I stare into the pit of the bores.

I realise that I have become like those garrulous mothers who cannot stop talking of the brilliance of their children. (I must admit that despite my best efforts not to do the horrid judging thing, I have always slightly raised an eyebrow at this, unless the children themselves are doing genuinely fascinating things, in which case there are no limits.) It’s not just in the safety of this blog that I speak of the miracles wrought by Red the Mare. It is now leaking out all over the internet. I’ve started telling her story to complete strangers, on various horsemanship forums and equine Facebook places. I’m like one of those terrifying people who walk into a pub and crash a conversation and start telling you about what they did in Tonbridge Wells in 1973.

It has to stop, clearly.

I think quite a lot about life, and how to do it. I think about how to deal with setbacks and griefs and disappointments. I think about where to look for consoling daily joys. I think about the fundamentals, like love and trees. What I had not realised is that I have to work out what you do when you have an overwhelming love which is too big for the mortal frame, and how to wrangle it to the ground as it escapes into the wild.

I was saying to a friend the other day that part of the reason I loved my old dad is that he had no concept of discrimination. Black or white, gay or straight, posh or common; it meant nothing to him. The only division he made in humans was between bores and non-bores. (Although I admit he was quite naughty about The County, especially those slightly pleased with themselves double-barrelled types who wore red corduroys, referring to them generically as the Bassington-Holeworths.)

So the great bear pit which now yawns in front of me has a lurid sign in front of it saying: Here Be Bores. (Here be Hellebores, my subconscious mind has just read that. If only.) I am on the very verge of toppling in. All the time, I thought this horsing thing was a sort of tribute to my darling old Fa, a way of keeping him stitched into my heart. Now I realise that it has, with ultimate irony, brought me to the verge of the one thing he could not stand, which is DULLNESS.

I am going to go away and have a very stern word with myself. I have absolutely no confidence that it will do any good.

Because, you see, the love.

 

Today’s pictures:

Quickly, as it’s late and I’m tired. But I did go and look at some hills. And trees and rivers and things.

And the Dear Readers were particularly funny and kind yesterday, and some of you like a good Scotland picture, so these are specially for you.

Morven, best mountain of all:

Hills looking south:

The Dee:

The road home, along the south side of the river:

I only ever fished once in my life. It’s not my thing. But oh oh I do love a good fishing hut:

Prepare yourself for the SHEER BEAUTY:

Stan the Man says: I have heard QUITE a lot of these stories before: