The last hunt

Jorocs rides in his last legal hunt, accompanied by the press:

It was dusk as the cameras filmed the hounds being loaded into the lorry. Once the hounds were successfully on board, the old huntsman stood at the bottom of the ramp, contemplating them. The hounds in turn, though exhausted, looked back out longingly at their master; their eyes golden orbs in the camera lighting. I saw the huntsman shiver and pass his hand over his face; I knew what he was thinking. Town's people might assume that a vet would be called in to put these potentially redundant creatures down, but the truth is that the job would fall to the huntsman who would have to shoot these most loyal of servants: servants he has known and worked with for their entire lives, servants whose parents, grandparents and great grandparents he has also raised and hunted for the last 50 years. He turned and walked away, for them tomorrow was just another day.

Then we were sat in the kitchen drinking tea. The television crews continued to probe the huntsman. Only when they saw that there were tears coursing down his cheeks did they put their cameras and microphones down, finally they understood where to draw the line. This was a man I had known all my life: the hardest man in the country. I had never seen any emotion in him other than the occasional eruption of temper, but in this moment, unashamed in his need for support, he called to his wife to come and sit beside him.