Le jumelage du Rallye Armor et du South Devon Hunt
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FRENCH LESSONS

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" Always ride a local horse " is a good rule for a hunting correspondent: it has given me some great rides and no doubt saved a lot of grief. But not a horse was to be had for love nor money on Dartmoor on the occasion of the twinning meet of the Rallye Armor with the South Devon Hunt.
There was nothing for it but to takehomebred Dandy, never out of Dorset in his short life before - it looked like being one big adventure for the both of us.
It was to be a double tret. Not only following hounds on Dartmore, for whose wild beauty I have really fallen since I first hunted there three years ago and wher the small mounted fields, and their friendliness, make the 100-miles trip well worthwhile.
But we where to stay, Dandy an I, at the East Dart Hotel at Postbridge, ine the middle of the moor - it must be one of the best hunting pubs in the country: four packs of Foxhounds regulary meet ther, not to mention minkhounds and Beagles.
The Rallye Armor are the french pack, founded by Christian Perennez about 30 years ago, which hunt stag and occasionally wild boar just across the water in Brtittany. John Walcot of Foxworthy, near Poundsgate, made friends with the hunt some years ago.
This joint meet, appropriately enough at the Walcot home, was the occasion of its twinning with the South Devon - as far as anyone knows the very first twinning of its sort. Many of hunt's members had come over, five of them to follow mounted, several in the magnificent uniform that help to make French hunting so special.
After a hospitable meet and exchange of gifts between the hunts, we moved off for what was to prove an active but frustrating morning. Hounds found soon enough, but made straight for a massive wood where the fields could not follow and we lost them.
How we could have done with the wonderful horn music that, when you follow a french pack, tells you exactly qhat is going on in the depth of the forest. If you ever get the chance to hunt in France, go - it's magic !
The fields master, and for the day, Fergu Graham, had the difficult task of charging here and there with us, with hardly a clue to go on. Eventually, thanks to his skill, we were all reunited, and the real excitement for Dandy and me began: the word cam back: "Would the man from Horse and Hounds kindly join the huntsman?"
"Can a duck swim?" Off we cantered - you don't often gallop on Dartmoor, if you are wise - for what I have always regarded as a icing on the hunting cake.
The South Devon were incredibly lucky, when they found themselves without a huntsman befor Christmas, to be able to recall George Hyatt, who had been master and huntsman 20 years ago before and has done much since, as followers of hunting and racing well know.
"They talk about a blow-ins", he told me, "I must be a blow-back."
Whatever, few people can know the country better or have a better way with hounds.
It was an education to see George Hyatt pull his hounds sharply out of a covert when they got into rearing pens, just like you or me whistling up one obedient pet dog for a walk. And when he found a fox after an hour of fruitless effort - there was no virtually scent out of thick covert - it took him a half an second to get hounds off the heel-line and going in the right direction: both they had our hearts already on the other side of the next hill.
"How did you know?" I asked him that evening - he just shrugged.
(When I got home, I rang up Captain Wallace and asked him the same question; he said rather more, but I guess taht his answer came to much the same thing - experience, and the instinct of a born huntsman.)
It is some years since I gave up trying to follow and remember exactly what happens in long day's hunting. The trick is to enjoy the day, pick up what you can get alongside the huntsman in the evening and find out what hounds really did.
We had a smashing hunt dinner, with French horn music and singing, at the East Dart Hotel that evening: it was nearly midnight when I looked at my watch for almost the first time on that very happy day. George had passed me a copy of his report, here is the gist of it - Dartmoore folk will follow, we can just enjoy the feel.
"Seventeen an a half couple mixed hounds - very warm, drizzle, dulll with light breeze later. Following reports of lamb lost to foxes, we hacked on to draw Broadaford.
"Finding near Dockwell, hounds ran into Lizwell Wood, and were recovered after 50 min at Spitchwick.After a long hack back to the ground on Broadaford Newtakes and Blakaton; both were accounted for, and both were found on inspection to have eaten lambs."
Lord Burns please note.
"A fox from Grendon bog proved scentless, so we drew Riddon. Hounds found at Babent earth to chek - where a second fox was marked and accounted for - on to Riddon Common. Hounds ran well over the ridge, to ground in a rock pile by the River Dart, and left.
"We drew back over Corndon Tor to meet. It was a poor day for riders, but hounds hunted well, and a good job done for lambing farmers, killing a brace and a half. Left txo couple in Lizwell Wood, but all on the end, bar Walnut, who was back at the meet."
On a deserving horse and with a fair hack home, I recluctantly left hounds at 3.30pm. It was a job settling know what he will have made of the sounds of horns and singing, in his snug box behind the hotel - I hope they helped his dreams.
Like me, he will not forget the bog we got into and he somehow swam his way through.
"Keep on the rocks!" George had thrown back to us - I had thought he said keep off them. Although he didn't know it, DAndy also had reason to be grateful for the pads the farrier had fitted on the day before.
Bog or rocks, Dartmoor has a great deal to teach a green horse.

Horse & Hounds, 13 April 2000

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Une chasse bretonne vue par des Grands-Bretons

John WALCOT a donné envie à ses compatriotes, de venir tester la chasse " à la bretonne ". une équipe de veneurs anglais, parmi lesquels le rédacteur en chef de " Hourse and hounds " a donc suivi une de nos chasse, ce qui nous a donné le droit à un nouvel article.

Do you remember those marvellous French horn blowers who turned up at the Hyde Parkrally? They came from the Rallye ARmor Staghounds, which are kennelled in Plesidy, near Guimgamp in Brittanny, where Bretons share not only a love of foxhunting, but also the legend of King Arthur and the Round Table.
The Rallye Armor has twinned with the South Devon Foxhounds, which, to my knowledge, is the only such association between French and English hunts. The arrangement works wonderfullly well and this year it was the turn of the South Devon followers to visit Brittany.
John Walcot of the South Devon very kindly marked my card for me. The purpose of my visit was two-fold: to experience at first-hand French-style venery and to find out about French attitudes to our "Bambi Blair" problem.
My visit was arranged through endurance riding friends, Sue and Herve Quesdon, who enlisted the help of Carl Sanderson and Denis Messager, all of whom were kindness itself. It was joined by international endurance rider Sally Hall, whom the French mistook for my wife, but we decide it would propably only make things worse if we tried to explain, so went this arrangement - well, up to a point!
Anyone who hunts has to be philosophical about the prospects of a day's sport and I always take the view that there is no such thing as a bad day's hunting, since it is always a provilege and a pleasure to be out in the countryside ont the back of a horse.
On this occasion, however, God was smiling on us and we experienced a truly memorable hunt ont the best stag the Rallye Armor has ever taken in the forest of Le Hunaudaye, which is rented from a private landowners. The Rallye Armor introduced deer back into the forest and are responsible for the herd's management.
Sally Hall hunts with the EXmoor, whose Magnet, a gift to senior joint-master Christian Perennez from Capt Ronnie Wallace, was in the pack, which was described to me as Anglo-Francais tricolores. Apparently, they are not as large as some French staghounds and attempts are being made to increase the size.
French trotting horses are mainly ridden, since there is a surplus of them and they can be bought for £500-600. They are wondefully though horses, ranging from struggled to get used to their unusual gaits for the first 10min, we both fully appreciated their qualities by the end of an ardous day in deep forest rides.
We were blessed with a magnificent stag, which had been harboured by one of seven harbourers who each report to the masters just prior to hounds moving off. The masters assessed the reports and decided on the day's quarry, a fanfare was played on the horns (trompe de chasse) and we set off from the meet at le Grand Saint Aubin, a stone-built farm which had been converted to a hunting lodge for this particular area.
Tufters, or rapprocheurs, were sent out, acccomanied by joint-master Patrice Perennez on foot, to find the stag in a small wood near the village of Guejean, from where he needed to be puched back into the country. The stag was found at 12.20pm and the main pack was laid on by joint-master Mikhail Perennez at 1.30pm, when the deep tones of the horn were eclipsed by a burst of deep-throated hound music which made the spine tingle.
Scent was not consistent on a bright, sunny day, but the crash of music when hounds were hard on the line was superb and reverberated around the forest, punctuated by low blasts on the French horns reminiscent of a ship's foghorn.
Sally an I had the good fortune to be guided throughout the day by Raymond Xavier Bourges, who works in Paris whith his delighyful wife Francois, and returns to Brittany to hunt at weekends. Raymond's English was superb and his sound judgement afforded us several good viws of the quarry, which was taken after a 4hr 30min hunt, during which the Rallye Armor pack had hunted brilliantly to overcome patchy scenting conditions and a wily stag.
Respect for the quarry and for the hounds is paramount in France and itis very much a case of riding to hunt and to enjoy the ancient art of venery to the full. When hounds or the stag crossed a ride, I noticed the men who have been granted the privilege to carry the horn (known as the sonneurs) taking off their cap in respect. Hallali is the term for when the stag stands at bay, and when the stag is efficiently despatched with a short sword, hats are solemny raised as a mark of respect.
Throughout the hunt the wonderful French horns are used to announce the progress of the hunt and the whereabout of the pack and the stag.. There is a moving, haunting quality to the music, particulary at the end, when the bass horn, complemented by the shriller small horn, plays a tribute to the stag. I noticed the male sonneurs carried both a large and a small horn, when the ladies carried just the smaller one.
"What happens if you have a fall?" I enquired.
"Uh, we go to hospital", was the reply.
The man who looks after the hounds, Pascal le Moigne, runs with the pack, which unconventionnally does not have a huntsman in the sense that we know it. After the pack has been laid on it is aded, when nessessary, by eight or nine sonneurs entrusted with the task, under the direction of senior joint-master Christiant Perennez, whose bearrd gives him the air of a monarch.
His family has deep roots in Britanny and one sonneur quipped foundly "I think he can trace his descent back to King Arthur."
All the members of the hunt have their own personalised hunt buttons, rather like a family crest, and their hunt uniform have change little from medieval times, when the art of venery was perfected. They wear burgundy or black jackets, with gold or silver piping, exquisite velvet waistcoat, long top boots which protect the knees, caps for the men and three-cornered hats for the elegant ladies. The knee-length coat are cut to show off the figure, with practical short capes over the shoulders. When you encounter a group of riders in the forest, you wonder for a moment if you have stumbled on to a film set.
The stag was taken back to the Grand Saint Aubin to be honoured with due ceremony and much horn-blowing before hounds were rewarded, after which everyone gathered in the former stone farmhouse, which serves as a hunt club, for mulled wine or coffe before a roaring fire.
At 8pm, we dined and afterwards Sally, photographer Eric Jones an I joined in singing as best we could with our hosts, whose hospitality was heart-warming.
Jean-Claud Jort and our friend Raymond and his wife were to the fore in the singing and we were treted to a dilightful solo by Gaelle Gauttier, a rendention of Frère Jacques by a charming young lady of seven or eight, and some verse from a young man of eight or nine. The singing was interspersed with horn blowing, our hosts lustil singing God Save the Queen, the Jean-Claud played our national anthem on his horn, followed by When The Saints Go Marching In.
During the evening Sally an I were presented with crowns to wear, which were quite symbolic in that we both felt humbled by the royal hospitality we had received to mark this great hunt.
When you hear the spine-tingling Rallye Armor horns ringing out on the Liberty and Livelihood protest on 18 March, remember that there will be no more fervent supporters of hunting marching with us than our French friends from Brittany. And if you see them on the Mach, give them a rousing cheer, for they are very special people who are behind us heart and soul.
When the Frenc had similar problems to us 10 years ago it was vigorously explained to all who would listen that the right to hunt, fish and shoot in France is not negotiable.
As one sonneur put it: "Your government must be really stupid to support these people who want to make rules which go against the laws of nature. For the French, hunting is our birthright and our tradition. For Spanish it is bull fighting, for the British, it is fox hunting. You have to fight fot your birthright like we did. OK, people can disagree or disapprove, but they cannot take away your rights."

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