thickly covered with trees, principally ash and scrub oak. The remaining four, known as the Brake, were more open and consisted of patches of rough grass and of dozens of huge blackberry bushes.
Under the great armored bushes lived rabbits.Myxomatosis, a highly infectious viral disease, was still a few years away, and these stub rabbits (an old name for those that live in aboveground cover) used the giant briars as protection from their natural enemies.
Judging by the number of times we saw them strolling up our drive and cocking their legs on the bordering shrubs, there were plenty of foxes too.
Our relationship with our foxes contained an illogical blend of love and hate. “A wise fox will never rob his neighbor's hen roost” is an adage of some truth, and we liked to think that the occasional slaughter, as on the day after Betsy's birth, was the work of an outsider. And generally the losses were small. The odd duck might go missing, and now and again a hen would “steal” a nest — lay and sit a clutch of eggs in the bottom of a hedgerow — and chance her luck, which then ran out.
On the whole, we took good care to shut the poultry up at night and didn't grumble too much. Later we converted the loft over the old stables into a deep-litter house where 300 or 400 birds lived in complete safety. But, before that happened, we were treated to a prime example of the kind of fox behavior that leaves the farmer fuming.
I can remember the scene vividly, Before and After.
Before — a bunch of a couple of dozen cockerels foraging in spring sunshine on a patch of ground behind thecowshed. They were White Wyandottes, brilliant against the new grass, each wattled head capped with a rose comb of brightest red. They're fit to kill, I thought as I went indoors to breakfast. They were.
After — a tremendous noise and kerfuffle had me dashing back out again with my mouth full. One of the many dachshunds that we then had was a chicken chaser — It's Mandy, I thought. As I came round the corner of the cow-shed, I could see, dotted over perhaps half an acre of land, snowy-white bodies, still or still twitching, while the gaping survivors lurched about, shocked into shaking aimlessness. counted. Sixteen dead. The raider had not been hungry, just having a bit of fun, for when I collected up the corpses, only one rose-combed head had been taken away, as a memento.
Woodlands Farm was on the outermost edge of a famous foxhunting country, a land ruled by a great duke and his duchess. Twice only did we have the doubtful pleasure of the hunt's uninvited presence.
On one occasion a section of the field galloped through a number of electric-fenced paddocks, leaving a tangle of broken wire and uprooted posts. If they were shocked, they did not show it.
And on another memorable morning the duchess herself came clattering up the drive flanked by a couple ofoutriders and galloped into the yard, where a number of small children, our own and some of friends, were wandering about. “Alas, regardless of thei doom, the little victims play!” Luckily she missed them.
Oh, but only think of all the time when one fails to make a proper response. Remember those moments of inertia while the mind searches feverishly for the right riposte, witty or withering.
“Have ye seen hounds?” shouted the duchess with a sidelong glance from her sidesaddle, but answer came there none. Openmouthed the peasants stood while the riders pressed on and away, past our Dutch barn and across our pastures. As they disappeared beyond the horizon, we heard a splintering crash. One of our five-barred gates had been broken, as a memento.
I don't want to moralize on the rights and wrongs of foxhunting. There are reasons why the fox should not be a protected species. In those days the protection that the Woodlands foxes enjoyed during a season of hate was due to my poor marksmanship. But it's worth remembering the loving side of the relationship. The fox is a beautiful
Under the great armored bushes lived rabbits.Myxomatosis, a highly infectious viral disease, was still a few years away, and these stub rabbits (an old name for those that live in aboveground cover) used the giant briars as protection from their natural enemies.
Judging by the number of times we saw them strolling up our drive and cocking their legs on the bordering shrubs, there were plenty of foxes too.
Our relationship with our foxes contained an illogical blend of love and hate. “A wise fox will never rob his neighbor's hen roost” is an adage of some truth, and we liked to think that the occasional slaughter, as on the day after Betsy's birth, was the work of an outsider. And generally the losses were small. The odd duck might go missing, and now and again a hen would “steal” a nest — lay and sit a clutch of eggs in the bottom of a hedgerow — and chance her luck, which then ran out.
On the whole, we took good care to shut the poultry up at night and didn't grumble too much. Later we converted the loft over the old stables into a deep-litter house where 300 or 400 birds lived in complete safety. But, before that happened, we were treated to a prime example of the kind of fox behavior that leaves the farmer fuming.
I can remember the scene vividly, Before and After.
Before — a bunch of a couple of dozen cockerels foraging in spring sunshine on a patch of ground behind thecowshed. They were White Wyandottes, brilliant against the new grass, each wattled head capped with a rose comb of brightest red. They're fit to kill, I thought as I went indoors to breakfast. They were.
After — a tremendous noise and kerfuffle had me dashing back out again with my mouth full. One of the many dachshunds that we then had was a chicken chaser — It's Mandy, I thought. As I came round the corner of the cow-shed, I could see, dotted over perhaps half an acre of land, snowy-white bodies, still or still twitching, while the gaping survivors lurched about, shocked into shaking aimlessness. counted. Sixteen dead. The raider had not been hungry, just having a bit of fun, for when I collected up the corpses, only one rose-combed head had been taken away, as a memento.
Woodlands Farm was on the outermost edge of a famous foxhunting country, a land ruled by a great duke and his duchess. Twice only did we have the doubtful pleasure of the hunt's uninvited presence.
On one occasion a section of the field galloped through a number of electric-fenced paddocks, leaving a tangle of broken wire and uprooted posts. If they were shocked, they did not show it.
And on another memorable morning the duchess herself came clattering up the drive flanked by a couple ofoutriders and galloped into the yard, where a number of small children, our own and some of friends, were wandering about. “Alas, regardless of thei doom, the little victims play!” Luckily she missed them.
Oh, but only think of all the time when one fails to make a proper response. Remember those moments of inertia while the mind searches feverishly for the right riposte, witty or withering.
“Have ye seen hounds?” shouted the duchess with a sidelong glance from her sidesaddle, but answer came there none. Openmouthed the peasants stood while the riders pressed on and away, past our Dutch barn and across our pastures. As they disappeared beyond the horizon, we heard a splintering crash. One of our five-barred gates had been broken, as a memento.
I don't want to moralize on the rights and wrongs of foxhunting. There are reasons why the fox should not be a protected species. In those days the protection that the Woodlands foxes enjoyed during a season of hate was due to my poor marksmanship. But it's worth remembering the loving side of the relationship. The fox is a beautiful
Similar Books
