1094 words in the morning. Bash bash bashing on through. Torrential rain. The sweet equines hunker down and do not complain. Spend the early morning writing condolence letters, the hardest of all the writing I ever do. Another of the great old men has gone. He was my father’s first cousin, and a true gentleman of the old school, and I feel a keen sense of mourning at his passing.
Then: work work work work. 446 more words. I count each one up like coins in a treasure chest.
Then my brain stops, as usual, as if someone has thrown a switch. The rain pauses for a moment. I think of my dear girl in her field under her favourite tree, where the leaves are still so thick that she can almost avoid the deluges. I think of her sweet muddy face and the good rug which keeps her delicate thoroughbred coat dry. I think of how stoical she is, when the weather comes. Even though she loves nothing more than the sun on her back, she stands the dreich far better than humans do. I think: I’ll give her extra apple chaff with her tea. (That is the kind of thing I think when I get to this stage in the day.)
Now: stopping. I’m going to watch a race from Fakenham, and then I’m going to sit very still and contemplate The Universal Why.
Are in fact from yesterday; too dreary for the camera today:
Goofy, most non-duchessy, slightly surprised face. We were madly waving our arms in the air to get her to prick her ears for the camera:
Before I pressed publish, I went down to the afternoon feed, and the sky suddenly lightened, and there was actually something I could photograph today after all:
The heavenly wet muddy person, really enjoying her tea:
And for the first time, the hill appeared from out of the clouds: