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Recently the Oakley Hunt enjoyed a spectacular children’s meet with members of at least 5 different Pony Clubs in attendance producing 60 young mounted followers all whom were on record as having a really enjoyable day, so much so that we also hear it was difficult getting them to go home! The Oakley has had...

The story of a hound type that is probably lost to history – the Old Pytchley sort Those who search for facts about the old-style Pytchley hounds will find very little in the usual books of reference on such topics, and it is only by an occasional passage in some old writer speaking of the...

In this comic poem written by LL in the late 19th century and set in the bar parlour of the ” Worthy Fox,” a great hunting pub, the subject under discussion is “The inferiority of present-day hounds.” The meeting having at length settled itself, one member, the local butcher declares he can give an account...

Bright shines the sun on November’s first morning, Decking with diamonds the dew-laden spray, Clouds in the distance conveying a warning; Autumn yet lingers, suggestive of May. Eagerly waited for, now the day beckons on Youth, ever ready to take his place there, Down by the covert-side; all that he reckons on, Twang of the...

Artist and diarist Joe Appleyard has a day with the Glaisdale, a Yorkshire based pack, where, after a day’s hunting he found himself warmly welcomed into the company of  “a hard hunting, hard riding, hard drinking crowd.” A quick glance at the map, shows Glaisdale and its environs tucked away in a northern part of...

A poem in praise of Wilton Rosemary Bred at the Quorn, and so true to her breeding, Light in her colour of lemon and white, Rosy’s fair daughter is eagerly leading The pack through the covert and guiding them right. True to the blood, could you doubt it with Clasper, Clasper of Warwickshire fame for...

Oh don’t you remember the brave runs of old, When we raced over hill and o’er dale, And we laughed as we leapt with the wild joy of youth, And courage no danger could quail? But now we are old, and the saddle, old friend, Will ne’er see us mounting again; And of all the...

Now, gatherin’ ‘ounds is a job I like W’en the winter day draws in, W’en shadows are lyin’ by every dyke An’ creepin’ out o’ the whin ; W’en ‘Armony ‘s missin’ an’ Houtcast too, An’ the Master ‘e says to me- ‘Jim, you go back to that gorse we drew, For it’s there them...

Apart from the crowd with its banter and mirth, Sitting loose on his mare with an eye to the whins, He has looked to his curb, he has tightened his girth, He has marked out a place where the big double thins. Here’s a good one to follow, To follow, to follow- A good one...

The galloping seasons have slackened his pace, And stone wall and timber have battered his knees It is many a year since he gave up his place To live out his life in comparative ease. No more does he stand with his scarlet and white Like a statue of marble girth deep in the gorse;...