Terrierman

Terrierman Retired terrierman. Conservation, wildlife, hounds, working dogs and hunting. The country life through my lens and pen.

As one who has long followed the ways of the rabbit hunter, there is a natural kinship with those who keep company with ...
09/09/2026

As one who has long followed the ways of the rabbit hunter, there is a natural kinship with those who keep company with ferrets, the lithe, sharp-eyed little warriors of the warren. Their racing brings a rare and honest merriment, a flash of pure country spirit. Yet soon enough the season will turn, and I shall be abroad once more with my own business of ferrets, the nets, and the steady lurcher at heel, serving quiet notice upon those subterranean drummers in their dark galleries. How welcome then will be the first hard frost, the silvered grass, and the sharp, clean air of a winter morning in the fields.

Stepping proudly beneath the soft Hampshire sky, the Hampshire Hunt hounds in splendid procession at Alresford Show. The...
07/09/2026

Stepping proudly beneath the soft Hampshire sky, the Hampshire Hunt hounds in splendid procession at Alresford Show. Their coats shone like polished chestnut, sterns waving gently, and for a fleeting moment the modern world fades, leaving only the ancient music of the pack and the quiet heart of the English countryside.

05/09/2026

Ferret Racing at the Alresford Show
There are moments in the English year when the old ways still hold their ground against the press of modern life, and few more perfectly than the afternoon when the ferrets take to the course at Tichborne Park.
Under a very warm September sky, with the scent of trampled grass and warm canvas in the air, the little long-bodies come out of their courts black eyed whites, sandys, polecats and many many more coat variations, eyes bright as polished marbles, whiskers twitching with pure intent. No great roar of engines, no thunder of hooves: only the sudden scatter of feet, the swift flash of fur along the man made runs, and the rising chorus of laughter and encouragement from the ringside.
Does anything in all the calendar of country gatherings speak more truly of our particular niche than this? Not the grand parades of heavy horses, nor the measured flight of the clay pigeons, but these small, fierce, beloved creatures racing as their kind have raced for generations.
Here, among the bespoke gins and the c***r barrels, the hunting folk and the shooting set, the fishermen and the farmers, one feels for a brief hour that the old England is not yet entirely lost. The ferrets run, the crowd leans in, and for a little while the world is reduced to the pure, ridiculous, wonderful business of watching a mustelid do what it was born to do—only faster, and with one pound bets placed the crowd are fully invested.

Hounds chilling under the oaks, next to them the terriers stood four-square and fierce with the pride of dark tunnels an...
04/09/2026

Hounds chilling under the oaks, next to them the terriers stood four-square and fierce with the pride of dark tunnels and sharp work, and beyond them the gun-dogs moved with quiet grace to the whistle, Labradors and Goldies retrieving across water or marking long falls among the tussocks. The old countryside into one living picture of bruised grass, low country talk and the enduring partnership of man and hound.

The air was filled with that particular hum of an English agricultural show—the lowing of cattle, the distant cry of a s...
01/09/2026

The air was filled with that particular hum of an English agricultural show—the lowing of cattle, the distant cry of a steward looking for someone, the scent of warm turf and polished leather. Yet for many of us the true heart of the day was not the prize beasts nor the gleaming machinery, but the hound cavalcade.
Out they came in a living river: the great foxhounds stepping with the grave dignity of their ancient calling, the beagles tumbling and busy as a pack of cub scouts let loose, the drag-hounds lean and eager, their eyes already fixed on some imagined line across the distant hills. And there, slipping in and out among the taller legs like a small, shaggy ghost from the French bocage, I swear I spied a Petit Basset Griffon Vendéen, ears flying, stern a merry flag, as if the very spirit of the old Continental packs had come to pay its respects.
Children pressed forward, faces alight. Small hands reached out as hounds decipher which child was the last to have an ice cream; wet noses pushed gently against them. There is no sound quite so pure as the soft, contented whine of a hound receiving the tribute of a child’s affection, nor any sight more heartening than those smiling faces framed by the dappled coats of these most loving and gentle of creatures. In that moment the centuries fall away, and one felt again the old, unbroken thread that binds the English countryside to its hounds and its people.

31/08/2026

At Edenbridge and Oxted Show today the hounds were out in all their glory. Multiple packs, gleaming and eager, filled the main ring for a few mounted laps, then surged forward in a joyous race with the huntsman on foot. Children raced alongside, laughing and yelling, caught up in the happy tumult of waving sterns and eager noses. Visitors crowded the stands where the hounds were kept, and the welcome was warm on both sides. Days such as this prove what one has always known—that the general public still delights to see the hounds, and the hounds, for their part, delight to see them too.
The swallows are already gathering on the telephone wires. Autumn is coming, and with it the promise of the season ahead.
Good health and good hunting friends.

The fields lie baked and unyielding under this relentless sun, the earth cracked like old pottery, and one almost despai...
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.

22/08/2026

Great work to all involved.

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