246 ON THE GRAMPIAN HILLS. 



be rewarded by seeing excellent sport over a wild 

 country. 



On the following morning the fixture of the Essex 

 Staghounds was Willingale, some three miles from 

 Fyfield, in the Koothings of Essex, a wild open 

 country admirably suited for stag-hunting. There 

 is a wide expanse of light-riding land, with big ditches, 

 on the one side of which grows a somewhat scrubby 

 fence, and it requires a bold, resolute, well-bred horse 

 to perform satisfactorily when hounds go the pace 

 over this grand part of the county of Essex. The 

 morning was wet and windy, but as my host had 

 arranged to drive me to cover, the distance being 

 thirteen miles, and his usual pace of travelling six- 

 teen miles an hour, there was no occasion to hurry 

 over the ample breakfast that was provided, and 

 before we had finished that pleasant meal, the mist 

 had cleared, and fair hunting weather prevailed 

 through the remainder of the day. Vividly impressed 

 on my mind was the rapid act of coachmanship 

 I was doomed to endure throughout the whole 

 journey to WiUingdale. Up hill, down hill, on 

 the level ground, round the sharpest of corners, 

 we were whirled at the top speed of the blood- 

 horse that drew the light well-balanced dogcart, 

 into which I somewhat unwillingly mounted, for the 

 behaviour of this light-hearted animal had reached my 

 ears. 



Pulling like a lion, and stepping in rare form, he 

 flew through Kelvedon, away past Chipping Ongar, 

 and laying hold of the bit in right earnest he' dashed 

 through Fyfield at the top of his speed, arriving in 

 good time at the meet. With any other than the 



