Spaniels

The Master of the Game is the oldest English language book on hunting written by Edward of Norwich, the 2^nd Duke of York, who was thick in the court of Richard II, Henry IV and indeed Henry V; the latter famous for upturning the form book by marshalling an unlikely English victory at Agincourt in 1415 where, sadly, our Edward of Norwich met his end. A quick nip behind a bush for a pee, a bayonet to the gut and a throaty “COMME CA!” from a surly Frenchman; and it was all over for the Duke. Now many of you will know, that the Master of the Game was not an original piece of work, more a translation. Our Duke, perhaps a little shy of inspiration or hard work himself, had simply translated an earlier work Livre de chasse, by Gaston Febus, the – ninth, tenth, eleventh – yes, the eleventh Count of Foix. “And the Viscount of Bearn” you mutter. Indeed, he was fully titled up.

Febus was one of the greatest huntsmen of his generation, on horse, on foot, from the back seat of his carriage; quarry knew no hiding place. POW-POW! Pheasant, partridge, buck, boar, deer, and rabbit. All: toast. Febus hunted his entire life, he even died washing his hands in the kitchen sink after returning from a long afternoon’s bear hunting, much to the delight of the stuffed animals that adorned the walls of his house. Before he died though, Febus had penned his classic treatise on medieval hunting, in which he described the different stages of hunting, and how to track and slot different animals. He even offered advice to those who were less well off on how to get involved without looting the school fees, and  had some words for the peasant poacher, knowing that he too had a hunting instinct. The Finnish scholar and medieval all-rounder, Hannele Klemettila, described the book as “one of the most influential texts of its era.” Febus’ quarry appear, though, to have had the last laugh for Febus, before he died of heart failure in his undies, had caught his son, Gaston Jnr, trying to kill him with poison he had scrounged off Charles II of Navarre, aka Charles the Bad; a particular nasty sort who constantly flipped his allegiance in the Hundred Years War to further his own agenda. He was later chucked on bonfire to wide acclaim. Febus, though, imprisoned his son, but in a later violent struggle stabbed him with his hunting knife and Gaston Jnr, Febus’ only legitimate descendent, was no more. In the end, death came to his own door mat. No stuffing required.

It is in Livre de chasse, where spaniels are described as coming from Spain. So that answers that question. Indeed, spaniels are about as Spanish as Greyhounds are English. For those who have had spaniels, this perhaps explains much of their erratic behaviour. Spaniels, not to be confused with The Spaniels – the American doo-wop band from the 1950s – are a type of gun dog described in the Oxford English Dictionary as a “breed of dog with long silk coat and drooping ears”. Nailed it. Colliers New Encyclopaedia in a 1921 entry was also right on the money, describing the dogs has having “remarkably long and full ears”. Subscribers to Country Life will be pleased to read that Colliers went on to claim: “the English spaniel is a superior and very pure breed.” Dog chocs all round.

Spaniels came to the UK, via boat. The sixteenth century physician John Caius, who persuaded the bursar at his old Cambridge college Gonville, with the help of a large cheque, to change its name to include his own, found time to write about spaniels; suggesting they had been brought the British Isles as early as 900BC by some Celts who had taken the unconventional decision to swap Spain for Wales. Indeed, the loyal and affectionate Welsh springer spaniel, is thought to be a direct descendent of the Agassian hunting dog described in the classic poem Cynegitca; a poem that has since been attributed by scholars to Oppian of Apamea. “What, the 2^nd Century Greco-Roman poet?” you whisper. Yes, him all over. And yet there are other theories too. One suggests that spaniels were brought to these shores by the ancient Romans, by way of the trade routes to the Far East, given they share similar characteristics to the Chinese all-stars: the Pekinese, Pug and Shih Tzu. Another theory suggests that spaniels come from the Middle East after French knights took some pointers to the Holy Land, who then had their bums sniffed by some enthusiastic Arabic Greyhounds. The result was the first French spaniel. The French spaniel, as an aside, whilst recognised by kennel clubs the world over, is not approved by the pesky committee in the UK. Go figure. Agincourt is, perhaps, still too fresh in the memory.

Spaniels are friendly dogs, eager to please and quick to learn. The reason they are good hunting dogs is that they are on it. They are alert and attentive. They can sit stock still as the wind whips off the moor, before tearing off to fetch a half-dead pheasant when told. They are easy to train and won’t pee on the front wheel of a Range Rover. The spaniel also has exceptional stamina, is sociable and good with children. They love water and hate cats. Leave them cooped up at home all day, mind, and they are likely to do some damage to the White Company furnishings. They get bored very easily.

Given spaniels are intelligent, quick to learn and have a fine nose for a scent, it will be no surprise to hear that they are the bane of many a Colombian ‘tourist’ waiting in the baggage hall at Terminal 3; for they make excellent sniffer dogs. And it’s not just party leaves, but explosives too. One of the most famous spaniels is Buster, an English springer who worked out of Basra with the Royal Army Veterinary Corps during the Iraq war. Buster was so good at sniffing out the local jihadists’ cache of plastic explosives he had his own protective kit and won himself a Dickin Medal; the animal’s version of the Victoria Cross. Danny Morgan, Buster’s handler, said that his daughter would wave him off to war but “wept buckets when saying goodbye to Buster.”

So then, if your boss asks if you fancy joining him at his country pad for some fresh air and “a bit of sport”; buy yourself some tweed, a pair of wellies and send an email out asking if anyone has a spaniel they want looking after for the weekend. Providing you don’t wee on the front wheel of a Range Rover, you’ll be in good shape.

Spaniels – lovely dogs.