23/08/2026
The fields lie baked and unyielding under this relentless sun, the earth cracked like old pottery, and one almost despairs of ever seeing a lurcher stretch its limbs again. How the ground has turned against us! That firm, springy turf which should yield to the flying feet of our long-dogs has become a sheet of iron, forbidding any honest gallop for fear of a strain or worse. Events that should have filled the calendar have been struck from the list, one after another, and the summer that promised so much has given us only dust and disappointment.
Yet memory is kinder. Last year at Chatsworth the scene was altogether different. There, beneath the great parkland trees and against the noble backdrop of the house, the canine athletes assembled in all their glory. Lurchers of every elegant line—smooth and rough, black, brindle and purest white—paraded with quiet pride, threy flew like arrows across the grass in the coursing, and later cleared the competitive hurdles with such grace and power that the heart lifted to watch them. One recalls the lean, muscular shoulders working, the long tails streaming, the concentrated fire in those dark eyes as they measured each leap. Truly they are athletes of the highest order, living embodiments of speed and courage shaped by centuries of country work.
We must wait, then, for rain to soften this obstinate ground and restore the freedom of the open field. Until that day the photographs remain a solace, and the hope that keeps the spirit from growing too dry.
