James Delingpole has succumbed to hunting mania, and like most of us he’s having difficulty affording it. I wonder if Roger Scruton (who also hunts) has any advice.
I have fallen in love with an unsuitable male. My wife isnâ€™t totally happy about this relationship because she recognises how dangerous it is. The problem with Eddie is that his vices are my vices. Heâ€™s reckless, an adrenaline junkie who likes always to be up front. Really, a most unsuitable companion for a skinny, breakable family man fast approaching 50.
And did I mention how expensive he is? Itâ€™s as bad as having a high-class mistress or a serious cocaine habit, but Iâ€™m powerless to resist. I love hunting. I love my mount Eddie Stobart. When Iâ€™m riding to hounds, all my worldly cares vanish. It makes me feel like Iâ€™ve finally discovered the point of existence. Tragic, isnâ€™t it?
Itâ€™s tragic because I know I could quite easily die â€” or worse. And also because I canâ€™t afford it. A day out with my local hunt, with hireling, will set you back around Â£300. But really, if you want to get any good at it â€” which I do, so as to improve my chances of not breaking my neck â€” you want to be going out at least twice a week. Itâ€™s at times like this that you learn seriously to regret those early career choices. If Iâ€™d gone into the City and made my fortune, maybe I could have retired early and spent the rest of my days doing what I was really born to do: being a Master of Foxhounds, of course.
Read the whole thing.
Perhaps we should start crowd-funding conservative intellectuals’ equestrian activities in the interest of promoting better journalism.