Sometimes humility is rewarded.
Following my contretemps with the Horse People last week I took the hounds in search of a new route to Blackcap. We chugged through the sheep field as usual, traversed the series of gates adjacent to the stables until we stood overlooking the jump section of the gallops. Here the rough track divides; left/ south west onto our usual flinty footpath; right/ due west down a steep, well-trodden grassy knoll toward thickets and dense gorse.
I loped to the right, recalling John B’s recent race report as I lumbered down the slope:
‘
The people passing me were running down the hill (ie, using their muscles),
whereas I was trying to fall down the hill.’*
I engaged the gears and ran the descent, dogs bounding about me in a mixture of excitement and confusion.
This ain’t our usual route, Guv’nor! But hey – look at the gorse – here be rabbits!!!
A cotton-tail twitched under a thorn bush and pow! the two long-dogs unleashed full power, bellies flat to the grassy slopes as they tracked exocet-like toward the vanishing prey. Now there’s downhill muscle in motion.
Willow bounded in hapless pursuit, ears flapping like useless curly-haired wings, stubby legs working overtime. I chugged along behind, happy that our diversion had reaped benefits for my companions. Rabbits are few and far between on the ‘old’ Blackcap run, and the hounds do love a chase. Thankfully they are rarely successful.
Gypsy, physically in her prime, lacks the guile to calculate trajectory, a skill prerequisite in her profession. She also lacks focus, reacting to the movement of possible targets in her peripheral vision, bounding from sighting to sighting until exhaustion overhauls her and she stands, panting for breath, eyes bulging, steam pluming from her slender haunches. Tess, older and a good deal wiser, was different class, a mean huntress in her youth. A locked in, heat-seeking dealer of death, darting towards an inexorable, neck-snapping conclusion. Father Time has dulled her reactions, stolen a few yards of pace from the White Whippet, yet her enthusiasm remains unbowed, her thrill for the chase unmatched.
My own enthusiasm received a timely boost as our new path revealed a treat for the two-legged pack member; hills! Although the overall altitude adjustment from home to the Cap remains the same, this new track offered a delightful series of steep climbs and descents. I embraced the gradients, hunkering into my hunched stance, chugging up the slopes in a steady rhythm.
We circumnavigated the peak in a ragged figure-of-eight.
I thought about rejoining our old route back to the stables, but the lure of more climbs, especially the final hill back to the sheep field, clinched the deal. On the return we spied more bunnies. I say ‘we’ - I often spot Fiver and his pals before the hounds, enjoying considerable height advantage over the canines. I smiled; the fluffy white bottoms disappeared into the thicket even as the first flurry of claw-flung earth flew from the longdogs' launch.
Into the homeward mile I sensed an acrid stench on the northerly breeze. The cloud covered sky betrayed no hint of local smoke. I suspect this heralds the arrival of the Hemel Smog, the first vestige of the remarkable black plume that seemed to span the country. I offered up silent prayers for strong winds, easing up for the run-in to keep my breathing shallow. The smoke may not be toxic - I’d rather not coat my lungs all the same.
Home in a shade over 50 minutes – definitely a more demanding route. A keeper. And not a snotty horseman in sight. 5 miles-ish in the bank. Happy, knackered hounds.
*
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