Villy Vite!

A lot of people have asked me about French Hunting - is it any good?
I first had the chance to go hunting in France, back in the 1980s and I thought it great fun. It was the thought of renewing my pleasure that made me want to go back to France when I retired (or got sacked, which ever one you want), but after 20 years, hunting in France has changed and not for the better - roads and villages have spawned and grown out - traffic has sprawled and Parks have appeared. 20 years ago they hardly existed and your boar or stag could set out and provide a splendid hunt. Those days are gone. The Park at the bottom of our road has pigs and deer in plenty, and they get plenty of hunting; but is it any good? I fear not, the Park (about 30,000 acres) is totally enclosed in wire mesh fencing from which nothing can escape. It is owned by an 'Ancien Famille' - apparently, or, so It is rumoured, they fell into problems during the German occupation. The Park is now let to a local hunting person, a very pleasant chap who lets out the hunting and the shooting by the day. Very often during the hunting season, I hear the cry of hounds and the tantootling of horns, which I find very frustrating, but that is my problem not anyone else's. The tenant is very kind and sometimes he persuades one of his clients to invite me to hunt with customers. I do, but I have to say that when you have chugged round the park once or twice, you have really seen and done it all. My neighbouring farmer who is chairman of the local Commune Shoot says that there used to be wonderful hunts out of the park before it was enclosed. This I can believe. I remember having wonderful hunts from the wild woodlands in the Bourbonnais; I remember once that we got away from a straggling wood in the upper Loire with about 4 couple of hounds and they made a 20 mile point before the lone follower and his four children took the pig (a big bugger) in the middle of a field of baigies.
By 'taking a pig' I am not talking about picking it up and stuffing it in your pocket. A taken pig is by definition a dead pig - it has to be dispatched. This is usually done with a 'couteau de chasse' which is in effect a short sword. It can be a lance with a tear shaped blade with a 3 foot handle which is screwed on to the blade; rather in the same plan as a drain rod so most lances are made by blacksmiths; So when a pig is at bay - you are likely to see a lot of men running furiously from the nearest road and screwing their lances together as they run. They are hoping to achieve the honour of 'serving the Boar'; which means giving the pig a thrust with the weapon into the heart; which means just behind the shoulder- such an honour I never thought to achieve.
One day when I was hunting with the Countess; we were having a hunt; a roughly driven jeep roared up and pulled across the road.
The Countess cried that no one was to touch the pig until the English man had arrived. Well, she owned the hounds, the pig and most of the country round about. I found strong hands dragging me from my saddle with cries of "Villy Vite!" Then with me sprawling in the back, we roared away until the jeep stopped violently outside a thicket from which came much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Dark deeds were obviously afoot in the thicket. It was obvious that I was to be concerned in what happened next - the thicket was also a bog, with a deeply trodden path running into its deeps. In these depths came the baying of hounds and a protest of pig. It was only then that I realised that a major part in the final scene was to be played out by me. I had not a clue as to what to do. “Villy est ici” cried some mud spattered voices. Knarled hand seized me and dragged me to the thicket. 'Villy Vite!' became a sort of chant as I waded through the bog - rough hands passed along the chain until I arrived at the centre thicket where the pig was at bay - what did I do next? Well I did not know - Alberique, the cousin of the countess, knew exactly - he thrust a lance into my hand
"Be'ind the shoulder - Vite Villy! Vite!" So, that's the way it was and I am glad to say that it is a quick end.
So I staggered back through the mud to the edge of the thicket. A handsome old lady came and threw her arms around me: “Ah!' Bravo! Villy! It is a great honour for the pig to be served by an Englishman!"
- well I must say that that is a point of view that I had not considered. The handsome old lady used to go everywhere with a basket on her arm. From this she produced a croissant which she thrust into my muddy, bloodstained hand. She was always known as 'Madame Croissant'... and that's about it - well you asked me about French hunting and now you know as much as I do - Mind you it is nothing like as good as it used to be - 20 years since, what is?