurry.

The “twice killed fox” yarn reminds me of another incident that happened some years ago.

Hounds ran their fox to ground, and after a pitched battle with the terriers, Reynard’s carcass was secured and withdrawn. The body was placed on a rock out of reach of the pack, whilst the field held a heated discussion as to which of the nearest inns should be honoured with their presence for the “harvel,” or celebration.

After some haggling, the momentous question was settled, and a move was made, when it was discovered that the fox had disappeared. Reynard had revived sufficiently to get up and slink away, and though hounds were laid on, they never caught him, for he got to ground in a place where it was utterly impossible to reach him.

In November, 1919, the Blencathra Hounds, after a good hunt above St. John’s-in-the-Vale, put their fox to ground in a narrow fissure of rock near the summit of Wanthwaite. A terrier was put in, and after a pitched battle, the dog accounted for the fox, but refused to leave the carcass. Darkness was coming on, so huntsman and field had reluctantly to leave the spot in order to make the difficult descent to the dale. Next morning the huntsman and whipper-in returned to the place, and found the carcass of the fox, with the terrier lying dead beside it, outside the “borran.” The fox had inflicted severe, if not fatal, injuries on the game little dog, and the latter, having dragged the body of his foe from underground, had still refused to leave it, and had so perished from exposure during a bitterly cold night.

I was out one day when the Coniston Hounds ran a fox to ground near Dod Bields, in Caiston. A terrier was put in, and after a stiff fight, the fox was accounted for underground. Several hours’ hard work failed to secure the carcass, so as daylight had given place to moonlight, we made our way across the summit of Red Screes, and so down to the “Traveller’s Rest” at the head of the Kirkstone Pass. Next day several willing hunters returned to the place, and after much labour, unearthed not one dead fox, but two. Both foxes were jammed up close to the end of a narrow tunnel, and it was supposed that the one in the rear had been smothered to death.

On another occasion in the Troutbeck valley, hounds ran a fox to ground in a drain. A terrier was put in, and the fox bolted, giving hounds a very fast spin straight downhill. They practically never broke view, and rolled him over directly. Whilst the field were occupied in watching them, a second fox, which proved to be the hunted one, made his appearance from the drain, and going off rather stiffly, got to ground in a quarry “rubbish heap,” from which it was impossible to dislodge him.

Foxes will often lie extraordinarily close in long heather. I was out one day with the Ullswater, and we tried a lot of country without a sign of a drag or a line of any sort. Eventually we tried a heather-covered allotment between Kentmere and Troutbeck. Still there was no sign of a fox, and the field was beginning to get rather discouraged, when suddenly, right in the middle of hounds, a fox sprang out of the heather. How he ever escaped is a mystery, but get clear he did, giving a straight away hunt by way of Rainsbarrow and the head of the Kentmere valley, where hounds “laid him in,” and finally rolled him over at the edge of Kentmere reservoir, after a screaming thirty minutes’ hunt, without the semblance of a check from start to finish.

In a previous chapter I have mentioned the fact that occasionally some fell hound hunts, and finally kills or runs his fox to ground “on his own.” I remember the Ullswater Hounds threw off on one occasion at the quarry above Troutbeck Park, on the steep side of Ill Bell. Hounds struck a line which took them over the summit of the fell into the Kentmere valley. I was talking to Joe Bowman the huntsman, when we heard a single hound running very fast in our direction. It proved to be one of the lady members of the pack, a very fast bitch, and she was driving her fox at a tremendous pace. In a short time she ran him to ground on the Tongue, where Reynard crept in beneath a huge boulder on the fell side. A terrier was put in, and immediately got to the fox, but without tools it was impossible to reach them. Some quarrymen eventually came across with the necessary articles, including a fuse, and a charge of powder. It was found necessary to crack the boulder with the powder, after which the broken rock was removed, and terrier and fox were drawn out, fast locked together, from a very narrow and wet earth-hole. It was almost impossible to distinguish between them, so plastered were they with wet mud. The terrier was pried loose and the fox thrown down, when rather to our surprise he got on to his legs and made a bid for liberty. His race was soon run, however, as the bitch and some young hounds the huntsman had with him, soon rolled him over. The terrier which had been nearly smothered in the earth, died the day after, despite all that could be done for it.

In December, 1919, the Coniston Hounds had a very fast hunt from a covert above Staveley village. Hounds finally drove their fox to the head of the Longsleddale valley, where it “benked” on a ledge on Goatscar. It had been a late find, and when the huntsman arrived on the scene, darkness was fast drawing in. The fox was at last made to vacate his dangerous resting-place, and he scrambled down a precipitous chimney on the face of the towering crag. Then ensued a wild and exciting scene, such as can only be experienced on the fells. The chimney was a dangerous place for hounds, with a fox dodging his way through them. Twice they had hold of him, but he wrenched free, and got clear at the chimney’s foot, where he soon outdistanced them across the rough scree-bed. One of the hounds fell a matter of fifty feet, but beyond being temporarily shaken appeared little the worse, and quickly resumed the chase. Snow was lying thickly on the tops, and it was just sufficiently light to see the fox climbing out for the summit of the crag again, where he ran through the roughest of the ground near the fell head, and finally disappeared on the wide top of Harter Fell. Hounds followed him, and we saw them no more that night.

Many such incidents occur during the course of a season on the fells, and it is surprising that so few accidents happen, considering the dangerous nature of the country.

THE END

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