His eyes darted around
the terrain as he ran at breakneck speed down the field and cleared the
hedgerow in one leap. As he hurriedly glanced back over his shoulder, he
caught a glimpse of the bloodhounds; there were three and a half couples.
He realised that they were closing in on him as he could see that their
eyes looked more bloodshot than usual, their long ears were spattered with
mud and they were foaming from the mouth as they raced forward. His heart
pounded - he estimated that he had covered nearly a mile. He had two minutes
head start at the most. He knew that they would have difficulty getting
through the hedgerow and he hoped to lose them or at least increase his
lead.
John in his mid-fifties was extraordinarily fit for his age - in fact in a race he could beat most of the young seventeen-year-olds in his area. However, to be chased by the huntsman and hound was a different matter. Landing in a narrow country lane he glanced in both directions and decided to turn to his left, as there was a bend in the lane that at least would put him out of sight of the hounds. He turned to the left and to his horror as he turned the corner he saw a hurdle barring his way. He had no option but to jump it and cleared it in one easy graceful stride.
John realised he was rapidly losing ground. Then the sound of horse hooves, which had been muffled by the grass, was replaced by the clang of hooves landing on the country lane. They stopped. They waited for the hounds to find their way through the hedgerow. The dogs ran up and down the lane for a moment or two before picking up his scent and following him up the lane.
John's knowledge of hounds was something he used to his advantage. He saw a copse on the right hand side of the lane one field away and knew that hounds would have more difficulty picking up his scent among the twigs which would have fallen from the trees than on crushed grass. Also he knew that it would slow the horsemen considerably having to contend with trees. This was a place where he hoped that he might be able to shake them off and feel safe again. He headed in that direction crossing the hedgerow on the other side of the lane which proved much more difficult as the angle of the jump didn't give him enough space for a proper run at it. However, he just about managed to get across, pulling his trousers from the brambles that they became entangled in, hearing them rip, but that seemed of little consequence at that moment.
The cry of "Tally Ho!", the shrill sound of horn being blown rang out behind him, the hounds were in full cry. He knew as he heard the clip-clop of hooves on the country lane that they were on to him. Without hesitation he belted down hill across the field that separated him from the sanctuary of the trees. He could tell by the change in sounds made by the hooves when they entered the field that he had reached the trees with only seconds to spare.
The copse was of deciduous trees, it was early November and leaves, which were drifting to the ground, became a carpet under his feet. His only thoughts were of self-preservation, at this stage the sweat was running down his face and his heart beat so quickly he felt it would burst. He zig-zagged in and out through the trees ducking under branches which he hoped would cause difficulty for the riders.
He spotted a stream at the bottom of a steep bank, and half ran and half jumped down it. He had difficulty remaining on his feet as he slipped and slid out of control, lucky to land in an upright position. In his eagerness to escape he was barely aware that he had plunged into icy water which rose above his knees. About fifty metres down stream he saw an earth bank, which ran perpendicular to the stream, leading up hill at the other side of the stream and decided to exit the river at that point and use it as cover to shield him as he sought to reach the top.
It was tough work making his way to the top of the hill. The terrain was rough open ground and the heather was knee deep, but he could see no alternative safe route. The blood was pounding in his ears, there were black dots before his eyes and he was out of breath. The effort seemed inhuman but he was pushed on by his survival instincts. At the brow of the hill there was a boulder that gave him some sanctuary, he pause momentarily to survey the scene. There were roughly twenty huntsmen, dressed in mustard jackets and black-riding hats and most of them carried a riding crop to urge on their mounts. The horses, all hunters, which were of varying sizes, were covered in mud and some were frothing at the mouth from the exertion of the hunt. The seven hounds were running up and down the stream bank trying to pick up his scent.
This was no place to linger - he was off again, scurrying over the brow of the hill and out of sight, choosing to scamper diagonally over the rough open ground. He had just made this decision when he heard "Tally Ho!" and the sound of the horn being blown, the hounds yelping with excitement. He knew that they were on his trail again. As he ran he estimated that he had gained some time but in this landscape he knew without a miracle that he did not have a hope of escape. However, the thoughts of the hounds closing in spurred on his exhausted body. When he neared the centre of the rough open ground he put up a fox. Relief flooded through his weary body as the animal scurried off at a ninety-degree angle to his route. He prayed silently to himself that the hounds would become confused and thus slow them. However, he knew that he could not rely on this alone so he sped forward as if propelled by an inhuman force. At the end of this terrain was a ditch which was edged by an earth bank. He jumped the ditch with difficulty and clambered up the earth bank. He looked back and to his dismay saw that the hounds had only shown momentary interest in the fox before they returned to the real quarry. "I've had it" he thought. As he leaped from the earth bank onto a road he knew that he was slowing. Some green fields appeared in the distance and he headed wearily in their direction, noticing that just beyond them was a house. "I've got to make it, I must keep focused, don't think" he ordered is mind as he strained forward. The panting of the dogs seemed to be in time with his own panting as the distance between them narrowed.
He ran through the farmyard gate before they had time to hurl themselves at him. They stayed at his heel; the last thing he saw before the dogs closed in around him was a table with a white linen tablecloth. They slobbered all over him as he bent down to pat them. As the huntsmen arrived he wondered why he was always so amazed to see the big pot of stew and the wine in the paper cups, after all, the Northern Ireland farmers are known for their hospitality on the day that the hounds "Hunt the clean boot". As they ate and drank the only thing that John really wanted was to go home and shower. That wouldn't be polite.
"Hunting the clean boot" is a sport for hunters who don't like blood sports and a person volunteers to act as the quarry. They know where it will start and finish. Leaving the route choice to the discretion of the person acting as the quarry, there is a different venue each week. He/she gets five minutes head start and must use their wit to out smart the hounds.
This is the alternative that some orienteers in Northern Ireland use to keep fit.
(based on an idea by Wilbert Hollinger)
I had hoped Ger would say "His breath came in short pants ..." but she didn't - Ed.