The Meet (Mary Poppins versus Tipp Town) -- Knockara Stud Farm, Tipperary

Today marks five months of traveling. I haven’t moved around as much as most people would in nearly half a year, but I’ve certainly experienced a lot.  Attempting to travel the world on a budget of ten euros a week seems to thrust me into interesting circumstances with abundantly generous people. The only thing I’m pining for (other than my family and friends back home) is a good pair of boots. I’ve taken up the terribly impractical habit of lingering lustfully outside shoe shops, doing all sorts of creative arithmetic in my head, attempting to finagle my budget enough to afford a sixty euro pair of warm leather boots. I practically drool at the sight of the ones with a bit of wool seductively sticking out of the top. I’m also in need of new contacts, glasses repair, and god, I need a haircut. But I seem to be getting by (I’m not blind, still have all my toes, no one’s lopped off my offensive head, etc.), so I’ll keep on getting by until I simply can’t.

Maria and I rode out early this morning in order to have the horses watered down and turned out before the first hunting meet of the season commenced at eleven. The ride itself went well – it’s actually the tacking up and holding the horses quiet part that’s proving problematic and painful. I’ve never been exposed to such violent pushers before. My hand still throbs from when This One and Leetie pulverized it between their heads a few days ago. My left ear aches from when This One tossed her head and sent me flying into the side of the trailer. Maria doesn’t tie the horses when she grooms and saddles them, so they take advantage of their liberty and move around freely – all over my feet. It took me ten minutes to saddle Leetie the other day because she kept slipping sideways and targeting me with her hindquarters whenever I went to tighten the girth.

The meet wasn’t exactly what I thought it would be. The only image in my mind of fox hunting is from Mary Poppins. You know, with the dignified, fat gentlemen on the dignified, fat horses; both supported by spindly little legs nearly buckling under the weight of all that fat dignity? 

Maria asked me to clean my wellingtons before we left, so part of me assumed that we’d be surveying the hunt from a sheltered balcony. Fans would be waved, kerchiefs would be tossed; hell, hors o dourves might even be served.  Why else would I need to clean my wellies in Ireland?

Alas, there were no hors o dourves to be had. We arrived just a little late, and the Field (special word for the main group of horses) had already moved up the hill, caught scent of a fox (there’s a special word for that, too), and was already in hot pursuit. Maria and I hopped back into her jeep and tailed closely behind the spritely Field, exuberant trumpet calls beckoning us on.

Following the Field

As soon as the Field trotted off the road and into the woods, Maria and I deserted the jeep and trotted right behind them – along with quite a few other spectators.

Everyone gets involved in the hunt

And my sparkling wellies were no longer clean.

The Field in the woods

The hounds. NEVER called dogs. 

Maria surprised me with her level of physical fitness. She sprinted through the 6 inches of mud with ease, leaving me panting behind her. She told me later that once the hunt is on, the adrenaline takes over. She really gets into these things. Although I can’t see myself personally ever becoming bitten by the hunting bug, I suppose I can understand why other people enjoy the sport. The noise element in and of itself is great fun – the horns sounding, the hounds barking, the horses galloping, and the hunters urging on their hounds. A few horsemen starting talking on their cellphones as they waited for a particular trumpet call, which somewhat ruined the ambiance, but all in all, it was a very stimulating auditory event. The best part for me was that the fox got away. That lone, clever creature managed to evade at least thirty horsemen and at least that many hounds. If the fox is unfortunate enough to be treed, it’s killed immediately. I was very glad I didn’t have to witness this aspect of hunting. However, the fox will have to keep keen, as there will be nearly two meets a week until the season ends in March, and the hounds and hunters will have many more chances to track him down before the season is through.

Happy hound

Maria keeping an eye out for the fox

Defeated hounds

End of the hunt

George cooked dinner tonight. I love it when George cooks dinner because he always has to do everything absolutely perfectly, is always somewhat disappointed in himself (even though the food is fabulous), and always has a very interesting story to tell regarding the meal he’s prepared. When we came home from the hunt, Maria moved his dish into the bottom oven while he was watching one of his TV shows in order to cook it just a tad more and keep it warm for dinner. George wandered into the kitchen a few minutes later and frantically demanded,

“Maria, vere is my dish? Vat haf you done vis it?

“It’s in the warmer, George. I thought it might cook a bit more. Still seemed a little tough to me. A little tough, yes, yes, mmmmhh.”

“Zat is impossible. It is perfect. It cannot be improved. Next time you ask my permission before you fudge vis my cooking.”

“It seems a little tough to me, George.”

And George’s dish remained in the warmer. We enjoyed the flavourful pork curry a couple of hours later.

It was a little tough.

I adore George. If I could somehow adopt him as a grandfather or great-uncle of sorts, I would do so in a heartbeat. All of his “ask my permission” nonsense is just play, and he’s one of the most sensitive, genuine, intelligent people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.