“The hills and the rocks are calling
With the wind, their passionate lover,
‘Come up, come higher and higher
Where the clouds greet one another;
Come up where the mists are swirling,
Come up from the valley and glen,
We will sing for you there a song
That is not for the haunts of men.’”
Of the many visitors who roam the mountains of the Lake District during the summer months, comparatively few are aware of the fact that the said mountains are the favourite haunt of foxes, or that the latter are regularly hunted during the autumn, winter, and early spring. A panoramic view of the fell country of Cumberland and Westmorland seems hardly compatible with the generally accepted idea of a hunting country, yet for all that this rugged district affords grand sport with hounds. I have more than once when speaking[2] of fell foxhunting been asked the question, “How do you manage to get about and keep in touch with hounds on those awful hills?” The answer is simple, “On foot.” Except in some portions of the low ground, riding to hounds is impossible, so the man who would see something of the work of the mountain hounds must be prepared to face the hills on Shanks’s pony.
Rising from the dales at an angle of from 45 to 70 degrees, or even steeper, the fells tower skyward to a height of 2000 feet and over. On the lower slopes large intakes, rock-strewn and often studded with scattered thorn trees, divide the dales from the fells proper. Above these intakes the ground rises abruptly, and one reaches a country of rocks and crags, deep ghylls and watercourses, with scree-beds strewn broadcast beneath the taller cliffs. The latter are seamed and intersected with ledges, known in local parlance as “Benks,” on which is often found a luxurious growth of heather or bleaberry scrub. It is on these snug well-sheltered ledges that the hill fox loves to make his kennel. Protected from the wind, with a wide view of all the ground below him, Reynard curls up where the sun strikes his couch, and sleeps away the daylight hours.
Here and there on the lower slopes are larch plantations, and straggling coverts of oak and hazel. In these woods foxes lie up, though the[3] fell fox proper prefers to have his kennel at a higher altitude, where chances of disturbance are less. Lower still, where the huge intakes merge into smaller enclosures, the number and size of the woods increase. It is down in this low country that a mounted man can see something of the sport, for though the nature of the ground and the fences prohibits riding right up to hounds, there are plenty of side roads, bridle-tracks and the like, by means of which it is possible to keep in fairly close touch with the flying pack.
Much of this low ground is heather land, and everywhere the bracken flourishes in wild profusion. In summer it is waist-high, and even taller, and in early autumn when it changes from green to russet-brown and yellow, it hampers the footsteps of the man on foot, and, owing to its dryness, makes scenting conditions very difficult. For this reason hounds seldom visit the low ground until a fall of snow or heavy rain has somewhat flattened the bracken beds.
On the lower slopes of the high fells the bracken is equally luxuriant, covering acres of land which would otherwise be good pasturage for the little Herdwick sheep. Foxes, particularly cubs, are to be found in these bracken patches, where they lie and creep about unseen on the approach of an intruder.
On the summits of the high tops the ground is[4] generally fairly level, covered with a short, thick turf.
On some of the mountains, such as the High Street and Harter Fell, there is a very considerable area of this fairly level ground. Such high-fell tracts are known in local parlance as “good running ground,” for across them on a decent scenting day hounds can press their fox severely.
It will easily be understood that the approach to these high tops is impracticable for horses, and even if one reached them on horseback the return journey would be fraught with even greater difficulty and danger. On foot it is a different matter altogether. Every one of the fells can be climbed by some fairly easy route, and, once on the tops, the going is good. No matter at what time of year one rambles on the fells alone, it should always be remembered that there is a certain amount of danger, however small. Without in the least wishing to “put the wind up” the reader, I may say that accidents are liable to happen, and a sprained ankle is quite sufficient to place a man in a very awkward position, particularly in winter, when the days are short and the weather far from good. Still, one can travel the fells for years without meeting with the semblance of such a contretemps, if reasonable care is taken when crossing rough ground.
When hounds are out there are always local[5] hunters scattered about the various tops, and if the visiting sportsman follows the lead of one of these men, he will come to no harm, though he may come to respect the walking powers of a dalesman ere the end of the day.
Having once reached the tops, it is wise to stay at that altitude, unless hounds are practically viewing their fox, and driving him hard towards the dale. It is much quicker to go round the tops than to make a descent to the dale and then climb out again. When necessary, a descent can be made down some grass slope, and a long slide down a loose scree-bed will sometimes gain the same end with less exertion. A certain amount of practice is necessary to enable one to travel the fells with ease, but one soon gets the hang of walking fast on steep ground, and descending the latter at speed.
Everything depends, of course, on one’s physical condition, and the character of one’s footgear. Unless heart and lungs are sound, and one is in some kind of training, fell climbing is astonishingly hard work, and becomes much more of a toil than a pleasure.
Thin boots or shoes, with smooth soles, are useless as well as dangerous. What is required is a good stout shooting boot, well nailed to prevent slipping. If anklets are worn with these they will prevent grit and small stones from entering the[6] boot tops. Shoes are not to be recommended, as they give no support to the ankles. The clothing should be fairly thick and wet-resisting, as the weather on the high tops in winter is often pretty wild. Loose knickerbockers are better than knicker-breeches, as the latter restrain the free action of the knees, and, therefore, make climbing harder. A stick of some kind is a great help, but I do not recommend the long, alpenstock affairs which are sold to summer visitors. On steep ground there always comes a time when a long stick trips its user, and a stumble of this nature may easily lead to a very nasty fall. An ordinary stout walking-stick is the best, as there is little or no chance of getting one’s feet mixed up with it going downhill.
On the high fells the exigencies of the weather have far more influence on sport than they have in the low country. At an altitude of 2000 feet snow is apt to be deep, while the frost is often extremely severe. Snowstorms, unless unusually heavy, seldom stop hunting, but when the snow becomes frozen, and the crags are a mass of ice, it is unsafe for either hounds or followers. The greatest bugbear of the fell foxhunter is mist. Once the tops are shrouded in an impenetrable grey pall there is nothing but the cry of hounds to direct you, and when the music gradually fades into the distance you stand in a silent world of[7] your own, not knowing, if you are a stranger to the fell, which way to turn.
However well you think you know every foot of the ground, it is surprisingly easy to lose direction, and unless a lucky chance places you in touch with hounds again it is wise to get below the mist and discover your whereabouts. As a rule, however, if you are on ground you have often visited before, you will recognise landmarks such as peat hags, cairns, watercourses, etc., which will give you the lie of the land and enable you to go ahead.
Occasionally the fells are what is locally known as “top clear.” At such a time you climb steadily upwards to find yourself at last clear of the clinging grey vapour, and beneath you lies an apparently endless sea of white, stretching into the far distance. Out of this ocean of mist rises peak after peak of the mountain ranges, looking like islands dotted in every direction. If the sun is shining at the time, the glorious panorama will well repay you for your strenuous climb.
Most people have heard of the “Spectre of the Brocken”; well, I have seen exactly the same thing from the summit of Red Screes, which overlooks the top of the Kirkstone Pass.
I was standing on the summit of this mountain one winter’s morning, whilst hounds were working out the drag of their fox on the breast far below.[8] The mist was rising from the lower slopes like a grey curtain, while the sun shone against my back, throwing my shadow on to the screen of vapour. There it became enlarged to enormous proportions, and as I moved the huge shadowy giant aped my actions, until I began to think I was “seeing things.”
I have at times seen some extraordinarily fine rainbow effects amongst the crags, just as the rain began to cease and the sun broke through the clouds.
Next to mist, rain and wind, particularly the latter, handicap followers of the fell hounds. Rain wets you through, but you don’t mind that; it is all in the day’s work, but when it is combined with a driving wind which stops your breath and all but lifts you off your feet it becomes rather too much of a good thing. Once on Wetherlam I saw two coupled terriers lifted bodily off the ground by the wind, and the huntsman’s cap suddenly left his head and departed swiftly into thin air. If it be freezing at such times your clothing, eyelashes, etc., become coated with hoarfrost, and the icy blast penetrates to your very marrow. In the face of such a wind you have to constantly turn round to get your breath, and all sounds beyond the shriek of the gale are obliterated.
Shelter where and how you will, and strain your ears to the uttermost, it is impossible to hear[9] the cry of hounds unless they happen to be very near you. Even on a still day sound is very deceiving. All the hills throw back an echo, and you can easily imagine hounds to be on the far side of a dale, when in reality they are on your own side, but under and beneath you. On one occasion hounds were racing with a glorious cry, apparently near the summit of a mountain which separated us from the dale beyond. Every moment we expected to see them appear over the wall on the skyline, whereas in reality they were on the opposite side of the valley beyond, running through the breast at a high altitude.
Most of the fell country carries a good scent, except sometimes in early autumn and spring, when the sun dries up the dew quite early in the morning. Directly the bracken is beaten down by snow and rain, and the land holds moisture, hounds can work out a drag, and hunt and run with the best.
Although I have descanted upon the bad weather in the fell country, it must not be thought that the winter months are wholly given over to mist, rain, frost and wind. No, there are days when the sun shines brightly on a white world, and the views from the tops are magnificent. The snow is damp but not too deep, and hounds drive along as if tied to their fox. The air is still and clear, enabling one to hear the music at a great distance, and, with good visibility, hounds can[10] easily be seen threading their way through the rough ground across the wide dale. Scent is often very good indeed in damp snow, though at times it may be just the reverse. “There’s nowt sae queer as scent,” unless perhaps it be a woman.
Apart from hunting, I often think that visitors make a mistake in not coming to the fells in winter. Grand as the views are in summer, they are equally fine, if not finer, in winter, when the weather is frosty and settled.
I have already spoken of the impracticability of the fells as a riding country, for if—
“He who gallops his horse on Blackstone Edge
May chance to find a fall,”
the same horseman would find no chance about it on places like Striding Edge or St. Sunday Crag in Lakeland.
At any time of the year many of the huge crags on the fells are dangerous for hounds, and equally so for the too venturesome follower. To mention but a few, there is the crag overhanging Goat’s Water on Coniston Old Man, Pavey Ark in Langdale, Dove Crag at the head of Dovedale, Raven Crag on Holme Fell, and Greenhow End overlooking Deepdale. Most, if not all, of the places mentioned have been the scenes of accidents to hounds, as well as thrilling rescues.
Considering the roughness of the fell hunting country as a whole, it is a matter for surprise that[11] there are not more accidents. Although hardly a season passes without a contretemps of some kind, losses amongst hounds of the fell packs through fatal accidents are comparatively rare.
I have previously mentioned the fact that when travelling the fells unaccompanied by a companion, a sprained ankle may give one a pretty bad time, and if night is drawing on may lead to having to pass a night on the open fell. As an example, I may perhaps quote a case which happened not many seasons ago.
I was standing with a huntsman one winter’s day on Wetherlam. There was sufficient snow to cover the loose stones and rocks, and make the latter slippery. The pack was running their fox below us when we espied Reynard coming in our direction. Uncoupling four hounds he had with him the huntsman ran in to give these hounds a view, when I saw him stumble and fall. On reaching him I found he had sprained his ankle very badly indeed, and in a short time his foot swelled tremendously. With my assistance he was able to travel some distance downhill, where I finally left him and went in search of further help. Luckily this was forthcoming in the shape of some hunters whom I overtook, and aided by them the wounded man was able to reach a ro............