The first I knew about the hound racing was a letter from my friend, Simon, the Master of the North Dartmoor Beagles. Knowing that a letter from Simon could only mean one thing - he wanted money to keep the pack fed - I opened it dreading the worst. Yes, I was right, he had put me down as an owner for one of his beloved beagles in the races to be held at Sandy Park, Chagford. If we told them on the gate that we were owners we would get in free. Big deal, I thought, save a pound and get presented with the beagle's food bill for a year. "Also," the letter went on, "please find enclosed some raffle tickets. I expect you will pay me if you win. Bring a terrier as there will be terrier racing."Enough of the romantic stuff. First point of call was the bar to pay my respects to Simon. "Two pints, a fruit juice and a white wine," I greeted him with. After eventually being served we positioned ourselves by the last fence to watch the fun.
The course was about 100 yards long. At the winning end was parked the hound lorry and at the start was positioned a sheep trailer. The course had been fenced in, to prevent the runners doing a runner, and along its length were several obstacles such as round bales of straw and metal hurdles. Before each race the runners were extracted from the hound lorry and paraded in front of us. The runners were a mixture of the Cheldon Buckhounds and the North Dartmoor Beagles. Any hounds that had not been sold previously were auctioned off before the start of each race.
The huntsman then led the runners down the course to the start where they were shut in the sheep trailer. He then walked back down the course blowing on his hunting horn. The hounds were let out and he ran like hell to the finish, calling the hounds. The first one to catch him was declared the winner.
In between each race the terriers were given their chance to murder each other. Each terrier was held by its owner at the start, yapping and growling at each other. They had to chase a bit of rabbit skin pulled on a length of rope, by a mechanical contraption, down a fifty yards course. As the rabbit passed them they were released. Some of them chased it, the rest had a fight, and the first one over the line won. Pippa, our Jack Russell, won her race and I, as her proud owner, was presented with the winnings of a pound.
The last race came round and, by now, enough beer had been consumed so caution was thrown to the winds. Eight buckhounds were to run against one beagle. David, the huntsman, obviously with inside information bought one of the buckhounds for £20. I promptly made my way to the Tote and put on double my usual bet, two pounds to win on that hound, a dead cert if ever there was one. It promptly lost. Too late I remembered Simon's advice that if there is a beagle running against hounds bet on the beagle since being very people orientated it is more keen to catch the huntsman.
I never was presented with the food bill for the hound that we had bought, despite it winning two pounds for us by coming in third in its race. We left to go home as darkness fell having had a very enjoyable evening in the heart of the Devon countryside.
To find out more about the North Dartmoor Beagles click here