Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



at lumber work in the woodlands. Another Liverpool 

 memory that is unforgettable was my being informed 

 once by a hotel porter that he had been there fourteen 

 years and had never seen the Grand National. 



Walking the course is a memorable pilgrimage per- 

 formed by most people visiting the course for the first 

 time. This ritual is gone through by countless annual 

 patrons, so one needs to begin hours before the 

 scheduled time of the race, especially if one takes time 

 to examine the object of one's walk the fences. One 

 can hardly forget the first impressions of these. One 

 feels strangely awed standing in front of these terrific 

 obstacles that have made Aintree the greatest steeplechase 

 in the world. How unlike Irish fences they are. Nothing 

 on which a horse could " change feet," like our Punches- 

 town banks. No walls. All huge, high and thick, 

 built-up fences; the nearest thing to hedge solidity that 

 that word will convey or one's imagination can conceive. 

 Their centres are, probably, strong-growing whitethorn, 

 completely hidden in a dense packing of evergreens. 

 Gorse, mostly; others with spruce toppings; others 

 with deal. There is one fence at Fairy house nearly like 

 them, near what used to be the river. Further down 

 the course some hedges have wide, open ditches in 

 front of them, and still further on, at Becher's Brook 

 and Valentine's Brook, wider, open graveyards behind 

 them. Up in front of the stands there is a fifteen-feet- 

 wide water jump and a nightmare called The Chair 

 that are calculated to freeze one's circulation if Becher's 

 and Valentine's have not already done so. 



100 



