“ASCOT SUNDAY”

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1746, 23 August 1905, Page 8

“ASCOT SUNDAY”

(From Our Special Correspondent.) LONDON, June 30. Last Sunday was Ascot Sunday, which means that society of all grades rushed to the river, and spent the day pretending to row. I say “pretending’ because the whole business is simply a triumph of make-beheve. The man who first said that the English take their pleasures sadly had never seen Ascot Sunday on the Thame®. It is audaciously flippant. Its votaries make Sunday a D'ay of Rest by carefully refraining from.—rowing. They throng the river in all sorts of possible and impossible craft, and “potter about” with a paddle or a pair of sculls in delightfully inconsequent fashion. The last tMng they would think about is exertion. It may take the best part of an hour to get through a look, but what does that matter? It is part of the programme. It gives the summer girl an unrivalled opportunity of displaying the glories of her boating costume, her sunshade, and her picture-hat. To be observed and admired by the crowd upon the bank is of far more importance than to go rowing up the river for miles. Nor is the boating man much more energetic. The essentials from his point of view are a “correct” costume, and a summer girl to match the cushions. Nothing else seems to matter much. If the craft is a punt a dog should be in evidence, but that is not de rigeur. The Colonial youth who is accustomed to go yachting in an old football jersey and a pair ol ducks rolled up to the knee would open his eyes at the elaborate get-up of these exquisites on. the Thames. Unless you wear a high collar, a dainty coloured shirt, a pair of spotless flannel “hags,” and snow-white boots, you are hopelessly out of the picture. There is this to be said about the picture, though—it is a singularly pretty one on a fine summer’s day. Ascot Sunday is one of the sights of the London year. Here you might, in Dr Johnson’s phrase, “read diligently in the great book of mankind,” were it not a violation of the spirit of the occasion to do everything diligently on Ascot Sunday. From the picturesque point of view, this game of make-believe is undoubtedly a great success, and the player can enjoy it quite as much as the looker-on. To trifle away the golden hours of a fine Sunday amidst the gay frivolities of Molesey or Boulter’s Lock may or may not be a vain and unprofitable thing; but it is undeniably pleasant. The Thames reaches the height of its summer glory on Ascot Sunday, and the wealth of colour with which nature and art combine to paint the scene is indescribable. Perhaps the river is at its very best in the cool of the evening, when the sun begins .to set in a blaze of glory, and the boats converge in their hundreds upon the look and crowd m upon each other in seemingly inextric-

able confusion. . No artist could group the picture with happier effects of colour than this haphazard medley of gailydecorated craft secures. Ascot Sunday, is, indeed, a sight to be remembered* It may be only make-believe, but that il the essence of its charm.