In this chap­ter titled The Hunt­ing Farmer, intro­duces a reflec­tion on the inte­gral yet often under­ap­pre­ci­at­ed fig­ure in Eng­lish hunt­ing culture—the farmer who rides to hounds. These indi­vid­u­als are not mere spec­ta­tors or pas­sive landown­ers but key par­tic­i­pants whose involve­ment ensures the sur­vival and con­ti­nu­ity of the sport. Their coop­er­a­tion allows access to vast rur­al land­scapes, often man­aged with deep knowl­edge and a gen­er­a­tional con­nec­tion to the coun­try­side. With­out their sup­port, hunt­ing in Eng­land would face logis­ti­cal, legal, and eco­log­i­cal bar­ri­ers, from restrict­ed land access to unman­aged fences and poten­tial wildlife imbal­ance. The chap­ter sets out to cel­e­brate these farm­ers not just for their land, but for their ethos, prac­ti­cal­i­ty, and endur­ing con­tri­bu­tion to rur­al tra­di­tion.

The hunt­ing farmer stands at the inter­sec­tion of stew­ard­ship and sport, nav­i­gat­ing the fine line between cul­ti­vat­ing the land and pre­serv­ing a time-hon­ored way of life. Unlike pri­vate landown­ers in oth­er coun­tries who might view fox hunt­ing as dis­rup­tive, Eng­lish farm­ers often see it as a part of their cul­tur­al fab­ric. Their will­ing­ness to allow hunt­ing across their fields is not born of oblig­a­tion but mutu­al respect—a part­ner­ship between hunts­men and the peo­ple who know the ter­rain best. This col­lab­o­ra­tion shapes a unique­ly Eng­lish expe­ri­ence, where hedges, ditch­es, and open pas­ture become not only agri­cul­tur­al zones but cor­ri­dors for a chase that echoes across cen­turies. That blend of util­i­ty and tra­di­tion is rarely mir­rored in oth­er nations, where sport and farm­ing tend to remain rigid­ly divid­ed.

These farm­ers approach the hunt with sen­si­bil­i­ty and a ground­ed under­stand­ing of their land’s needs. They do not risk live­stock reck­less­ly, nor do they glo­ri­fy unnec­es­sary dam­age to crops or fences. Instead, their par­tic­i­pa­tion is marked by moderation—always weigh­ing the thrill of the chase against the sus­tain­abil­i­ty of the land­scape they man­age dai­ly. Many are hunters them­selves, pos­sess­ing a keen sense of where fox­es may pass and how best to nav­i­gate the coun­try­side with­out caus­ing harm. Their hors­es are stur­dy, their attire unpre­ten­tious, and their meth­ods shaped by years of work­ing the land rather than attend­ing eques­tri­an acad­e­mies. It is this ground­ed knowl­edge, gained from sun-up labor and sea­son­al cycles, that lends them an instinc­tive edge in the field.

What sets the hunt­ing farmer apart is not flashy rid­ing or dra­mat­ic jumps, but intu­ition and com­po­sure. Whether mount­ed near a covert or rid­ing the bound­ary of a crop field, he under­stands tim­ing, weath­er, and the habits of both hounds and prey. While oth­ers may guess or fol­low the crowd, the hunt­ing farmer often antic­i­pates the fox’s next move through qui­et obser­va­tion. This makes him not only a reli­able rid­er but also a resource in times of confusion—someone whose advice oth­ers seek when the field splits or the scent weak­ens. His pri­ma­ry con­cern, how­ev­er, remains his land and ani­mals, and it is from that foun­da­tion that his hunt­ing eth­ic is formed. His par­tic­i­pa­tion is vol­un­tary, and his moti­va­tion is root­ed in loy­al­ty to tra­di­tion rather than sta­tus.

Across regions, some farm­ers take to hunt­ing with great pas­sion, invest­ing in good mounts and rid­ing with com­pet­i­tive ener­gy. Oth­ers pre­fer a more leisure­ly role—joining when it suits, watch­ing from a dis­tance, or sim­ply sup­port­ing the effort with­out ever rid­ing out. This diver­si­ty of engage­ment high­lights the flex­i­ble nature of hunt­ing cul­ture in farm­ing com­mu­ni­ties, where the con­tri­bu­tion of land is as valu­able as the ride itself. What binds these men is a mutu­al respect for land man­age­ment and com­mu­ni­ty cus­toms, not brava­do. Their var­ied roles all serve the same pur­pose: to keep the rhythm of rur­al life and hunt­ing prac­tice in har­mo­ny. And it is through their qui­et flex­i­bil­i­ty that the sport remains acces­si­ble to a wide range of rur­al par­tic­i­pants.

In rec­og­niz­ing the val­ue of the hunt­ing farmer, the nar­ra­tive also reveals a wider cul­tur­al divide between urban per­cep­tion and rur­al real­i­ty. While city dwellers may mis­un­der­stand hunt­ing as elit­ist or archa­ic, this chap­ter clar­i­fies its roots in com­mu­ni­ty, land, and labor. Farm­ers are not stag­ing per­for­mances for outsiders—they are pre­serv­ing a social rhythm that includes care for land, rela­tion­ships with neigh­bors, and sea­son­al obser­vances. Hunt­ing, in this light, is less about spec­ta­cle and more about con­ti­nu­ity. These farm­ers car­ry on not just for sport, but to uphold a land­scape eth­ic that urban crit­ics sel­dom grasp. Their involve­ment goes beyond recre­ation; it is ser­vice to a tra­di­tion where field­craft and fore­sight are prized over flair.

The clos­ing tone of the chap­ter is one of admi­ra­tion and qui­et grat­i­tude. Hunt­ing enthu­si­asts are remind­ed that the farm­ers who per­mit the sport—who open their fields, mend their fences, and some­times join the ride—are not just par­tic­i­pants but pro­tec­tors of the entire expe­ri­ence. Their gen­eros­i­ty, often under­stat­ed, makes every meet pos­si­ble, every trail ride smoother, and every hunt­ing sea­son viable. In hon­or­ing their role, the chap­ter calls for a more nuanced appre­ci­a­tion of hunting’s place in the countryside—an appre­ci­a­tion that rec­og­nizes the inter­con­nect­ed­ness of land, liveli­hood, and leisure. With­out the hunt­ing farmer, the chase would not only falter—it would van­ish from the very soil where it was born.