I PROBABLY have the original Christmas story, as I was born at home and delivered by Nurse Callanan, who arrived on her bicycle on Christmas Day in 1944 when WWII was still in full swing, not that I was even aware of the situation! This definitely inconvenienced my mother, who hunted with the Galway Blazers, as did her brother, as she would miss the lawn meets and all the seasonal hospitality that goes with them.

But to me, as I’ve got older, Christmas and Christmas hunting is all about children, and it is those childhood memories that stand out. Before Christmas, I used to go shooting with my father and his friends around Craughwell, the home of the Galway Blazers. The party was made up of the terrier man of the Galway Blazers Gill Morrissey, local county council worker Martin Browne and publican Tommy Rafferty. They were all good shots and we would come home with pheasant, snipe, woodcock and, after sitting around Rasanne Callagh in the early hours of the morning waiting for the wild duck to land, we could add a few duck to the tally, which my mother would prepare and roast for Christmas feasting.

Pony hair

I was fortunate that my parents knew Commandant Dinny Lundon retired from the Irish Army, who had a pub in Kilcolgan, County Galway and he had ponies for his children Stanny, Greg and Juno, but he was kind enough to let me ride them as well.

Two of his best ponies were Jack and Silver and I recall getting them ready for the St Stephen’s Day meet at the Blazers kennels in Craughwell. They were stabled behind the pub and there was no light in the stables, so we had to bring them into the snug in the pub to clip them.

There were no electric clippers in those days, so it took two people to clip a pony, one on the clippers and another to wind the wheels that operated the clippers. Imagine the scene of men drinking their pints with pony hair being blown around the bar. But the drinkers never complained and solved it by putting one hand over their pint between sips, so there was no interruption in the conversations.

At the kennels in Craughwell, there would be horses, ponies and cars everywhere, a real spectacle. There was no showing off of presents, as there were no tack shops at the time and anything we wore was handed down. We did not wear riding hats, just a flat cap turned backwards in case the wind caught it! After the hunt, people went back to Rafferty’s Bar for lemonade and Marietta biscuits for the children, where there was always ceili music and dancing to end the day.

But to me, Christmas is also about music and poetry and there is one hunting poem by my favourite poet, Stanislaus Lynch, that for me sums up the magic of Christmas Hunting for a child.

My Christmas Hunting Horn

I

It stands on a book-case, alone and forlorn,

The battered remains of a child’s hunting horn.

It brings recollections of days full of joy,

On the nursery floor as an eight-year-old boy.

Enjoying good runs with my hounds made of lead,

Lead huntsmen and ladies, in grey, black and red.

Dragoons and some lancers… to make my field large,

(Though born in their moulds to obey the word ‘charge’)

When Reynard slinked off by the wainscotting boards,

I forgot their incongruous lances and swords!

II

Their owners appeared not a whit out of place,

They lent colour and dash to my nursery chase.

My notes on the horn… merely gurgling sounds,

Seemed to please those keen followers riding to hounds.

For they never complained of my slipping a run

They thrilled to its twang! It was marvellous fun!

And that battered old toy brings sweet memories back,

Of those rollicking runs with my nursery pack.

Sure, I rivalled John Peel on that grey Christmas morn,

When Santa Claus brought me my first hunting horn!