My house in south Northamptonshire looks out over parkland on which Henry VIII used to hunt deer with Anne Boleyn. The only deer on it nowadays are the unhunted muntjacs, charmless little creatures that only arrived in England from Asia 400 years later; but there still are plenty of foxes, which carry out periodic massacres of my chickens. I am in the country of the famous Grafton hunt, but the hunt, alas, never ventures into my area because of the busy roads that surround it. The Grafton is still, however, extremely active elsewhere in the county and thrives just as much as it did before Parliament’s ban on hunting with hounds came into effect nine years ago. The law says that you can’t hunt a fox to its death with more than two hounds, but there is nothing to stop you exercising large packs of hounds provided you don’t let them kill any foxes.
What really happens on foxhunts nowadays is a mystery to me, but it must still be pretty exciting to command such continued support and enthusiasm.
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