WAR TIME AND AFTER. 251 



old turf, aiad so narrow that the pedestrian was seddom at a 

 disadvantage, and in one hunt fox and hounds crossed th.e top 

 four times before the former was put to ground. This hunt 

 lasted four hours, during which time hounds were seldom out 

 of sight, and never out of hearing of those who remained at 

 the top of the hill, and many of the foot people remained to 

 see him got out and killed. The pack were biggish harriers, 

 of the old-fashioned (not the foxhound) type. Th.ey have a 

 wonderful cry, and hunt well, thanks to Mr. Bligh, who has 

 them in perfect subjection, an.d who is not only an enthusiast 

 but an expert in hunting these hill foxes. With the other fox- 

 hound packs I was unlucky; the Exmoor oould not find foxes 

 when I was witli them, while the West Somerset had the knack 

 of going away quickly, and leaving the pedestrian hopelessly 

 in the lurch. I did, however, see them kill one fox after a 

 long hunt., for they happened to come right back to where I 

 was, with a beaten fox close in front, which they killed ten 

 minutes later. The Exmoor had had, some little time before, 

 a draft of old hounds from the Puckeiridge kennel, and these, 

 Mr. Newman told me, had helped the pack in really wonderful 

 fashion. 



During my visit to Minehead there wasi far more than the 

 usual quantity of rain, and one had to be prepared for a 

 ducking every time one went out, whether on horseback or on 

 foot. My first visit to tlie staghoundg was a, doubtful venture, 

 because they were advertised for Cloutsham at eleven o'clock, 

 and rain came down in a. perfect deluge almost up to that hour. 

 Then it cleared suddenly, and I had the idea that if I went to 

 Homer by the Porlock motor 'bus, which was on the point of 

 starting, I might possibly fall in with hounds. With me went 

 an hotel acquaintance, who had never seen a hunt of any sort, 

 but was terribly keen. What happened was described at some 

 length in an article I wrote for Baily's Magazine early in 

 1920. So I shall be brief. Leaving the 'bus at Horner foot- 

 path we walked right up the wood for an hour and a half, 

 seeing one solitary hound who was running a line of his own, 

 and hearing nothing beyond the roar of Homer Water, which 

 was coming down in flood — a. raging torrent of water. I had 

 intended to walk up Eastwater — which is nearer Clontaham — 

 but missed the footpath, which is perhaps not to be wondered 



