Equestrian Vacation: Fox Hunting in Virginia Part I

Who knew coming in last place at a Southern California hunter pace would lead my friend Amy and me to a fox hunting girls’ weekend in Virginia? And who knew that instead of glimpsing a small orange creature with a fluffy tail, the wildlife we’d encounter on a daily basis would be size XL spiders (plural) in our accommodations?

It all started on our drive home from a September hunter pace as our third partner for the Tally Ho Squad shared with us she not only had been hunting in Ireland, but she had hunted in Virginia twice! Virginia is a heck of a lot closer than Ireland, and we began asking her questions as to how she arranged just such a visit. 

(By the way, if you’re wondering why we came in last place at the hunter pace: we kept circling around the same log to jump so our friend/photographer Lady Photographic would get good pictures. Then there was the time we had a wide open space for galloping and we galloped right past the pink ribbon meant to direct us down the path. So a combination of vanity and sheer joy led us to last.)

Our friend said a long-standing member of one of the really old Virginia hunts runs a bed and breakfast and has a fox hunting adventures biz. The woman provides a room, meals, a mount and will arrange for you to be a guest. You pack your riding clothes and bring your checkbook. 

The word used to describe the horses our friend rode were “solid” and she said on one of the days there wasn’t a hunt, she took a side saddle lesson from the host! Down the road from this magical place lives a legendary Olympic equestrian, long since retired but he was rumored to still teach lessons at his farm. Amy (she’s the creator/proprietor of Hunt Seat Paper Co.) and I were giddy adolescents at the thought of going to horse camp!

We spoke to the host on a conference call and set our dates. We would be able to squeeze in not one, but three hunts during our extended weekend fox hunting trip! Our host kept warning us about the D.C. traffic if our flights arrived late afternoon and we politely explained there were limited times we could depart from LA and there was nothing we could do about the arrival time, and we were also no strangers to traffic, living in Southern California. 

We flew into Washington D.C., grabbed our rental–a black Ram truck–and fled to the countryside, where horse heaven greeted us in the form of sprawling pastures with wooded groves and farms everywhere. 

It was dark by the time we rolled up to the house set atop a hill overlooking pastures with horses down below. We didn’t get to fully take in the grandeur until the following morning. The house was a white two-story with a broad front porch–quintessentially Southern. 

A pair of tuxedo colored dogs greeted us upon arrival, as we grabbed our bags and proceeded along the winding path flanked by a garden of bell peppers, tomatoes and Swiss chard slowing down for the season. 

We introduced ourselves to our host and paused in the kitchen to chat for a few minutes, bags in hand. She grabbed two of our bags and showed us to our accommodations, leading us right past the stairs going to the second floor and took us around the corner to the stairs leading to–the basement.

The basement had been been converted to an apartment with three bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen (with no coffeemaker) and a couch. Soon we realized we weren’t alone. A black spider about the size of a tennis ball with a nickel-sized, possibly quarter, torso was lying in wait along the baseboard! 

Amy and I muffled what would have been yelps of alarm if we weren’t trying to make a good impression, as our host picked up the spider with her bare hands, instructing us not to kill spiders if we saw them, simply put them outside as they helped by eating garden pests. Our hunter pace friend did mention something to the effect that the host was very particular.  As she walked over to the door to release the spider, my friend and I exchanged horrified looks and all I could wonder was, “Are there more in my bedroom?”

We were invited to come up and join our host for a late dinner–we had heard she had a farm to table thing going on–and were treated to pulled pork, some veggies from her garden and homemade rolls. As Amy and I chit chatted to get to know our host, she began telling us about the area and farm life, stating how she raised her own hog and we were currently feasting on Napolean.

Amy’s eyes widened as we exchanged glances again. I’m not a vegetarian, but it was uncomfortable to know the name of who I had been eating. I was not a member of the “clean plate club” at the conclusion of that meal. We tried out homemade yogurt with toppings as dessert and made our way back to the basement, on the lookout for spiders, set out our hunting clothes ready for the next early morning. 

It was a spider-free night.

The next morning, after a quick breakfast, we walked down the hill to the barn and met the grays, bays and chestnuts. A few other people were in the aisle tacking up horses and introductions were made. 

The diverse group consisted of a dad and adolescent daughter, a middle aged woman and a gray haired man, and we were told once we got to the hunt destination, we would meet a man who would be our future President. He worked in Washington and had picked up fox hunting for networking purposes. This was all fascinating!

I was given a flea-bitten gray Thoroughbred and Amy a small bay horse. We were thrilled to notice them wearing an old stirrup leather around their necks–a rider aid I learned that week was commonly referred to as the “Oh Crap!” Strap. 

Once our group of about seven horses were trailered to the fixture, we met the future politician who looked exactly like a future President! He sported vintage jodhpurs, the kind with flared thighs, and brown Dehner boots–like the kind Ronald Reagan wore–presidential indeed!

Our host was the fieldmaster of third field and so we rode along with her and the future President and all the other people who had hired out her horses. What struck me about this hunt was there was a ton of single-file trail riding. My hunt in California commonly allows riders to travel abreast. We did a lot of walking, a fair amount of trotting and sprinkled in a few canters throughout the first hunt. 

The hunt territory crossed multiple property lines and for most of the time we were at such a distance from the first and second fields we didn’t see the hounds. At one point we heard a loud human cry of a word I couldn’t discern. A redheaded middle schooler’s eyes shined bright, “They spotted a fox!” The hounds chorused loud and echoey–we couldn’t see them, but their song reached us nonetheless. 

I felt transported in time for a moment as we sat quietly on our steeds, listening to the pack in pursuit. At dinner the night before we had talked about how the Civil War was fought on this land. I was not being pursued, but I had an eerie sense of what that might have been like to be a soldier on horseback, hiding out in the woods, listening for the enemy. And how truly quiet you’d have to be as the undulating land and various groves somehow seemed to amplify sound.

We ended the hunt unceremoniously and grabbed water bottles out of a trailer of some grandfatherly gentleman who had planned ahead better than us. Our next stop after taking the horses home, getting them settled, and cleaning up was the Virginia Fall Races. Amy and I were going to make the most of every horsey touristy equestrian getaway opportunity that was available to us! I debuted my green fox dress from Modcloth for the occasion.

Our host informed us parking would be at a premium and we should follow her into the town in our rental and then pile into her truck as she had a parking pass for the event. We met a friend of hers, presumably also making the most of limited parking, a retired diplomat who was a former polo player. 

We spent time with the diplomat at the paddock fence line, watching the race horses circle round with the jockeys and grooms. He regaled us with many stories, the one I remember most clearly was how he had been trying to fell a tree using Tannerite and a handgun. A disgruntled neighbor called the police. He laughed sharing how confused the officer was when he arrived on the scene. 

After chatting with the gentleman/diplomat/unorthodox lumberjack watching a few races, Amy and I shopped in the vendor village and the hat stand sucked us in. It started by just trying on a few hats for fun and led up to us both purchasing fabulous hats which we convinced ourselves were practical since we would be heading to Breeders’ Cup at Santa Anita (that’s a whole ‘nother blog post that I’ve got to write–share my conspiracy theory about what’s really going on at that track). We both fell in love with our respective hats–hers a dark straw hat with a pheasant feather and mine a charcoal and black with a hint of Audrey Hepburn and in that moment we both converted to “hat people.”

The grounds for the Virginia Fall Races was a vast expanse of green with a thick woods located behind the home stretch viewing area. The people watching was phenomenal! Attendees were decked out in bowties and high heels. I’ve never seen so many men wearing Nantucket red pants and neckerchiefs in my entire life either! Range Rovers and other luxury cars immediately across from the rail had their tailgates up and gourmet spreads inside. Mr. and Mrs. Howell from Gilligan’s Island would have been right at home. 

We grabbed a quick lunch from the media tent (long story–our host got us in), spotted an unusual salamander with spots which Amy saved from certain trampling via catch and release into the landscaping, and realized we were done. Our host was nowhere to be found so we Ubered to our truck, texting our host we were going to explore the town. 

If you haven’t been to Middleburg, think of a quaint town with lots of brick buildings, and shops that even if not equestrian in nature, give a nod to the horse heritage of the town. For example, the boots in the window of a bridal store were actually white DeNiros. Our first stop in Middleburg was at Cuppa Giddy Up where we caffeinated ourselves appropriately for the next phase of our Virginia adventure. We visited a couple antique shops and saw many beautiful things, but nothing we couldn’t live without. 

We had dinner in town where we both tried boiled peanuts for the first time and texted our host as a courtesy to say we’d be on our way back to her house in the next hour. As we walked through the front door, we noticed our host sat expressionless at the kitchen table with a bottle of wine. We had picked up a bottle of wine for her while shopping, and Amy extended it out to her, and our host asked, “Where were you? I was so worried. I’ve been waiting for you for two hours. When I didn’t hear from you I didn’t know what had happened.” 

“Really? I’m so sorry. We texted you an hour ago.” Amy laughed it off. I felt like a teenager reprimanded for missing curfew. This would be an almost daily occurrence–my feeling like a kid who’d done something wrong. 

There was the time I untacked my horse by removing the girth from both sides which was apparently not the way to untack in this corner of Virginia, and the time where I took the reins up over the horse’s head to lead him, essentially using the reins as a lead rope. I was chastised and told to leave the reins OVER the neck. Then there was the time I put a horse in the wrong stall and got scolded, even though none of the stalls had name plates. It got uncomfortable. I will admit I’m a sensitive person, but there’s a way to speak to fellow adults to clearly explain one’s wishes. Growling and sharp comments don’t work well for me. 

Our host set aside our bottle of wine and opened hers, asking if we’d like to join her. I don’t drink wine and I didn’t want to hang out based on the unsettling vibe of this whole interaction. I was still reeling from the, “I’ve been waiting for you for two hours.” When I heard that line, my mind flashed to the scene in A Wrinkle in Time when Charles Wallace is sucked in to IT and Meg comes to save him from the evil force and the Man with Red Eyes states, “We’ve been waiting for you,” in a totally creepy voice. (That book was required reading when I taught English to 6th graders for years and I can still hear Madeleine L’Engle narrate the antagonist.)

After dutifully sitting with our host outlining the events of our day from the time we’d left her at the races to go exploring on our own, we retreated to our basement and were met again by not one spider, but multiple. Amy opted out of spider wrangling but proved herself to be an excellent videographer (except for when she dropped the phone as a result of screaming and leaping away from the arachnids). There was no way I was going to pick them up in my bare hands to lovingly send them back into nature! Instead I found a broom in a closet and Wayne Gretskyed them across the floor and out the door to the yard. I might have simultaneously shrieked and swore (and I normally don’t do either, but I was under duress).

I scanned my room for spiders, crawled into the twin bed flush against the wall and drifted off to sleep.

To be continued. . .

CLICK HERE to read Part II of Equestrian Vacation: Fox Hunting in Virginia

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