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COURSING PUP
- Thread starter NEWBY
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Email me your phone no. i will try to help. Regards Clive [Cheydanhar Whippets]
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After the Ban.
The battered Land Rover, beetling its’ way over the ribbon of track on the hillside, bathed in May morning light, stopped abruptly. Something had caught the corner of the eye of the weather-worn driver. As he stopped, a large brown hare emerged from the cow parsley which edged the road and heralded by alone skylark, she loped, unconcerned across the lane. The old man smiled, with his right hand, he raised the neb of his flat cap. His left hand reached out and rested on the small, domed skull of the ancient whippet laid on the passenger seat beside him, her once bright eyes, now clouded with age, looked up at him from above a grey and grizzled muzzle. And they remembered.
They remembered the meet in the farmyard the air tingling with anticipation, the dogs eager to renew their acquaintances, pulling on leashes towards each other, ears down and tails wagging. Today would be fun. They remembered the weak winter sunlight playing on the great ash tree by the farm gate, deep in winter slumber, like the rest of nature. Spirits rise as the pale pure light of the November morning picks out the scarlet of the slipper and the judge. Slips are produced from a leather bag, as the swords of our forebears gained potency with age and use so with the slips; the more meetings that they have seen and the greater the renown of previous owners, then the better the day ahead was destined to be.
They remembered moving to the field and joining the line, discussing the preferred plan for covering the field, how it was done last year and where would the hares be? They remembered walking up, slipper in front, judge to the side, hearts leaping, fooled by the sudden jump of a snipe or the flurry of a covey of partridge, until the shout “HARE!” and up she gets, her bustle bouncing passed the slipper. The dogs with the members of the line strain onto their back legs squealing and yapping, but suddenly all seems strangely silent as the slipper in one extravagant move steps forward and flicks the loosened slips in the air, they’re away!
They remember the runs, the wrenches, the turns the flecks the strikes, the skill and power of the dogs and the hare as she floated like a feather over the fields into the far distance. The games they had, the hares, the dogs and the people, all of them together on English ground watched by the oak and the ash who had seen 200 coursing seasons come and go.
As the old man sat in his Land Rover a tear began to well in his eye. It was to be no more. The day it was banned, his intellect was not offended, for everyone is entitled to a view, neither did he feel hatred for those who banned. It was his heart and spirit which was damaged, his heart and spirit which welled from the innermost depths of his being, entwined with the heart and spirit of his dog and extended and combined with the ethers of time and nature. His heart, spirit and soul which, have been misunderstood, misinterpreted, misrepresented and ultimately persecuted for cheap political gain.
The battered Land Rover, beetling its’ way over the ribbon of track on the hillside, bathed in May morning light, stopped abruptly. Something had caught the corner of the eye of the weather-worn driver. As he stopped, a large brown hare emerged from the cow parsley which edged the road and heralded by alone skylark, she loped, unconcerned across the lane. The old man smiled, with his right hand, he raised the neb of his flat cap. His left hand reached out and rested on the small, domed skull of the ancient whippet laid on the passenger seat beside him, her once bright eyes, now clouded with age, looked up at him from above a grey and grizzled muzzle. And they remembered.
They remembered the meet in the farmyard the air tingling with anticipation, the dogs eager to renew their acquaintances, pulling on leashes towards each other, ears down and tails wagging. Today would be fun. They remembered the weak winter sunlight playing on the great ash tree by the farm gate, deep in winter slumber, like the rest of nature. Spirits rise as the pale pure light of the November morning picks out the scarlet of the slipper and the judge. Slips are produced from a leather bag, as the swords of our forebears gained potency with age and use so with the slips; the more meetings that they have seen and the greater the renown of previous owners, then the better the day ahead was destined to be.
They remembered moving to the field and joining the line, discussing the preferred plan for covering the field, how it was done last year and where would the hares be? They remembered walking up, slipper in front, judge to the side, hearts leaping, fooled by the sudden jump of a snipe or the flurry of a covey of partridge, until the shout “HARE!” and up she gets, her bustle bouncing passed the slipper. The dogs with the members of the line strain onto their back legs squealing and yapping, but suddenly all seems strangely silent as the slipper in one extravagant move steps forward and flicks the loosened slips in the air, they’re away!
They remember the runs, the wrenches, the turns the flecks the strikes, the skill and power of the dogs and the hare as she floated like a feather over the fields into the far distance. The games they had, the hares, the dogs and the people, all of them together on English ground watched by the oak and the ash who had seen 200 coursing seasons come and go.
As the old man sat in his Land Rover a tear began to well in his eye. It was to be no more. The day it was banned, his intellect was not offended, for everyone is entitled to a view, neither did he feel hatred for those who banned. It was his heart and spirit which was damaged, his heart and spirit which welled from the innermost depths of his being, entwined with the heart and spirit of his dog and extended and combined with the ethers of time and nature. His heart, spirit and soul which, have been misunderstood, misinterpreted, misrepresented and ultimately persecuted for cheap political gain.
