Poor Man's Fox Hunt

D'ye ken John Peel with his coat so

gay?

D'ye ken John Peel at the break of day? D'ye ken John Peel when he's jar, jar

away With his hounds and his horn in the

morning?

In Britain's rugged Cumberland Hills where Peel's "View Halloo!" wakened the fox from his lair in the early 19th century, a newer type of sport, spurred by austerity, has become the rage: hound trailing, where yelping hounds, without horsemen, follow a man-made spoor over hill & dale. The deep-chested foxhounds are descendants of the hunting packs of Peel's time. But the owners are a different breed altogether. Few of England's pinched aristocracy can any longer afford the luxury of thoroughbred horses, pink coats and the rest of fox hunting's traditional trappings, but almost any workingman can afford a hound or two.

Last week in the remote hamlet of Langdale, the Hound Trailing Association, which supervises austerity's fox hunt, had 36 hounds straining at the leash for one of the H.T.A.'s spring trails. Behind the hounds, and mingling with the spectators, a score of bookies (legal in England) were grabbing up money hand over fist as they sang out the fast-changing odds. Suddenly, clambering over the rocky ground, a man appeared, dragging a foul-smelling concoction known as chemerly (rags soaked in a blend of aniseed, turpentine and urine). He was the trail-layer, the man who sets the grueling ten-mile course over rock, moor and bracken. The starter dropped his hand and the yelping hounds were off.

For half an hour the crowd craned and squinted for a glimpse of the racing hounds crossing distant rises. Once, the whole pack was in view, 2,000 feet up on the fells. Meanwhile, though the H.T.A. tries to prohibit betting after the first 15 minutes of trailing, the bookies continued intoning odds and grabbing money. The H.T.A.'s concern is understandable. In the past, nobblers (English version of U.S. fixers) have been known to ambush a favorite, or give a longshot an autoborne boost along the trail. Other nobblers, working hand in glove with bookies, have been jailed for relaying information, via walkie-talkie radio, from observation points along the trail.

At last week's meeting, everything was on the up & up. When the first hound cleared the final obstacle and streaked into the homestretch, the "catchers," i.e., owners and handlers, began whooping up a strictly legal bedlam, whistling shrilly and waving scarves to guide the hounds across the finish line. The winner, and current favorite for the H.T.A. championship: a limpid-eyed, three-year-old dog named Ravensbarrow, whose Lancashire farmer owner, Roger Hudson, proudly collected a poor man's purse: -L-7.

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