Opening Day...Far Away

Today is opening day for the horses and hounds over in Wales. I missed it. Those of you who have never been to Wales and have never heard the sound of a pack of hounds (maybe 25-50 hounds) in full cry across the moorland will not be able to relate to the wrenching feeling I have today as I sit in the American midwest and contemplate cleaning windows (haha, but that's what I have slated for today; it's supposed to rid me of this feeling of emptiness).

Now to be fair to the midwest (this coming from a "mountain girl") it really does have its own beauty particularly, for me, at harvest time. But I'm pretty fond of harvest time wherever I am...it may be those ancestral strains ringing inside me...like most of you, the folks on my family tree lived off the land. Maybe they had it right.

But back to those hounds. My friends over at the Golden Valley Hunt not far from Hay-on-Wye, met today at Cabalva, a beautiful home on the River Wye. But as I sit here in the flat midwest on a beautiful street lined with nice old houses and huge sugar maples that are turning the most spectacular colors, all I can do is think of those horses and hounds and the many friends who spent the day out in the beautiful Welsh countryside....without me!!! I feel bereaved. I need to get back to Wales! Fantastic fall colors aside, I want to be out roaming the moors once again with the horses and hounds, the huntsman's horn cutting through the fog and rain, the old boys not unlike those you can see on PBS on "Last of the Summer Wine" leaning out of beat-up Land Rovers and Daihatsus searching the hills with binoculars, a little box of sandwiches on their laps, a pair of Wellies keeping their feet warm, moleskin trousers, a wool sweater, a tie securely around their necks, the smell of Old Spice and a wool flat cap on their heads.

See, the sport called fox hunting is about so much more than just the folks on horses...it's a way of life. With recent legislation that way of life has changed somewhat, but the same folks are still following the hounds and it's still done in much the same way....we followers don't have to watch someone as he or she sets out a little before the meet to lay the now required scent trail with a bag of anise or whatever dragged behind in an old tube sock so we can hunt within the law. For us it just seems much like it was before so we just pretend it's still proper hunting as it was back through the centuries and we go merrily along as the hounds set off and pick up that trail and a jolly good day's hunting ensues.

There are folks, dozens of them following every hunt, who don't have the means or the youth to follow on horseback as part of the mounted field. But many of those folks you see out there LIVE to follow the hunt. It is the highlight of their week. Many of those people are retired and many can no longer walk very well. What they can do, though, is thrill to the sounds of the hounds as they roar across a hillside; they can visit with friends they have known for many decades, they can see neighbors and enjoy the conversation that ensues whenever a group of people come together to do something they love. They'll relive the old days, a particular day's hunting that has reached legendary (and sometimes mythical) status, ones that grow with the telling so that the listener realizes that surely this hunt could never have happened...but who knows? These folks come together and breath the wonderful, fresh Welsh air, they share a sense of spirit and community, they share memories and create new ones, they share news and the joy of companionship (many of these folks I'm speaking of live alone so these hunts dispell that loneliness, if just for awhile).

So when I say I grieve to miss opening day, I think of those faces I've been missing, weathered like limestone tombstones in old churchyards. I miss the croaky voices and the missing teeth. I miss the shouts of friends and the hounds jumping up to lick my face. I miss trudging up a hillside to find the hunt has already passed by. I miss the spirit of chance and yes, I miss the anticipation of it all.

Most of all I miss my friends with the Golden Valley, the Radnor & West and the Teme Valley and hope they're out there today on the hills and moors having a wonderful time.

Yes, this is a pity party. I am mourning those hounds and missing my friends. I think I'll call the airline and get me a ticket to Wales. I need to hear me some hounds in full cry, now that I've voted. I do. I do.

Roots, Shoots and Connection

Lately I've been thinking about roots and how my life lacks them.

Yesterday I was invited to follow a local pheasant shoot. This I did with my 2 Nikons. I honestly didn't know what to expect. I understood there were folks (and dogs) called "beaters" who walked through the woods, say on the far side of the wood and made a bunch of racket (gee, I think I've missed my calling in life) to "scare up" the pheasants who were lurking in the undergrowth of the wood. Somehow I expected to see like hundreds of birds fly up all at once. But it was more like one bird here, one there.

Now I don't know all the ins and outs of a pheasant shoot but apparently each man (they were all men) had a number, there were about 12 shooters, and they went to several coverts (covers) or woods on local farms. At each new covert Dai would call out "who's #4" and then point to the spot where #4 should stand and on down the line. The shooters were strategically placed along the border of the covert, a certain distance out from the trees to enable them to hoist their shotguns and shoot without fear of hitting someone in the woods - or each other (a way we tend to keep the population down in New York). Meanwhile the beaters have gone around the far side of the covert and have begun making a lot of noise and beating at the bushes and grasses with a baton or stick with a feedbag on the end of it!

Now some of these shooters were dressed in boiler suits (one piece usually green affairs like what you'd see some guy in a auto repair shop dressed in - plenty of snaps and pockets and the name "Bob" embroidered on the left breast pocket, except the boiler suit farmers don't get their names embroidered on the bloody suits!) And there were guys in what I'd call "smart casual country" attire and there were a couple of older guys who were wearing just exactly what older guys around here always wear when they have anything to do with a hunt - moleskin trousers, wellies, nice shirt, tie, flat cap, and some oilcloth coat. Anyway, everyone looked nice. And everyone had a shotgun that they kept in between coverts in a small canvas form-fitting bag (like what we call a "gig bag" in the guitar world).

I should have asked more questions but it seemed to me that the talking was kept to a minimum and I considered myself lucky to be there in the first place, so didn't want to jeopardize my chances of being invited back some time. We went to 5 or 6 coverts during the day and everyone was pretty focused on where are the birds? We didn't really see all that many pheasants (at least compared to what I'd imagined) and I'd say about 30% of them were accounted for (shot dead) by these merry shooters. There were several retrievers and a couple of spaniels too and I enjoyed watching the dogs fetch the birds as much as anything. Just like following the local foxhunts, this day provided me the opportunity to walk through some woods and fields I'd never visited before and the weather was quite balmy and the company was good, too.

Though I'll always prefer to see pheasants flying wild and free, I'll have to admit I enjoy eating pheasant and these men don't leave the birds they kill to rot - they feather, dress, and eat them unlike those who attend the "professional shoots" (so many pheasant shoots the birds are killed simply for sport and the folks just pay "x" amount for each bird they shoot and leave them to rot).

This was what I guess I'd call a farmers' pheasant shoot. At least several in the group are local farmers and it was clear that they enjoyed a day in the country away from the sheep, the cattle, the muckspreader and whatever. When you get right down to it a lot of these country sports boil down to the same thing: getting out and seeing the countryside, visiting with neighbors, remembering some old times, making some new memories, and sharing news.

After the days' shooting, we all headed back to a local farm (at which they'd all met in the morning at 10:00). Typically everyone might line up with their kill and have a group photo. But last night not everyone came back (probably had animals to feed or whatever) so we just got a few of the shooters together for a photo and managed to come up with 18 pheasant and a few other game birds...not bad for a days' work. After the photo, we headed up to the clubroom, a big room with old oak beams and a huge table. We all got a healthy glass of port or cider or lager and tucked in to feast of beef stew, carrots, potatoes and peas followed by a choice of apple crumble, lemon mirangue pie, banoffee pie, or trifle. As if we weren't stuffed enough, then along came the cheese and crackers. It was a job to get up from the table!

Along the way alot of laughter and merriment ensued and then Rick, the sort of host got up and said a few words of thanks to the hosts for use of their room and for having the meet at their farm. Then he began to talk about Bob who has been a shooting man for a long time and how he'll be missed. Bob succumbed to cancer about a week ago. He was a popular local farmer and related to several of those in the room; a good friend to all others. It was clear that Rick, a young farmer and father, was feeling very emotional about what he was saying (and that's not something I see much over here in this farming community - people are generally very stoic and stiff upper lipped about things)....looking around the room you could tell that everyone was feeling as Rick did, and it was such a touching moment to be there in that community of which I was of course only a visitor.

The thing about this rural part of mid-Wales where I stay is that the sense of community and rootedness runs DEEP here and I find that SOOOO attractive. As someone else from outside the area commented to me yesterday "everyone is related to everyone here and you have to be careful what you say." I suppose we should always be careful of what we say, but I know what he meant. Where I was raised (and in most cities I'm sure) you're surrounded by strangers or at the least, certainly people you aren't related to in any way. People come and go so quickly in the city. Not so here. There is a timelessness about this place and part of it is just that the roots go so deep and the branches stretch so far...people here have a clear sense of who they are and where they came from and for someone who feels sort of like a drifter that is a beautiful thing.

If I never get to go shooting again, I will long cherish the memory of a nice day in the country in the company of nice men (and a few women, too, who were among the "beaters"). Toward the end of the day a lovely lady named Jackie came along and borrowed someone's shotgun...turns out she's a crack shot! Made me smile to see a lady in there shooting with all them hairy-legged men! And I'm sure glad I got to know Bob, even just a little, in my life here....he was a good man. We all lifted our glasses and drank a toast to Bob and to all the years he got to enjoy shooting in this lovely countryside.