Saturday

Woke, after a night of howling gales, driving rain, and heavy sleet, to find three-quarters of the field under water. An old burn, which had been dry for a hundred years, had filled up again and burst its banks, and the water was rushing like a torrent through the bottom of the winter quarters.

The horses took it all in their stride as we fenced them off onto the high ground, gave them comforting hay and carried buckets of water through the floods so that they might drink. By the time I finished I was wet to the waist and covered in mud, but had a holy feeling of satisfaction. It was our first big drama in the new field and in the end it was fine.

I had a big race double on Zarkandar and Oscar Whisky, which will pay for some of that expensive fencing.

I thought about doing some work but decided, subversively, to take Saturday off.

And all the time, in the back of my mind, were the inexplicable events of yesterday in America. I don’t know what to say about that. There is a feeling of hopeless rage – why won’t someone do something about the gun laws? There is the usual impotence and horror, when something so terrible happens. But mostly there is profound sorrow, for the grievous, shocking, tearing loss. I imagine things for my living; it is what I have been doing all week. But my imagination fails when I try to understand what those families must be feeling now.

 

Today’s pictures:

The flood:

The herd, safely on the dry ground:

Some pictures from the week:

The hill: