THE COTSWOLDS.

Hawke's Bay Tribune, Volume XIII, Issue 20, 6 January 1923, Page 3

THE COTSWOLDS.

A FAMOUS HUNT. RICH IN STORY AND TRADITION. The l Duke of Beaufort’s country, where the Prince of Wales is hunting this season, lies in Wiltshire and Gloucestershire, covering about 760 S( l u « , ;? r miles. It ranks with Cheshire and n arwickshire as one of the largest areas in England covered by one Hunt, and though outside the radius of the sacred Shires, it occupies such a unique position, socially as well as geographically and in a sporting sense, that it claims the position of the premier provincial pack. Enter the country irom the north and you come in by a •spur of the far-flung Costwolds * a range of wooded hills where hunting sometimes continues till the deathknell of a May fox is sounded. Immediately south of these hills (writes a correspondent of the “Daily Telegraph”) stretches a level upland plateau, from the V.W.H. border, north of Rodmarton. where the great woods of Cirencester loom dim and dark on a winter’s day. by Tetbury-town to the northern verge of Badminton Park. AH this is fine open country, bleak and bracing, with the stone walls dividing the fields one from another, whether plough and fallow' or the sound old pasturage about Ohavenage and Beverstone. They look a bit solid and unyielding to the stranger, but are the easiest things in the world to jump for horses that know them and the sensation afforded by a gallop across them is hard to beat, because hounds hop them instead of having to struggle through fences, and when there is a scent the> can run at a tremendous pace, practically unchecked. The cunning old wall jumper takes them slowly, and grief awaits the thruster from the Shires who goes fast at' them. How high a wall can a horse get over? This was the subject of a wagei many years ago, when a wall was specially built to settle the question. It stands to this (fey—or did very recently-— 0,1 the Boxwell side of Bowldom Wood ,and is 6ft. high. The bet was between the late “Bob” Chapman and Colonel Peter Miles—both faihous men to hounds some seventy years ago. Tin horse (owned by the latter sportsman) cleared it every time but just kicked one stone at the top with his hind feet and so lost the bet. He was called tlk Priest, and afterwards wittily dubbed the “High Priest!” But though then are some uncommonly big walls, the majority are of quite manageable dimensions. Hounds often run within view of the old grey tower of Tetbury Church under whose shadow sleeps Whyte-Melville, the poet of the chase. A few miles south-west of Tetbury the woods of Westonbirt soften the aspect of the landscape. The magnificent mansion was built by the present owner’s father, at a cost, it is said, of £200,000 in days when building was a comparatively cheap amusement! Wonderful to relate, in these times, the house is kept? up, and there are good horses in the stables, as well as foxes innumerable in the home coverts —so many that Lady Diana Somerset, in her series of caricatures of the Hunt, has immortalised Sir George Hol ford pursued in his famous Aboretum by a perfect mob of the vulpinetribe ! “THE MAIN EARTH OF FOXHUNTING.” Tack a few more miles still further south-west, and Badminton itself is reached, facetiously dubbed by one oi the most 'celebrated of {living foxhunters as “the main earth of fox hunting.” The Worcester avenue of stately beeches, three miles long leads through the open stretches of the fine deer park to the house itself, a fine rather plain, pile of proportions mon than ample for the modest require merits of a ducal family taxed by the late Government. The kennels ano stables are on a most sumptuous scale, if the pilgrim makes way across the Seven Miles Plantation bounding the west side of the park he will soon conn to a ridge of hill, an off-shoot of those same CotswoTds, running from Hawkesbury to Horton. From the summit is comanded one end of the Sodbury Vale with the dark smudge of the Lower Woods, a vast sylvan stronghold for foxes, in the foreground. The sweet but narrow valley which forms the Duke’s pet vale is terminated by this ridge of hill, and southward by another, stretching from Old Sodbury along to the top of the Dodington and Dyrham. West it is bounded by the Midland Railway, dividing the Berkley country from the Beaufort.. Harking back past Tetburv and Malmesbury, hedges replace walls and the country is practically all grass. Malmesbury is the most charming old town in the west country. Its cluster of old grey roofs its ancient Abbey tower with the hole Cromwell’s cannon made in it still crying to the hetvens for vengeance on vandalism, climb and crown the steep hill above the river Avon. Malmesbury has quite the Cranfordian atmosphere. Its people greet the sportsman sallying forth to the chase with doffed hat and kindiv wishes for his sport; bn old-world courtesy flourishes, and Bolshevism lifts not its evil head. E'aston Grey, the Prince’s hunting box is three miles west of this pleasant town, and is delightfullv situated on high ground above the banks of the self-same Avon. The village is tiny; just a few old grey Cotswold cottages with the stone-tiled roofs characteristic of the country, poised alongside the road that winds up the hill, above a fine old bridge. Around Easton Grey is some fine hunting country, with flying fences and good grass. A FAMOUS COUNTRY. The most trappy part is around Yatton Kevnell and Biddlestone, on the Avondale border. Here it was that Will Dale used to say. “Now there’ll be more falls to the square mile than in any part of this country!” To command the Dauntsey Vale, one must mount the hill by Lyneham or Bradenstroke, on a clear day, and view the entrancing extent of country—a really wonderful panorama—reaching away at dead level for mile on mile. The best of it lies between Christian Malford and Brinkworth, and it is a flying country, all grass, but can rise terribly deep in a wet winter being clay soil. It was from Great Wood, the chief covert on this side, that the historic run of ’7l was brought off, constituting one of the greatest achievements in the annals of fox-hunting. Hounds often invade the V.W.H. country from here and the reverse applies. The Bushton Vale is a sort of extension of theDauntsey one. on a higher level. It is terminated by the escarpment of the Downs, an abrupt ridge of hill often clothed with woods locally known as “hangings.” Fine wild foxes are found in this country, and they make good points. Once up on the top, yet another change of country offers itself to the sportsman. The open ranges of the rolling downs, where a horse can lie fully extended, and hounds can simply race with scent serves, are wild and wind-swept in winter. There is no fencing, of course, but wonderful galloping ground. The latter tribute does not apply to the plough-downs, which are terribly sticky. Bar frosts, hounds hunt every day in the week, and it is believed that rever in history has a blank one been recorded. For a hundred years or more, practically every sportsman of distinction and attainments has made a point of sampling this famous country, so that it is rich in story and tradition. At the present time, with a brilliant young huntsman in Lord Worcester, besides the very capable professional, Tom Newman, it is in high favour, and fields averaged 300 and 400 a day last year. The presence of the Prince of Wales this season will add a notable chapter to the liistcry of the Hunt, and its members are naturally proud of the honour his choice confers on them. Hie uniform of the Hunt—the private and personal gift of the Duke.to those he chooses to bestow it on—is dark olue with buff facings, and it is understood that the Prince will it, in Leu of

the white collar of Jio Pvtoll ley whi ii he wore in the Midlands the season he hunted there. Manv pink coats are also seen with the Duke’s, and the two colours together make a briliant spectacle of a large field on a sunny morning.