The hunting season has officially opened in France and here in the Southwest the boar, deer and most creatures great and small – including humans – are keeping their heads down and running for cover. Each year between eight and twenty people: hikers, cyclists, joggers, assorted innocent bystanders, even other hunters, lose their lives as a result of being hit by a stray bullet. Few, it’s true, compared to the numbers of boar and deer shot for the pot across the nation, but a significant figure nonetheless, particularly to the friends and relatives of the fallen.
Hunting, in much of France, is akin to bullfighting in parts of Spain. It’s virtually a religion to the committed and is passively indulged by most others
Hunting, in much of France, is akin to bullfighting in parts of Spain. It’s virtually a religion to the committed and is passively indulged by most others. I’ve heard a French vegetarian, firmly opposed to meat eating on ethical grounds, say of hunting wild boar: “I wouldn’t eat the meat myself, but it’s a French tradition to hunt boar. And it keeps the numbers down.” I wanted to answer: “Yes, mate, and the guillotine was a French tradition that kept the numbers down too, but they eventually gave that the chop.” But I said nothing; after all, no one forces me to live in France.
However, for the next few months, going for a “quiet walk” in the countryside can be a contradiction in terms. It starts with a distant crack – the first rifle shot – quickly followed by another. Suddenly, as more hunters join in, bursts of gunfire shatter what remains of the peace. A cacophony of baying pack dogs in frenzied pursuit of the boar. Birds squawk and screech, hurtling from the shivering treetops. It’s the cue for anyone uninvolved with the hunt to beat a hasty retreat. Or is it? Tales of hunters loosing off at anything that moves spring to mind. And then there’s the fleeing boar. Is it charging this way? A fully-grown, male wild boar is big: it bulges like a walrus on short, squat legs. And those tusks are not for decoration, they kill. The guns are getting closer, the pursued animal has absolutely no fear of any human standing in its way. So, what’s it to be? Run or stand perfectly still? Should I stay or should I go?
Once on a cold, frosty morning I watched a wild boar, all muscle and bulk, power across an open field in hazy, winter sunshine. It was a magnificent sight. But I’ve also seen dead boar slung across the rear of an open-backed, four-wheel-drive truck, or stretched across the bonnet of a moving vehicle like a trophy. There’s something deeply depressing and shameful at such a sight.
And what of the pack dogs? They are hounds; in this region often the Pyrenean Pointing Dog. Out of season they are mostly kennelled – sometimes in large, metal cages sited at the top of a field where they are frequently heard howling unhappily. They are reckoned to be vicious and ruthless when operating as a pack, ready to leap upon any wounded animal, going for the throat, to kill, unless driven away by the hunters.
In my own, thankfully limited experience, I’ve found that individually these dogs can be friendly and, believe it or not, quite lovable. During an out of season stroll we met a hunt dog who had clearly made a one-hound kennel breakout. He padded up, tail wagging, tongue lolling, clearly looking for food, water, and a little affection. At first, we could offer only friendly words and pats.
We moved on and he followed – all the way home. He had a long-faced, lugubrious, rather soppy look, reminding me of Stan Laurel. So we called him Stanley. Back at the house he lapped up a couple of bowls of water and scoffed the food we had scrounged from a dog-owning friend. Soon he was making himself at home, tearing around the garden before squeezing through a gap in our French neighbour’s fence to start rooting around the vegetable patch. Unsurprisingly, this did not go down well with the neighbour, who furiously drove Stanley back into our garden and plugged the gap in his fence with barbed wire.
Phoning round the local hunts we eventually found the one missing a dog. They would come and collect him the following morning – so Stanley had to stay the night. We turned a couple of old blankets into a makeshift dog basket, settled him down and wished him goodnight. Within ten minutes, he was howling miserably. He was a pack animal, he was lonely. I recall little debate, just the decision that I would be the one sleeping downstairs, keeping Stanley company. The hound seemed happy with this as he was soon snoring gently while I twisted and turned on the sofa. I did eventually drift off, but was woken some hours later by the sound of rushing water. Half asleep, I thought a pipe must have burst and the house was flooding. I sat up, reached out and switched on a lamp to see our guest had peed all over the floor. He stood gazing at me from the far side of the small lake he’d created, proudly wagging his tail. I groaned and fell back onto my pillow, muttering that immortal, Oliver Hardy line: “That’s another fine mess you’ve got me into, Stanley.”
Robert Rigby is a journalist, author, scriptwriter and musician
