The Louth Hunt
I’ve been around horses for as long as I can remember. I first sat on a pony at the age of two, and by four, I was spending my summers and winters at Louth pony club events and attending children’s hunting meets. I was lead-reined by my dad, using a bit of blue bailing twine or a bright pink lead rope, depending on the day. My dad hunted throughout my childhood, and I joined him on occasion. Friday nights were spent cleaning tack, washing and plaiting the horses, mucking out the horse box. That ritual that ceased as I got older and my dad’s hunting horse passed away - an animal that was loved and respected as any member of our family. In the current day, when the word ‘ethical’ is to the forefront of our consciousness, fox hunting appears to have fallen from public consideration. When mentioned, it often incites a range of different reactions. The members of the hunt are often wary of outsiders, as this is a tight-knit community which is fiercely private. Now, many years later, my dad and I have returned on foot, having been given the privilege of photographing the Louth Hunt. If you were to ask me about the Louth Hunt, I would tell you that the people are welcoming. You’ll be offered a glass of port or a cup of tea, and maybe a few cocktail sausages at the lawn meets. You’ll watch as the hounds jump off the lorry and run ragged before the horn is blown. Then everyone mounts up, and the field falls into line behind the huntsman, the hounds will find a scent, and everyone follows in their proper order. For me, hunting is no longer a question of right or wrong—it’s a memory, a community, a part of my childhood that shaped who I am. Although I see it now with a more critical eye, I can still appreciate the rituals, the connection to the land, and the bonds it fosters. In the countryside, fox hunting occupies a space that is both timeless and contested—a tradition upheld, yet increasingly scrutinised. Like the land it traverses, it’s marked by layers: history, heritage, and the weight of change.

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