"Chappie": Anthony Chapman

By Ron Black

"Chappie" - Anthony Chapman, a Lakeland huntsman, followed by many, respected by all. Here is another title to add to Ron's stable of carefully researched books. Highlighting the career of another Lakeland legend and the Coniston Foxhounds with the help of local newspaper reports of the time and oral history transcripts, we are offered a glimpse into the world of the Cumbrian farming communities between the years of 1914 and 1982 explaining the importance and necessity of controlling the fox population. Ron gives us first hand, childhood memories of Chappie - he followed him over the exacting terrain of the fells and witnessed events as they unfolded. He recounts the efforts of his uncle, Brait Black, and others in the week long rescue of terriers trapped 20 feet underground, gives weather reports of the long, cold winter of 1962/63, entertains us with lyrics of the songs sung in the pub at the end of the day. All in all, a valuable social history of the region with an introduction by Cumbrian author and wildlife photographer, Neil Salisbury.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gone2Ground Books
• Release date: Nov 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370594740

Ron Black

Gone2Ground Books was created by Ron Black and Wendy Fraser in 2011 after they had successfully published a few books based on Ron's personal experiences as a boy brought up in Ambleside, in the Lakeland District of Cumbria (UK). Ron's books describing the social life and history of the region were produced from the pages of his popular website, Lakeland Hunting Memories, created by Wendy in 2008. Ron writes: "Recently I was told that 95% of Lakeland was unexplored in an archaeological sense. With the abolition of Fox Hunting in 2005 there was a slight chance that places and structures associated with fox hunting would in the fullness of time join them, lost in time and memory. "It was with this in mind that I began to compile material for my website. It is not my intention for it to glorify or be used as propaganda for or against hunting, but simply to record associations with a 'sport' traditional to Lakeland for over 300 years. "I am a native Lakelander with roots going back to 1700, the 4th generation to follow hounds, with ancestors who stood on the cold tops at dawn, moved the heavy Lakeland stone to free trapped terriers and also 'carried the horn' on occasions. I hope this site is of interest to you. Hunting will not come back in the foreseeable future, perhaps not at all, but for three hundred years hunting and the church were the central thread to many communities. This is a part of the story."

Book preview

CHAPPIE

Anthony Chapman

A Lakeland huntsman, followed by many, respected by all.

by

Ron Black

Copyright 2016 Ron Black

Published by Ron Black at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

~ ~ ~

Anthony Chapman

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Preface

Chapter One: The Country

Chapter Two: 1914 to 1959

Chapter Three: 1960 to 1982

Chapter Four: Oral History Transcripts

Chapter Five: Songs

Endnotes

About the Author

Other Titles by Ron Black

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The problem with writing a book like this is in knowing what to leave out. There is such a wealth of material on Chappie that one is to a point spoilt for choice. He also lived at a time when post-World War II cameras became widely available and there are many photographs to choose from. I have chosen a mix of snaps taken on the fell and some taken by professional photographers.

It is a book which may on first glance seem like a collection of newspaper reports but read between the lines and see the weather he turned out in, the distance walked, the accidents he had and hounds and terriers lost. I hope to give the reader an insight into the now long gone world of Anthony Chapman, the hunts he had and the fells he loved.

Thanks to my usual supporters—Jean Gidman, Ann Thomson, Jackie Faye and her staff at Kendal Library. My friend and business partner Wendy Fraser who proofreads, edits and prepares all the text and images for print. Andy Black, Sylvia Shepherd, Paul Renouf and all those men and woman who during my childhood might have had their day spoilt by a small, inquisitive boy asking silly questions. Thanks to Ann Parsons (née Chapman), Mavis Chapman and Michael Nicholson for their comments. With sincere appreciation to Helen Edwards for copious typing!

Cover images by kind permission of the Wilkinson family.

Special thanks to Anthony Chapman, Chappie, who got more than his fair share of silly questions and answered each and every one with patience and kindness.

Chappie’s story is told from contemporary newspapers and other material along with quotes from his hunting diary which are reproduced thus. It was a wet morning…

Occasionally a person will be addressed with the prefix Mr or Mrs… this is how I knew them. Chappie to me was always Mr Chapman.

I used the book Hark Forrard by Anthony Chapman and Anne Bonney and have no hesitation in recommending it.

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INTRODUCTION

I remember to this day my first introduction to hunting. It was in the early 1970s whilst out for a weekend drive with my mother and father that we came across a line of parked cars on a road near Witherslack. People were stood around in groups talking and occasionally scanning the great Scar of Whitbarrow with their binoculars. My Dad knew a number of these hunting folk and we stayed for quite a while listening to their stories and chatter before moving off for home. We never saw a hound or heard a hunt, but our interest was aroused so that a couple of weeks later we decided to try again to see what all the fuss was about. Hounds were meeting at Rydal, but we were slightly late arriving so missed the start and were unable to find them. We decided we’d just go for a drive over to Thirlmere and round by Threlkeld and come back over to Ullswater, Kirkstone Pass and home. It was whilst we were driving through Glenridding that we once again came upon the ubiquitous line of cars, indicating that we had at last located the hunt. Today however, things were totally different from our first experience. As soon as we got out of the car we could hear the glorious sound of hounds in full cry up on the fell above us. As it happened the Coniston had joined up with the Ullswater and for the next couple of hours we were treated to a terrific chase around and around St Sunday Crag with over 70 hounds getting ever closer to their quarry. Dusk was approaching when we were on the road up to the Ullswater kennels and the joint pack was driving their fox towards us. Suddenly, there he was just in front of us twisting and turning but unable to escape and was caught within full view to the shouts and holloas of the gathered assembly.

That was it, we were hooked and from that day hunting has been my life. Chappie was already a great institution by then, and I was extremely fortunate to spend the next few years tramping along beside him with a throng of other followers, listening to his anecdotes and stories of the great days in the past. By then, late in his career, he had slowed down so both the young and old could keep up with him, there was always a great train of followers with him on a Saturday and if I was lucky enough to hunt in school holidays or even the occasional day playing hooky from school, there would be fewer members of his train, they were all memorable.

Chappie gathered huge numbers of young followers who would tramp miles across the fells and down country lanes with him looking for hounds. CB radios were unheard of in those days, so often we were just following where we thought the hounds had gone, asking anyone we met, Has’t heard owt? Anyone who hunted with Chappie as a youngster will tell you the same thing, he delighted in the young. They’re the future, he would say. He always ensured that we all were able to get home safely at the end of the day with a lift home or to the bus station in Ambleside.

Lambing hunts in the school holidays were best, out at first light, often on every day of the week, sometimes with only Anthony and Chris Ogilvie, the Whipper In, having what seemed like our own personal hunts. I have great memories of these days; terrific hunts, long walks, camaraderie of friends, some gone others still around, singing hunting songs, being in the pub till closing time and then going down to the local hunt ball in the village hall, walking back to the kennels, stopping with the hounds in front of the Golden Rule for a quick shandy, all the pack standing outside the pub as we quenched our thirst before making our way back up Nook Lane to the Kennels.

Chappie had a tremendous sense of humour. I remember one day walking with him down the road at Cartmel Fell looking for the hounds, which had left us long before. We passed Bryan Beck, home of the Lishmans, and the home of the hounds when they were hunting in the neighbourhood for many, many years. It was a lovely balmy morning and a cat was sunning itself by the porch of the house. Chappie’s terriers, coupled together, took one look at the moggy and were off. The cat shot inside the house, with the dogs and Anthony close behind, there was chaos and the noise was deafening. He came out quickly with the dogs and we hurried off, he didn’t say anything for a while and then started laughing. Grandfather Lishman had been asleep in the chair in front of the fire and had been startled awake by the chase which was going round and round him with things falling everywhere. Chappie laughed and said he thought he’d got the dogs away before the old chap was properly awake and he probably didn’t even know what had actually happened and what had caused the devastation in the room.

A few years ago I compiled a history of the Coniston Foxhounds covering the first hundred years of their existence. This was done from the archives and newspaper reports of the time and raised valuable funds for the pack. Since then I have been constantly asked when the next volume was coming out, to which I always reply, You must be kidding, with the time and effort involved in researching and compiling such a work. Now, much of that work has been done and once again Ron has put together a brilliant account of Lakeland Hunting, of the Life and Times of Anthony Chapman and his time as a servant of the Coniston Foxhounds.

Now, a lifetime later I am still following the hounds with Chappie’s Grandson, Michael, the huntsman. Times have changed and whilst politicians have tried to take away our way of life, we are still here, still fighting, still hunting. I was lucky to catch the last years of a Lakeland and Hunting life which today has almost gone. Our land has now been totally taken over by tourists and holiday and second homes. I guess it was always the case but at least in those days in winter we had the fells largely to ourselves, nowadays the intrusion is constant. There are however, small pockets of true locals who still keep the fire burning. The politicians and our opponents have tried and failed to stop us. One thing is certain though, they can never take away our memories. Read on, you’ll enjoy every minute.

Neil Salisbury

Betty Fold, May 2016

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PREFACE

One morning in the early 1960s a young lad took a day off school to go hunting; he had planned it down to the smallest detail. That morning hounds were meeting in the Troutbeck valley at 9.30, but that was on the other side of the 1601 feet high fell known as Wansfell Pike. As usual he left home about 8.15 am but instead of heading for the playground near the church to meet his mates and play football he turned left at the Salutation Hotel and took the road for Wansfell. The time he should have started school saw him climbing the track about half way up the fell, and sometime after 9.30 he crossed the summit and stopped in the shelter of the wall to look and listen. The sound of hounds carried up to him on the breeze and to his surprise they were running. (Later he found out that hounds had got on to a travelling fox literally on being loosed.) The fox took a straight line up the valley, crossed the road which ascends to the summit of the Kirkstone Pass and ‘holed’ in the underground series of bunkers known as the Broad How Borran, high above the Troutbeck valley.

Some while later the lad arrived at the borran, short of breath, worn out and thirsty, the sandwich he had quietly made the previous evening and slipped into his trouser pocket, long ago eaten. His school uniform woefully inadequate for the high fell, and uncovered legs glowing a healthy red. His school shoes so wet they squelched with every step he took. The huntsman standing alone on the borran greeted him with a word and a smile as he slumped on a nearby rock.

Stiff climb, yon, the huntsman said, indicating the slope the boy had struggled up with his walking stick, hasta gitten thy breath back?

The lad was no longer gulping in air and after composing himself replied to the affirmative. He looked around, Where is everyone? he asked.

Only us, was the reply, Bruce (the master) had to go out and yon buggers (again he indicated with his stick down the valley, to where several cars were parked, their occupants leaning against the roadside wall), don’t want to get their shoes dirty. The young lad looked at the borran entrance where a desultory hound was still baying, the others appearing to have lost interest.

Is it deep in then? he asked, reasoning that that would account for the lack of interest on the part of the hounds.

Aye, was the reply, bad spot for terriers, we will have to leave the bugger.

The lad shuffled on his rock, he was starting to get cold in the biting autumn wind.

What are we doing? he asked.

The huntsman thought for a moment. I’ll teck t’ hounds into them bracken beds in t' bottom, by t’ beck, he replied, good spot to find yan, thou stay here and if one tries to get in, shout like hell and throw a stone at it.

With that he summoned his hounds, and cast them into the bracken beds lower down the fell. During the course of the morning three foxes got in to the borran, despite the best efforts of the young lad to keep them out; he ran around so much that when the huntsman returned to the stone heap by the borran he noticed the lad had a sweat on. They sat together on the rocks for a few minutes and the huntsman finally asked a question which had been on his mind for some while.

Shud thou not be at school? he asked.

The lad walked home, his shoes still squelching, with the huntsman and his hounds to the inevitable bollocking from his parents and the second instalment at school the following day.

*

But that's the day I treasure, for I’d spent it with my hero, the legendary Anthony Chapman.

Ron Black

April 2016

www.lakelandhuntingmemories.co.uk

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Back to ToC

CHAPTER ONE

The Country

This chapter is written to provide readers who do not know the area with a guide. Many of the places mentioned play a part in the story.

Description of the Scenery in the Lake District

Intended as a Guide for Strangers

William Ford 1839

AMBLESIDE

Lake Road, Ambleside

A small market town, romantically situated in the Vale of Brathay, and half encircled by a range of stately mountains. It is a mile north of the head of Windermere Lake, and is built in pleasing irregularity on the side of a hill, commanding prospects of the vale, the parks of Rydal, Brathay, and Windermere; amongst which the various outlets and approaches wind interestingly, detaining the tourist at every stage by new combinations and unexpected beauties. Excellent fare can be had at the Salutation, and White Lion Inns, and in lodgings…within the compass of seven miles are the following lakes:— Windermere, Esthwaite Water, Elter Water, Coniston, Rydal Water, Grasmere and Ullswater…

STOCKGILL BECK

Rises in the Screes on Scandale Fells, not far from Kirkstone, and divides the town of Ambleside. The finest part of the stream is between the Woollen Mill and the Force…

…Scandale Beck, on the road to Keswick, presents some pretty cascades, especially if the walk be extended up from Scandale Bridge. The Nook Bridge and the Gale are equally inviting.

FAIRFIELD

The attainment of the top of this mountain presents a lengthened excursion attended with more of enterprise and fatigue; it is two thousand nine hundred and fifty feet above the level of the sea, closing on the north the Rydal domains, whence it should be ascended, in a course directed on the left to Nab Scar. In a circular round from this point, Windermere, Blelham Tarn, Esthwaite Water, Coniston, Elterwater, Rydal Water, Grasmere, and Easedale Tarn, the river Rothay in all its windings, Morecambe Bay, Milenthorpe Sands and the Yorkshire mountains; and lastly, the mountains about Eskdale, Borrowdale, Wasdale, and Ennerdale, are visible. From the highest point, Grisedale Tarn and Ullswater, Penrith, and Crossfell, are discernible; and there is a grand rocky view into Deepdale and Hartsop.

LOUGHRIGG FELL AND TARN

No fell unfolds scenes so unequalled from such a moderate elevation with so little fatigue as Loughrigg, lying to the west of Ambleside. Leaving the Market-place, the pedestrian proceeds to Miller Bridge, from there is a fine retrospective view of the town, thence to Ivy Crag, and so to the top, which is one thousand and fifty feet above Windermere. A considerable part of the Queen of Lakes, as well as Rydal and Grasmere, may be seen by traversing its different points, together with portions of Coniston and Thirlmere, and the Tarns of Blelham and Elterwater. Loughrigg Tarn lies under the west end of the fell, having a margin of firm green meadows, reeds, and lilies, adorning its tiny bays, which are bordered here and there with gravel, whilst a small stream issues out of it. A few cottages are reflected in its bosom, above which rise rocky and barren steeps, intermingled with wood; and the solemn Pikes of Langdale overlook the low, cultivated ridge of land that forms the northern boundary of this small, quiet, and fertile spot.

LANGDALE AND THE PIKES

The chief excursion, and one accomplished with most advantage from the Station, is that to the two Langdales, and the Pikes. The best views are looking up the vale, that is, in a westward direction. You pass through Clappersgate leaving Brathay Bridge on the left, the river flowing towards you, flanked on either side by the Tilberthwaite and Langdale mountains. Having proceeded two miles, the road divides, the one on the right to Great Langdale, the left, which you pursue, leading to Little Langdale by Skelwith Bridge. Here there is a superb view of Elterwater, with Lingmoor.

A little above the bridge is Skelwith Force, remarkable not so much for the height as for the body of water which forms the spectacle. The river is here contracted between a chasm in the bed of rocks, forming a crooked trough, into whose abyss the waters are flung from a height of twenty feet; the Pikes again compose fine distances.

The next and perhaps the finest fall is Colwith Force with Wetherlam forming a grand object as beheld from the bed of the river. A stupendous crag rises out of the river; the glen sinks below to the depth of a hundred feet, and the water rushes down in four leaps, the last being the deepest.

The neighbourhood is uncommonly grand and beautiful.

Little Langdale is parallel to Great Langdale, from which it is separated by Lingmoor. It is of higher elevation and is distinguished by mountain wildness and seclusion; the rugged hills being clad with heath and furze. The entrance into it is narrow and crooked and through a profusion of birch and hazel, which conceal the river that issues out of the Tarn, having the Great and Little Carrs as its background. Further on to the left is Fell Foot, an ancient inn, on the Old Bell road which led from Kendal to Whitehaven over Hard Knot and Wrynose passes.

Blea Tarn, the next object, is on the track between the Langdales and is enriched by the Pikes, Bonfell being in direct prospect.

The Langdale Pikes (right)

At Wall End you look down into a scene composed of extraordinary grandeur and sublimity; a circuitous and level bottom of rich enclosures and wood straggling up the sides of the mountains, amidst which meanders the mountain-born Brathay, fed with the dews and storms of heaven. From Wall End the road passes across the valley to Mill Beck, whence is commenced the ascent of the Pikes.

In a fissure of the mountain, and enclosed by gloomy rocks, is Dungeon Gill, a considerable stream tumbling from a lofty precipice, between sides of impending and perpendicular rock, into a deep dark basin. From the summit a fragment of rock is suspended, forming a rude arch; the stranger will admire but shudder to pass this natural bridge.

Stickle Tarn is a circular piece of water in the bosom of the mountain, having soft turf on three fourths of its margin and reflecting in its calm surface the dark and towering crags of Pavey Ark which rise from its brink, and are perhaps the most magnificent range