In time for Frewyn's Mean Fomhair, the last harvest of the year, the hunting lodge at Westren begins their hunting season, inviting men and women from all over the kingdom to partake in the grand event:
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| This is a photo from Chateau Montabello, the inspiration for the text below. |
Three hundred Frewyn
hunters were gathered, all of them engaged in conversation over the impending
event, exchanging pleasantries and inspecting one another’s new pelts, talking
of the season, of the harvest, of Mean Fomhair and Seamhir, everything to do
with the end of Frewyn’s autumn that could interest, their amiable aspects and
good spirits inundating the great hall. Upon entering the lodge, Dirrald and
Bhaunbher had expected to be met with one large dining room, fitted up with all
the necessary accoutrements, with a few smaller rooms to the side, a state room
or an office, but there were no such chambers here: the whole of the interior
was one prodigious hall, a spacious cavern decapitated by an impossible
ceiling, the walls fashioned from gargantuan brick and dry mortar, whitewashed
over and carefully smoothed, the back wall an accomplishment of Westren’s
glassworks, large standing panes of double sided glass, opening the prospect of
the slope leading to the woods, the line of trees leading to the hunting area
just within view, inviting the sunlight and offering a comprehensive view of
the sky. The door leading to the kitchen was situated at the far end, its one pane-less window glowing with warmth, the scented smoke of baked pies frothing
from iron stoves and billowing forth, mounting the winding stair just beside
which lead to the upper floor, where men and women stood on the landing, perched
over the railing of a bowed balcony, metalworked and prettily done, and above
them within the wall was a bay window, where the nobles from eastern Westren on
feriation sat, presiding over the hall entire from their position at the bottom
of the spire, which could only be reached by way of the corridor on the upper
landing. The dining hall, which claimed the chief of the space, was well furnished
with row after row of tables and benches, carved from aged oak, varnished in a
deep mahogany hue, complementing the wall of honours to the left as they
stepped in, a standing exposition of accomplishment and triumph, plaques tiling
the wall, decorated with the names of Frewyn’s premiere hunters,
venerating
the kingdom’s ancient
huntsmen, like Tirlough and Mharacabhi, and their more recent rivals,
Eadmhaird’s name being everywhere that a hart’s antlers were mounted, etched in
gold plating, the gilded names of many shimmering lutescent against the rays
penetrating the hall from the glass wall beside. Sconces roosted along the
close wall, their luminescent counterparts hanging down from the high ceiling, decorated
round with unlit candles, the top of the chandelier wreathed with elaborate
plageting. Every corner of the hall was adorned with stunning artistry, and every
row between the tables were garlanded by hunters, their rural and rugged
appearances and animated characters in contrast to quiet elegance of so
wondrous an accommodation. Various parties formed, hunters came and went
amongst them, joining one table for some minutes and then leaving to join
another, all of them exchanging discourse and designs on where their hunt would
begin and by what method they should scour the woods, debating their points
with fervent animation, inviting their friends to see how wrong their approach
was by inviting their their tables to take their meal with them, those in the
part already sitting attacking the communal platters of roasted meats and
steamed potatoes. Someone called out for more stewed carrots, a cry went up for
tea, which garnered its due aspersions for hunters having anything to do with
tea when there was grog to be got, a rasping laugh succeeded and surrendered
into a ripple of mirth, a symphony of raucous raillery rising and falling in
choral undulations of hardy guffaws, their cacchinations of sanguine insobriety
pervading the hall, while they leant on one another, embracing each other with
a few stout pats on the back, their voices baying in joyous propination,
raising their drinks to their fellow huntsmen before calling out for another
round.
The serving girls, dressed in
their traditional hunting dresses, with ruffled low blouses and corseted pinafores,
the tops of their bare breasts bobbing up and down as they conveyed stout and
cider from the bar and pasties from the kitchen, their arms laden with treys,
their hands furnished with bouquets of full thurindales, their agreeable
aspects admired by all those they served, their kind remarks of listening
sympathy earning them many a copper, weaving in and out of the crowds on light
feet, whilst endeavouring to avoid the
children who were scampering about, hastening
in and out of side corridor in a blaze of juvenile excitement, racing to the
chapel to beg the Brother for stories and sweetcake, and hurrying toward the
farm, to plead the farmer’s permission to ride the new ram just brought in for
tupping. The clucks of chickens and neighs of horses echoed down the corridor
leading to the coop and stables, and the farmer and farrier talked of crop
yields and horses needing to be shod, whilst the groom cleaned his brushes and
whispered to new arrivals just bringing in from outside. Men and women issued
forth from the corridor to the front desk, where registration slips and hunting
licenses were giving away, where keys to the many rooms upstairs hung pendulous
from iron hooks, where the proprietor and groundskeeper, dressed in their pristine
suits, moved about in a quiet bustle, exchanging salutations and addressing
everyone by name, asking visitors if they might not take their coats and hats,
greeting everyone hunter with convivial assurances of their usual rooms being
just ready for them. To the side of the front desk were the post boxes, some
empty and some packed with letters, where the Scoaleigh for the lodge stood,
delivering all the messages he had conveyed hither from town, accepting parcels
and packages to take on his journey back from the passing gentry, who would
have their messages delivered directly, that they might tell everyone on their
estate how they all were and that they were all arrived in time for the hunt.
The Scoaligh soon quitted the lodge, passing
large vestibule in his way, where pelts and mantles were hung up and swaying
with each opening of the door, concealing a small side door, through which the
farmhands came and went to reach the back of the lodge, some of them just
coming in from having turned the silage, eager to enjoy some of the ale on tap,
their stomachs wambling violently as the cook passed by with bowls of bolaig, conveying her trey to the centre of the great hall as quickly as the ravening
hunters following in her train would admit. She stopped at the large firepit,
lined with stone and piled high with pieces of oak, split and dried, stacked in
stooks, the flames from the bonfire waving to everyone as they passed, the
smoke from the fire weltering up in black curls and leaving the lodge through
the ceiling, by way of a gap in the open fenestration, the hall being well
heated by the uncovered and unhindered flame, acting its part and transforming
the dining hall into a kiln, warming every huntsman, every visitor, every
worker, and proffering cheer to all those who stood about its boundaries and
exulted in its amber saltation.The nidor of braised beef, the mellifluous scent
of mead, the gaiety of visitors arriving from the village, the aubade of hymns
from the church, the crepitation of the fire, the petrichor of the grass still
damp with dew—every sound and scent associated with the end of Frewyn’s fruitful
year permeated the lodge, and Dirrald and Baunbher stood for some time in awe
of the place, glorying in all its minutiae, its garnishings, its trappings and
trimmings, its inhabitants and its workers, its main area a paracosm of life
regaled, its corridors a trove of spirit and activity.
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