Dear Friend,

The haunting notes of a cor de chasse rise, tremble, then fall, muted in the misty air. The hoarse cry of the meute sounds from the woods. At last, the stag has leapt from his cover in a nest of dry ferns. Deeper woods lie farther to the north, but on this gray winter afternoon, the stag’s moments are numbered.

The hunters gathered in front of the Chateau this morning to discuss the strategy for today’s hunt. They know the layout of the land as well as the backs of their work-thickened hands. And now, they line the border of the woods. The first shot rings out. The buck falls. He staggers to his feet. A fourth shot ends his short struggle.

Viola and Sébastien, Henry and Edward set off this morning to accompany the chasse. They wore rubber boots for the puddles and the mud, hats and scarves against the chill wind, and bright vests for visibility. They walked down the lane toward la Garenne. The name of this parcel means “rabbit warren,” but now it is a long strip of woodland that separates the Chateau’s park and horse pastures from its cattle pastures and fields.

By early afternoon, the hunt was over. We had been invited to join the hunters at their relai de chasse. We drove through tree-lined lanes to a cluster of tumble-down stone farm buildings in a tiny, half-abandoned hameau. A low-ceilinged grange had been transformed into a huntsman’s hall, with two long tables, a staunch wooden buffet, and an oil stove for warming cold hands and feet. Massacres and trophées – antlered skulls and stuffed heads of deer and boar – hung on the walls. There was a framed needlepoint of mounted hunters in front of a chateau, and another scene of flowers in a jug.

Next door was the rustic abattoir. The men had carried the stag in and laid him out on the floor, and we stood around in admiration. He was a magnificent animal, with a thick brown pelt and antlers branching into many points.

“At least ten years old,” commented Patrice approvingly. He is the head of the chasse, organizing the strategy, assigning hunters to their positions, consulting with the piqueux who direct their hounds. He also is the cattleman, or vacher, on a neighboring farm.

Jean, one of the huntsmen and also a butcher, pointed to a rear haunch with his knife.

“The noble parts are here, and also some that are less noble, good for stew,” he suggested. But we already have several haunches in our freezer, from previous hunts. He promised us the filet along the back.

Jean and Patrice’s son Aurélien began stripping the hide from the stag. They took a saw and carefully cut through its thick and muscular neck, setting aside the head with its splendid antlers. The stag’s blood streamed onto the floor, spreading on the edges to a thin crimson film as it went down a drain. Two young boys, dressed in hunting clothes, watched the deft operation with wide innocent eyes, attentive and respectfully silent.

We went into the hall to share a glass of local pommeau with the hunters. Someone passed around a packet of crackers. Someone else had brought hazelnut truffles.

“Poor stag,” said Viola in a soft voice, taking a bonbon.

We congratulated the hunters. They looked up, with pleased smiles, and nodded their heads. We know most of them -- these are the farmers and the artisans, the mayor’s adjoint and the entrepreneur, the fellow who owns all the earth-moving equipment in the neighborhood. There were a few neighboring chatelains as well.

“Toujours aussi mignonne, Elisabeth!” exclaims our entrepreneur, ruddy and grinning from ear to ear. Monsieur Guy really should call me Madame the way the others do, but he has always had a particular attachment to “égalité.”

We went outside, where the afternoon sun was already slanting low in the sky. Aurélien and Jean hoisted the stag’s head in the back of our car. If the deer had not been taken exactly on our land, it was close enough – and Patrice thought it would look very fine in our stairwell.

That night, Henry and Aurélien drove the head to the taxidermistes, a husband and wife who live about an hour away.

“They got started right away,” reported Henry, impressed. “They said they were leaving on vacation in the morning.” And, he added, they were also busy looking after their grandson, who was pedaling around the hangar on his tricycle while the operation was taking place.

It was nice, he reflected, that the life of the stag and of the paysans, and our own lives, were so interconnected. It seemed it might be so for generations to come.


A bientôt au Château...et Bonne Année 2022!

P.S. We are thrilled that our new son-in-law Sébastien plays the cor de chasse, the horn that accompanies French hunters. To hear its special music, click here.

Heather and Beatrice (info@chateaudecourtomer.com) will be happy to help you with your family vacation or holiday (2022 and onwards) gathering at the Chateau. Please feel free to call or write us.