It is Glorious Goodwood and the Galway Festival, so something has to give. Turns out it is the blog. How ruthless I am. The spirit of my galloping, punting father lives strong in me just now.
Today was: Red the Mare, sweetness, riding, learning of thrilling new things, Stanley the Dog, HorseBack, work, work, work, RACING, work, and finally – there will never be time for the blog. The Dear Readers, I think, hopefully, will understand.
As I watch Red’s relations stream over the undulating green turf, I think how funny it is that she was such a hopeless racehorse. With all her mighty breeding, she just trundled round at the back. This morning, she was as dear and docile and gentle as she has ever been. She listened quietly to every question I asked her and the answer came back yes. Yesterday, she was fiery and remembering every inch of her thoroughbred ancestry. But today, she was all stillness, as if every dancing atom in her beautiful, athletic, muscled body was at peace with itself.
When you are with a mare you love and she is in that place of utter peace, there is no feeling on earth like it. It is a gift beyond diamonds.
No wonder she was useless at racing. How she must have hated it. What she really, really likes is having one person, with whom she may gently grow. She likes affection and attention and being read like a fascinating book. She likes to stand, and be. I like to stand with her.
If she were a human, she would be one of those ones who always remembers to stop and smell the flowers. She would make other humans smile, involuntarily, before they could stop themselves. She is beauty, all the way through, from her pretty face to her glorious heart.
My fancies at Goodwood are all getting beaten hollow (although I should say that I had a perfectly splendid first night at Galway yesterday, mostly thanks to the Mullins family and the very wonderful Wicklow Brave) but I don’t care because the real punt was taking home the red mare on a complete whim, and that one pays out every single day.
This is what she looks like as she mooches through the thistle patch when I whistle:
You do see.