A hard blizzard hit the Forest of Dean on Christmas Eve.
It was nothing compared to the disastrous storms that would come in the following weeks, but strong enough to clean the air and the skies. By dawn there were golden streams of sun trickling in between the leafless trunks of oaks and birches.
Deer stalking on Christmas Day was a Frey family tradition, and some of the happiest moments of my childhood took place in those woods. Along with the excitement of the sport, those were the times when my uncle and I became true comrades.
Uncle Maurice is my late mother’s younger brother, and the perfect balance between English refinement and French candour. The latter is something my father and stepmother still find difficult to tolerate. Fond of the ladies, the drink and the good times, Uncle Maurice never married or settled down. To him life is an eternal succession of dinner parties, hunts and trips. No wonder he is always in such high spirits. That morning he was the first to rise, even before the servants, and walked into our bedrooms to give us all a good shake.
After a wholesome breakfast, my father, my brother Elgie, Uncle Maurice and I took to our mounts.
As Oliver, my flimsiest brother, has never liked anything that involves leaving the house (or moving any limbs at all) he stayed in bed. My eldest brother, whose presence I’d feared all along since the engagement, was fortunately not expected.
We all gathered in a small clearing before the hunt began. Men, dogs and horses projected steamy breaths as we waited for Uncle’s foreman to announce that the stags were ready.
Uncle Maurice selected the old or infirm animals for stalking, while the healthier specimens were secluded in a reservation where they couldn’t be touched. That is how the herds have been kept in good health for centuries, making room for the younger animals and keeping disease at bay.
Over a concert of stomping hooves, barking, neighing and the cracking of whips, my dear uncle chatted earnestly to everyone and everything around him. He turned to my father and shamelessly mocked his appearance. Our poor patriarch, no longer used to such exertion, was wrapped in his thickest jacket, hat and leather gloves, his face swathed in a woollen scarf that only left his eyes uncovered. Instead of replying, he stared daggers at his brother-in-law, produced his silver hipflask and pulled down his scarf just enough to have a long swig of brandy.
Maurice then turned to Elgie, the youngest in our party, and praised the incredible weather. Elgie looked just as red as our father, but managed to maintain his good mood.
Then Maurice looked at his pack of hounds, tossed them some small bait and told them how handsome they looked. The dogs trotted merrily around him. The younger ones wrestled, barked and rolled in the snow like naughty children, while the older ones moved proudly and elegantly, as if saving their energy for the more important matters at hand.
We finally heard a distant shot, signalling that the hunt had commenced. The dogs immediately went ahead, barking thunderously, and we followed.
I whipped my mare and rode away, losing all sense of time as my chest swelled in a wave of joy I had not felt for months. Her hooves sank in the snow as we chased one of the older hounds. The dog had clearly picked up a scent and moved towards it like a dart.
I very nearly caught the first beast, but Uncle Maurice had been tracking the same animal and managed to seize it before me. I knew he’d be boasting this victory for the rest of the year. Undeterred, my good hound was soon onto another scent, its nose close to the ground, this time running even faster. My heart jumped when I first saw the trail, unmistakable in the deep snow.
The dog barked and I yelled in excitement as the tips of antlers appeared in the distance, barely a hint amidst the trunks and branches.
I spurred the mare on, jumping over dead bushes and fallen trees. Despite the freezing wind I
It was nothing compared to the disastrous storms that would come in the following weeks, but strong enough to clean the air and the skies. By dawn there were golden streams of sun trickling in between the leafless trunks of oaks and birches.
Deer stalking on Christmas Day was a Frey family tradition, and some of the happiest moments of my childhood took place in those woods. Along with the excitement of the sport, those were the times when my uncle and I became true comrades.
Uncle Maurice is my late mother’s younger brother, and the perfect balance between English refinement and French candour. The latter is something my father and stepmother still find difficult to tolerate. Fond of the ladies, the drink and the good times, Uncle Maurice never married or settled down. To him life is an eternal succession of dinner parties, hunts and trips. No wonder he is always in such high spirits. That morning he was the first to rise, even before the servants, and walked into our bedrooms to give us all a good shake.
After a wholesome breakfast, my father, my brother Elgie, Uncle Maurice and I took to our mounts.
As Oliver, my flimsiest brother, has never liked anything that involves leaving the house (or moving any limbs at all) he stayed in bed. My eldest brother, whose presence I’d feared all along since the engagement, was fortunately not expected.
We all gathered in a small clearing before the hunt began. Men, dogs and horses projected steamy breaths as we waited for Uncle’s foreman to announce that the stags were ready.
Uncle Maurice selected the old or infirm animals for stalking, while the healthier specimens were secluded in a reservation where they couldn’t be touched. That is how the herds have been kept in good health for centuries, making room for the younger animals and keeping disease at bay.
Over a concert of stomping hooves, barking, neighing and the cracking of whips, my dear uncle chatted earnestly to everyone and everything around him. He turned to my father and shamelessly mocked his appearance. Our poor patriarch, no longer used to such exertion, was wrapped in his thickest jacket, hat and leather gloves, his face swathed in a woollen scarf that only left his eyes uncovered. Instead of replying, he stared daggers at his brother-in-law, produced his silver hipflask and pulled down his scarf just enough to have a long swig of brandy.
Maurice then turned to Elgie, the youngest in our party, and praised the incredible weather. Elgie looked just as red as our father, but managed to maintain his good mood.
Then Maurice looked at his pack of hounds, tossed them some small bait and told them how handsome they looked. The dogs trotted merrily around him. The younger ones wrestled, barked and rolled in the snow like naughty children, while the older ones moved proudly and elegantly, as if saving their energy for the more important matters at hand.
We finally heard a distant shot, signalling that the hunt had commenced. The dogs immediately went ahead, barking thunderously, and we followed.
I whipped my mare and rode away, losing all sense of time as my chest swelled in a wave of joy I had not felt for months. Her hooves sank in the snow as we chased one of the older hounds. The dog had clearly picked up a scent and moved towards it like a dart.
I very nearly caught the first beast, but Uncle Maurice had been tracking the same animal and managed to seize it before me. I knew he’d be boasting this victory for the rest of the year. Undeterred, my good hound was soon onto another scent, its nose close to the ground, this time running even faster. My heart jumped when I first saw the trail, unmistakable in the deep snow.
The dog barked and I yelled in excitement as the tips of antlers appeared in the distance, barely a hint amidst the trunks and branches.
I spurred the mare on, jumping over dead bushes and fallen trees. Despite the freezing wind I
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