Gratitude: Day Eleven.

My gratitudes are very simple today. 

There are two of them.

First, the red mare gave her young friend Cara the most gentle, gracious, tender ride this morning.

‘That,’ said Cara, turning a beaming face to me, ‘was my first trot out in the open all on my own.’

Cara is eleven. She hasn’t ridden for that long. She has a beautiful natural seat and a matchless spirit, but she lacks experience. I’m responsible for her and so I err on the side of caution. 

She mostly rides my little bay mare, and when we go out, I keep her on a leading rope. These mares are the kindest horses in the world, and they are rigorously trained, but they are still thoroughbreds. They have an enormous amount of power and speed. I don’t let just anyone loose on them, because it would be like putting a seventeen-year-old driver in charge of an Aston Martin.

Cara asked to ride the red mare this morning because she thought the little bay mare needed a rest. I applied my caution rules, because these two are not regular partners, and also because the red mare is a whole hand taller. It’s a much longer way to fall.

But the red mare does something enchanting when a child is on her back. She carries them with as much care and protectiveness as if they were her own young. She often looks as if she is carrying a tea tray loaded with priceless Spode china. It’s something I’ve never seen in any other horse. And she was so happy and relaxed, and her young rider was so bright and confident, so I gave Cara the rope and let her go along on her own. 

And then we chanced a trot. My dear old duchess, who had clearly been up all night practising with the dressage squirrels, gave the most delicate, smooth, poised sitting trot I’ve ever seen. Above me, her youthful rider looked down in triumph. Her first trot, out in the open spaces, all on her own.

‘You just rode a sixteen hand ex-racehorse in a perfect trot,’ I said. ‘You should feel proud.’ 

Later in the day, I went down to check on the horses. I ran my hands up and down the red mare’s mane and scratched her in her sweet spots and laid my palm on her forehead. 

She breathed into me. 

‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘for taking such care of that dear girl.’

And the second gratitude was that Bryony Frost and Frodon won the big race of the afternoon, jumping and galloping with all their customary zest and boldness. The pleasure I got from that was all love. I had no money on them, only my heart. I love them because they love each other, because they are both enthusiasts, and because they have the same glorious, bright, fighting spirit.

So, it was thoroughbreds that made my day, as they so often do.