features_level

features - articleS

Stealth, Guile and a Little Good Fortune by Tom Oldham a journalist from Level magazine, goes for a pleasant walk in the countryside with the hunt sabs.

I’m wearing a lightweight windcheater (for common cagoul) on top of a fair few layers. A woolly hat and warm trollies help stave off the cold and wind. I am also proudly sporting a pair of Timbees that are at last being used for their designed purpose – the great outdoors – and not just protecting my feet from beer and piss.

I’m wearing a lightweight windcheater (for common cagoul) on top of a fair few layers. A woolly hat and warm trollies help stave off the cold and wind. I am also proudly sporting a pair of Timbees that are at last being used for their designed purpose – the great outdoors – and not just protecting my feet from beer and piss.

There are about fifty dogs and forty fox hunters on horseback moving rapidly downhill towards me, though these figures are fairly inaccurate as they are moving far too quickly to count properly. I can either shoot them (photographically) or run. I’m shit-scared so I shoot and just pray that these are the images that win me that Nobel peace prize

A fairly civilised 9am start (I was expecting an unearthly 5 or 6) had me piling into the back of a Land Rover with ten other hunt saboteurs on this chilly Saturday morning. While I honestly entered into this with an open mind, I couldn’t help my thoughts from veering towards cliché preconceived notions of who I’d be sharing this journey with. Go on; let your mind drift too... Swampy and his unemployed stoned hippie mates, dreadlocks and stray dogs aplenty. Attention cynics everywhere – I am happy to report that nothing could be further from the truth. The ten passengers enjoyed a fine range of jobs; media technician, machinist, shop assistant, builder, a law court typist person – plus a mother and a student to boot – and more. The atmosphere was a happy one, full of last night and the day ahead, with much organising of maps and CB radios and an anticipatory eagerness aimed at the proceedings of the day. Every detail is executed with a military-type enthusiasm that I found highly admirable. Not that anyone ever said they did, but these guys don’t bimble around the countryside looking for barking dogs. They know the Huntmaster, his team, the terrain, the possible level and type of hunt support and set about preparing themselves for likely events by relaying previous encounters to newer members of the group. These stories are amazing to hear and when you do, it begins to dawn on you what it means to be a hunt saboteur. Putting their arses on the line every week to save animals is something I wonder how many farmers happily do...

Arriving feeling pretty clued-up, we meet other sab groups from neighbouring counties who have travelled some distance to join us. I’m introduced to the group, who are told that I will need protecting and must not be left alone at any time during the day – which I have to admit calmed the mild anxiety rising in me following the scary story session in the Land Rover.

Maps and tactics are exchanged, hands shaken and then we’re off to the meet itself, from where the hunt leaves. On arrival at the location, I sensed a collective groan as two minibuses and a Land Rover guarantee a heavy sab presence. We had been recognised immediately by the hunt, the police and the supporters – a curious breed of locals who actually pay to drive around after the hunt and act as security. You can’t call them hired heavies because they pay to do it, but this is how they act, getting in between the sabs and the hunt, generally using violence and/or intimidation. This was all news to me, that fox hunts need bouncers to protect their ‘sport’.

I climb out the back and mingle around, photographing the riders and the overall scene. Large sherries abound and the pub waitress provides snacks and drinks to anyone on horseback. Wandering back to our vehicle there are two police officers and a lady in a black hunting jacket talking to one of the sabs. I blatantly eavesdrop the hunter, who is explaining that she only rides hunts because she has to in order to quality to race point-to-point, and would prefer if the hunt sabs didn’t interfere with or damage her horse. She has heard stores about attacks on horses and wants to be singled out as not being interested in the killing of the fox. The sab explains to the hunter that this group is strictly non-violent and that she should disregard any rumours to the contrary. She trots off, relieved at the reply I suppose, but then there are only the police to deal with, who eagerly look over the vehicle. “We’re just doing our job”, the sabs countering with the natural reply that likewise, they are just doing theirs. It’s all fairly light hearted though as individual officers and constabularies can have differing opinions over hunt issues, which can mean that they either operate a laissez-faire policy or arrest every sab and hold them until the hunt is over. You can thank the CJA for this enforced detainment. These Bobbies on their beat seemed fairly relaxed about it, though as we know this can change at the drop of a hat...

And then they’re off. The Land Rover CB blares commands all over and we fire up a hill and await further info from the other vehicles such as have they sighted the hunt, which direction is it moving, and so on. Excitement rising, we keep calm as the hunt racing off in one direction could be just a diversion tactic for our benefit, however they are spotted and we drive off to locate their whereabouts. Single lanes combine with the steepest hills the moors can offer to make for a fairly bumpy ride in this countryside vehicle of choice, but we do manage to find the hunt, so let the horns blare! The sabs’ objective is to avert the pack of foxhound’s attention from the scent of the fox by utilising all the means they have at their disposal. Sound and smell are the most effective (the animals’ strongest senses) which means each sab carries a hunting horn around their neck and imitates the huntsman’s calls in order to fool the pack into thinking “Hey, party’s over there!” When the hounds go into cry (that familiar yelping as if they are in pain) they have gathered a fox scent which means a healthy fox can run from them for a maximum of forty minutes, before flagging and possible death.

From the hillside where we stand, we can see the hunt two fields away so the blaring continues until they disappear, forcing us to relocate. More waiting and anticipating before we regroup and head off to climb a hill that from where I’m standing appears to be Mount Everest. I thought we had the Landy for this stuff, but no, you can’t drive everywhere and what with a helicopter not being available this or any other weekend, Shank’s pony it is. The pack has raced across this expanse and up Everest, followed by the hunt, and as there is no road access, you can see the hunt thinking, “If we go up and over, they’ll have to follow on foot.” And follow we do, despite the fact that I feel like crying. It’s really cold and windy now, though the sun might make my photographs look like we’re on a picnic. We walk and talk as I attempt to discover a little more about the saboteurs’ motives for all this considerable effort. The consensus seems to be a love of animals; fun, hatred of cold-blooded killing, class issues and the great British outdoors come in behind. Every now and again I turn round to treat myself to the best view ever – the Moors expanding the higher we go, and not for the first time I think myself lucky for being out amongst it and not just feeling rough with Ant and Dec for televisual company.

Sure enough, at the top of the world and forty-five minutes later they are nowhere to be seen. The CBs aren’t communicating with the rest of the team and our only options are to act on an educated hunch that the hunt went down this particular side of the hill. A memorable moment was coming down the hill to see the hunt regrouping, just so that I could assure myself that my efforts hadn’t been in vain. Our vehicles were on the case at the bottom, so all we had to do was sit in the bracken and await their next move.

Whilst sitting there, a solitary hound fancies joining us at the top (it is quite nice) and leaves its group to follow our calls. Up it comes, closer and closer, drawing a rider to bring it back to the pack. His shouting causes us to make more noise and the dog joins us. Yes! His total failure obviously frustrates him, so he tries to charge down the nearest hunt sab; a neat side step saving him from being ridden over.

Strangely, nobody seems that bothered by this apparently fairly common incident besides some cursing, though I can honestly say that I couldn’t believe what I had just seen – wasn’t that attempted GBH? It seems that only the most fortunate of sabs haven’t experienced direct violence upon them, and they have certainly all witnessed it. I am told every piece of video evidence the police have been handed featuring violence towards the sabs has been lost. I wonder if it would be the same were it the hunters’ cherished evidence. Anyway, I digress. The huntsman gets his hound back, and we run down the hill as the pack leads away from us. What follows next must be the absolute maximum moment of my day on the moors.

Fifteen of us clamber into a Sherpa van and speed down a long straight lane at the bottom of a valley, parking at a T-junction as we can see the hunt coming over the rise about six hundred yards away. Everyone’s out of the van and horns blare once again, and the Gizmo is released. This is the simplest and yet most phenomenally successful device in the hunt sab arsenal. Constructed of a speaker, a battery and some form of tape playback, it plays to the hounds the noise they are producing. Like the horns, this is intended to make the outer periphery of the pack think, “What’s happening over there?” and go to the sound thinking it is their friends. Now on this day, in this instance, the whole pack is lead from the pursuit of a tired fox to a bunch of hunt sabs at the bottom of the hill.

They pile over the fence and come hand with the sabs a little. We like that a lot, especially sensing that once again, a collective “Oh bollocks” has been shared amongst the hunt. I can’t believe what we’ve done and the whole thing just feels so exciting and successful – it definitely is a real live feeling to be part of it.

The buzz from doing something good for a refreshing change is made all the more pertinent by the arrival of the hunters themselves who certainly do very little to break (in my mind at least) any stereotypical ideas you may have of these people. We really are the shit on their shoes, though for today I feel like the shoeshine boy.

The proceedings continue in this cat-and-mouse way for the rest of the afternoon, the only other particularly notable event being the accidental sabbing of a different and separate hunt, as territories for hunts can often overlap. We had seen some hounds over the way, all of which once again reacted positively to The Gizmo and its luring bark. Surrounded by loads of hounds, the huntsman freak as the sabs pet and play with the hounds – there is no prejudice where animals are concerned. One ingenious tactic I witnessed at this point really made me laugh. A friend with whom I had made contact to do this story weighs in at no more than seven stone and is no higher than my nipples. To see her shouting her loudest each time the hunt’s head honcho blew his horn rendering each call useless remains in my mind the best use of one’s own guile ever. To see the frustration being generated with the futile blowing of a horn by the screaming of a hunt sabbing Kylie made me laugh out loud, which just added to the overall feeling of our elaborate piss take.

While both hunts were regrouping (our original prey had arrived from the woods right in front of where we had parked ourselves) I noticed a discussion developing between a sab and huntsman so I joined in, purely in the interest of bringing some journalistic value to this piece. When I approached they were both smiling and chatting like old friends rather than adversaries, chewing over some lifestyle facts about things like veganism and so on. I quote the huntsman: “Vegan, hey. So you eat fish? No? What about eggs and milk? NO?! So you eat vegetables and beans? Oh really – I couldn’t live without roast port!” It continued to remain amicable but the taste of the conversation was bitter, mainly due to the total lack of understanding, a problem this sab was attempting to address. Strategy comes in many forms and turning the opinions of your opposites sits importantly among the hunt sab’s tactical game play.

Tripping on tiredness (as I said I don’t generally get much of this action) on our return to town in the Land Rover, I knew that I had experienced a brilliant day. I was impressed by the close bond shared by the hunt sabs, their lack of lethargy at the end of it all, how well they protect each other and their amazing dedication towards achieving their common goal. As a neutral bystander, I observed how both parties love the outdoors with a passion, and what a shame it truly is that the hunt can’t accept the sabs’ offer of drag hunts, which would offer the same thrill of pursuit without the killing. Because the hunts don’t tend to be that successful at killing, they often have to trap foxes elsewhere and bring them to their hunt. Can you understand that? To me that rubbishes every pro-hunting argument I’ve ever heard. The grimmest fact of the day had to be that this was only one hunt in one village – they occur in most villages, up to four times a week throughout the year. When you then consider the enormity of the sabs’ task of trying to change the beliefs of so many people – I wish them every success that they whole-heartedly deserve.

Tom Oldham - Writer and Photographer