King of the countryside

As we celebrate the Coronation of HM King Charles III, Richard Negus looks at his deep and abiding passion for the countryside and for country sports

Despite some 30 seasons passing, I remember the day with crystal clarity. Hounds met at Lowesby, the grassy heart of the Quorn Friday country. The bitch pack looked their usual lithe selves; Richard Mould, the grand old pack’s kennel-huntsman, did likewise.

I sidled up to my friend, who was mounted on a butty horse, his eyes forever on his hounds. “All well?” I asked. “Morning Arthur,” he replied — you tend to get called Arthur by people of a certain vintage if your surname is Negus — “I hope this horse of yours jumps,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth, patting the bay mare’s neck. I had sold the horse to the hunt in the autumn. “The Prince is out,” he added with a knowing look.

Tighten your girth

HRH The Prince of Wales, as King Charles III was then, had a Jorrocksian adoration of the chase. While more readily seen in the hunt countries of the Cotswold packs, the Prince enjoyed an annual pilgrimage to the Shires. When the ‘Prince is out’, you knew it was best to tighten your girths, cram your hat down tight and pray your horse was in a jumping mood.

In the presence of the Prince, any huntsman worthy of the name was that much keener to show the very best sport. And when the Quorn turned up the dial, the hounds flew and the hedges came at you with dark-hearted regularity.

I’d like to say I chatted with the Prince at a check and took the opportunity to sell him a new horse, but that sadly never arose. Yet all of us who were out that day remember him astride a grey hunter, riding wide of the field, upsides Richard Mould, taking anything and everything with seemingly a neck to spare. We will never forget that when the huntsman blew for home, the Prince was still out.