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IN & AROUND HORSE COUNTRY • SPRING 2016
PERSONALITIES
Keswick Character By Barclay Rives Keswick has lost a character. Hugh Motley, MFH, who died of pneumonia in January, was the most entertaining and amusing hunting companion. I remember meeting him on a Keswick Hunt Club cubhunting morning, when we were both 13 years old. He was riding a dun colored pony named Gunsmoke, and cracking jokes. Two other kids out that day, who maintained lifelong friendship with Hugh and have kept up the sport, were superior equestrienne Jennifer Nesbit and future Orange County MFH John Coles. Hugh stood out in any crowd. He was friendly, funny, rode well, and knew how to talk to people. Hunting days and other events were more fun when he was around. Hugh’s family had moved to Keswick a few years earlier. Hugh began his career in the horse business at Glenmore Farm, owned by his cousin Clay Camp. Now a sprawling Charlottesville subdivision, Glenmore was a successful racehorse training and sales operation from the 1950s to the 1980s. Hugh was named for his grandfather Hugh Camp, founder of Union Camp Corporation, a paper manufacturer. When someone complained to Hugh Motley about the smell of a Union Camp pulp mill, he replied, “Smells to me like money being made.” Hugh and his wife Winkie established their own Beau Lea horse farm in my neighborhood in the 1970s. A few years later they expanded onto the adjoining Highground Farm. Hugh broke and trained yearlings and two-year-olds at Highground. He also ran his own bloodstock agency and sold equine insurance. Hugh had a loyal and talented crew at Highground. One hot summer day Hugh and his crew helped me unload two wagons of square bales into my mother’s barn. As we hoisted bales, we carried on a male oriented discussion, until Hugh noticed my mother approaching. He greeted her in a loud voice, signaling the rest of us to change the subject. One of Hugh’s employees helping me that day was Dick Minor, also known as One-Eyed Dickie because he only had one good eye. Dick had a distinctive peaceful vibration, which enabled him to groom the wildest, most fearful young horses nobody else could handle. Dick was missing most of his teeth. When he collapsed at the barn one day, Hugh said, “I’ll call the rescue squad. If he needs mouth to mouth, you guys handle that.” Dick recovered. Some of Hugh’s evocative nicknames for people and animals were: The Breather, The Sneezer, The Hook, The Squirter, Food Face, Moany and Groany. His friends know whom he was referring to. Further explanation in print would incriminate me. Hugh called me Brother B, because I am the brother of his good friend Sandy. Hugh played polo with the Charlottesville Polo Club for many years. My only attempt at the sport was when I joined him and his friends for an informal game. The experience reminded me of when I was a boy playing tackle football with older, bigger and faster kids. The high goalers took care so that I avoided injury and had fun. Hugh resumed hunting as an adult in the late 1980s, when my brother Sandy let him ride his roan mare Maggie. Maggie was tough and dependable, though she had a habit of rooting with her head. Hugh carried a jockey’s crop, which he called “the Maggie anti-rooting device.” Hugh hunted regularly after he acquired an attractive bay Thoroughbred named Herbie. When he viewed a fox, Hugh delivered a distinctive raspy high volume holloa. For years Hugh drove Sandy and me to meets in his truck and long stock trailer. From his polo days, Hugh liked to tie horses with “one yanker” knots accessible from outside or inside the trailer. To avoid navigating my narrow driveway, the rendezvous was at my brother’s back entrance, a short ride for me. Hugh specified the time and place, which was always: “Quarter after, at the gap.” Whenever I was late, Hugh would be waiting on the shoulder of the narrow state road, reading his Daily Racing Form. Hugh and Winkie were gracious entertainers at Highground. Ginger Baker, drummer of the 1960s rock supergroup Cream, was an unusual celebrity guest at one of their parties. Hugh told me Baker had come to give drumming lessons to his grade-school age daughter Sheila. Later, Hugh explained the rock legend was there through a polo playing connection. Hugh was always proud of Sheila, who became a top junior rider. He did
Barclay Rives (left, on Root Boy Slim) and Hugh Motley (on Herbie), Keswick Hunt Club’s Blessing of the Hounds, Thanksgiving Day, 2003. Elizabeth Dale photo
joke about how expensive show ponies could be. He suggested it was like having your kid ask for a baseball glove to play Little League, and next thing you know you’re paying for the team to play in Tokyo. Hugh remembered Sheila, as a toddler, walked up when he was showing a horse to someone, and asked too perceptively, “Is that the one with the hurt foot?” He said she was too young to know that in the horse business, some questions are better left unasked. One evening in the 1990s, Hugh and I were talking on the side porch of the Keswick Hunt Club. He told me it was time for some of our generation to step up to keep the hunt club going. Hugh was the one who stepped up. He served several terms on the hunt club Board of Governors. He was surprised by the ferocity of hunt club politics at his first board meeting. He reported people were screaming at each other, and suggested the club could raise money by selling tickets to spectators who would pay to see the fights. Hugh demonstrated greater valor by agreeing to stand for election as Master of Foxhounds in 2000. Jake Carle had just concluded 35 years of dedicated service as MFH. After the unanimous vote, Hugh told the membership he intended a shorter span of service. He served for five years. Shortly before the start of cubbing his first year, Hugh’s huntsman Jack Eicher died suddenly. Hugh grabbed plenty of biscuits and walked out the pack. He procured a horn and served as huntsman three days. Each hunt, hounds ran at least one fox, and they never ran riot. When I reminded him of these impressive statistics, he replied in one of his many trademark phrases, “I was a legend in my own mind.” Hugh was relieved when he was able to hire Tony Gammell, who has served as Keswick’s brilliant huntsman ever since. Hugh knocked on doors, introduced himself and shook hands, enabling him and Tony to open miles of new hunting territory. Hugh’s many friends have been sharing multiple varieties of memories since his death. My favorite time with him was an unforgettable hunting day with Casanova in 1994. My brother Sandy, Hugh’s close friend Bruce Eckert, our horses, and I travelled to the meet in Hugh’s gray Frank Imperatore van, also known as The Grey Goose. Our quartet made several successful road trips that season, and that Casanova day was the best. We enjoyed thrills, laughs and good company. Tommy Lee Jones and the Casanova hounds were brilliant. Masters of Foxhounds Joyce Fendley and Kay Blassic were welcoming, and they rode like Valkyries. Our enthusiastic hunting friend Richard Harris was among the friendly members of the field. The sky was crimson as hounds marked their last fox to ground, and dark when we reached the van. The four of us were still euphoric from the hunt, when we pulled into a country store on our way home. Though we were famished, we had trouble finding anything edible among the dusty and ancient offerings on the shelves. Hugh was particular about what he ate. He was most fond of the menu at Charlottesville’s Riverside Grill, and this store was not the Riverside. We thought the place was hilarious. The dour proprietors did not share our view. Sandy was a penny short making his purchase, and he asked if there was a penny dish. The couple said no, as if his question were grounds for arrest. We found better pickings further down the road. The most wonderful days and special friends are rare, but we can remember them every day.