Of work and time and great, great mares.

As I go up to HorseBack to do my morning stint, I get put up on a horse. If someone says to me ‘Would you want to ride?’ the only answer is yes. The horses need a last go over the obstacle course in the arena before the first participants arrive next week, and it also means that the HorseBack team who are studying for their UK Coaching Certificate can put in some teaching practice. I get to have fun and feel useful and learn more about the Western riding, which is starting to feel less strange to me now.

As I leave, I get a lovely invitation to lunch. Feeling like an idiot, I have to say no, because I am running back to my desk. The three current projects I am juggling must be juggled, and my time management has not yet caught up, even though I swear I am going to improve it every day. Lunch just now is a thing of moments; fuel from the fridge to get through the rest of the day. This is quite odd, for a greedy person like me, but a great relief for Red the Mare since it means I shall make a nice light weight on her back.

I was reading yesterday about someone going on the notorious 5-2 diet. I thought: I have a diet. It’s the No Diet Diet, which is good for me since I refuse to go on any weight-loss regime for political reasons. I think it would make the Pankhursts sad. The suffragettes did not chain themselves to railings so that I could hate my body. On the other hand, if you are riding a kind thoroughbred mare, it’s only polite not to be too heavy on her.

The No-Diet Diet consists of: taking on absurd amounts of work and being useless at managing your time, which means that you have no space to cook great lunches loaded with olive oil as was my old tradition. Now it’s a ham sandwich and a cup of green soup, which makes the banting effortless. I’m far too busy even to notice I am eating less than usual.

I would like though, when kind people say come and have lunch, to be able to smile and say yes, instead of shaking my head with a wild look of panic in my eyes. I am going to work on order and lists. I am going to make timetables and stick to them. I’ll get there in the end.

All focus today is to finish work in time to settle down and watch the mighty Hurricane Fly in the 5.30 at Punchestown. Yesterday, the great mare Quevega made me cry actual tears of joy and admiration with her dancing brilliance. I hope today my lovely Fly will do the same.

A snatch of poetry suddenly comes into my head. It is from George Whyte Melville, a horseman to his boots, who fought with the Turkish cavalry in the Crimea.

‘I have lived my life -I am nearly done –
I have played the game all round;
But I freely admit that the best of my fun
I owe it to horse and hound.
With a hopeful heart and a conscience clear,
I can laugh in your face, Black Care;
Though you're hovering near, there's not room for you here,
On the back of my good grey mare.’

Ah, I think, a hardened old fellow brought almost to sentimentality by the very thought of his darling girl. Mares do that I think, whether you see them on the racecourse, or mooch with them in the field. At Punchestown, Quevega looked so tiny and plain compared to the great shining strapping geldings she was up against. She has no flashy looks; like the equally brave and brilliant Dawn Run, she is a most ordinary bay mare. Nothing to look at, said the commentators. I don’t mean to be rude, one of them added. Yet it is true; she would never catch the eye in the paddock.

But oh, when she was let loose by Ruby Walsh in the glimmering Irish sun, she was a thing of singing beauty. Poetry in motion is a platitude now, rubbed thin with use, but it could have been minted for her.

As I stood with Red later, in the evening light, feeling her dear head resting on my shoulder, scratching her cheek and telling her the story of the race, I thought: there really is something about the ladies. The mares stop my heart like nothing else.

 

Today’s pictures:

Talking of ladies, here are some splendid ones. The sheep and lambs have come for their annual visit to the south meadow. It is a real sign of spring and makes me smile every time I see them:

Daffs:

Winnie, one of my favourite HorseBack UK mares, who is doing good work this week:

Grinning madly, getting better at the Western, on the supremely relaxed Apollo:

Mr Stanley, with a look which says: don’t mention squirrels unless you really mean it:

My lovely girl:

The hill:

Time to settle.

I read an advertisement for a horse today on the internet. It said: ‘He will need time to settle before anyone can ride him.’

In the last six weeks or so, something remarkable has happened between my mare and me. There were many remarkable things before; I’ve banged on about them endlessly. There were marks of trust and moments of revelation. But it felt like 90%. There was the 10% still to go.

That is the part that has now clicked. I rode her today round a huge rough meadow. We ambled round as if we were out on a cowboy trail. You can feel the slightest tension in a horse, like the princess and the pea. I sometimes liken it to the feeling of a faint butterfly, beating its wings, somewhere low in the equine belly. It’s a tremor or a shiver. It’s hardly discernable, but it’s there. There can be a faint feeling of tightness too, the calling ancestral memory of the flight animal, getting ready to run.

Those are not there. There is just a feeling of depth and ease. It’s not just riding her. It’s in everything I do with her: leading, groundwork, guiding her through a gate, bringing her her hay, standing together in the field watching the sun go down.

It is time that did it. We took time to settle. Time gives you the lovely luxury of a routine that reassures and soothes. Time is where you can show your horse that you are consistent and reliable. Time is what gives them the confidence that you will never raise your voice or bring them your problems or punish them or take out your frustrations on them.

I think it is like this with humans too. When you meet a new person, with whom you think you might be friends, you can be charming and funny and show off your better angels. But it’s not like throwing a switch. There must be time, so they can see your faults and your quirks and your messy, muddly bits, and take you anyway. There must be time to settle.

 

Today’s pictures:

The herd:

Red the Good:

This morning at HorseBack, looking south:

Jura, the heavenly HorseBack puppy, with Western instructor Jess March:

He’s getting so grown-up:

Stanley the Dog, giving his enormous stick a good talking-to:

Rather dramatic hill today:

Digest of the day: sunshine, laughter, good horsing, work, family, dog, friendships, learning, gentle feeling of accomplishment. The last one is thanks to my good girl and her remarkable trainer, who just makes everything so much easier for us both.

Oh, and it’s QUEVEGA DAY. An hour to go before the big race at Punchestown and I am quivering with anticipation. It’s her biggest test for a long time, and I can see the brave darling getting beat. There are serious in-form horses up against her, and the ground is testing, and at Punchestown anything can happen. Up hill and down dale they go, bunched tightly through sharp turns and unforgiving undulations. But I stick with the great mare, from love and loyalty. She carries my money and my heart, and if she should taste defeat there will be no disgrace in it. She is so stamped with greatness that nobody can take that away.

Sunday. Sunshine, food, family, and a little Cheltenham recap.

After all that, it was rather a lovely Sunday.

There was walking, with dogs and children, in suddenly clement weather. There was a great deal of cooking. (I made the special little risotto cakes coated with polenta and fried in olive oil, which go down very well with the small people.) I did my HorseBack work, which soothed my frayed nerves.

I missed my mare so badly in the late morning it was like a blow at my heart. It is idiotic to miss a horse, really. At one point I thought: I don’t know how horse people ever go on holiday, ever.

Meanwhile, she herself is lounging about in her field, immaculately looked after by The Horse Talker, supplied with the highest quality Scottish hay that money can buy, probably hardly even knowing I am not there.

But I miss her lovely scent, I miss her dear face, I miss the heavy still feeling I get when she rests her head on my shoulder and goes to sleep. I miss working with her and being amazed when she does something brilliantly clever. I miss leaning over the fence and discussing with the HT every jot and tittle and detail of our small herd. (We are absurdly partisan, and very much like revisiting the subject of how perfect they are in every particular: manners, cleverness, funniness, kindness, outrageous beauty.)

The youngest cousins have just heard Five Years by David Bowie for the very first time. A seminal moment obviously for their mother and me, for whom it was the soundtrack of our formative years. They did a little dance and seemed to like it very much.

I am going to make some prawn and noodle soup with coriander and mint and chillies and drink some Guinness in honour of St Patrick (any excuse) and try not to panic at the thought of being away from my desk, with its hilltops of work waiting for me.
 
A few quick pictures from the archive:

The girlfriends, hanging out, having a bit of a chat:



The sweet face of Red the Mare:



The morning Here You Are faces that I miss:



Mr Stanley is apparently being wonderfully good and sweet, and is having a lovely time with his most excellent dog-sitter, and is visiting The Mother and the dear Stepfather and spreading joy in that house:



Must admit, I do miss that gaze, too:



And the lovely old hill:



But I do get the Smallest Cousin showing me her tremendous dance moves:



And I had the keen pleasure of Cheltenham with the Older Brother:









And the mornings I spent absurdly photographing my racing outfits for the approval of my Facebook posse still make me smile:



Out there in the internets, there are a lot of people asking: what is your favourite Festival moment? Too many to choose, is probably my answer.

The Hurricane flying high again, Sprinter Sacre laughing at them all in the sun, the brave little Bobs Worth sticking his head out all the way to the finish: all go into my Hall of Fame.
But perhaps, if I really had to choose, it was the mighty mare Quevega, who clipped heels round the back, and practically fell on her lovely nose, and still picked herself up, and even when all was lost, and she was ten or twelve lengths off the pace, switched her unstoppable engine into turbo, and roared past the field, storming up the hill into her rightful place in history.

I won’t forget that in a hurry. It’s the mares, again. Never, ever bet against the good heart of a brave mare, and she is one of the bravest I ever saw.

Cheltenham update. Or, sheer joy. Or, the wonderful, glorious luck of the Irish.

 

Would love to tell you the whole story of the day, but I’ve never been so tired in my life. However, just have enough life in my fingers to type the love and delight I felt when my two best beloveds, Hurricane Fly and Quevega, stormed up the hill, defying all statistics.

On paper, in particular, the darling old Hurricane should not have won. No horse has regained the Champion Hurdle for forty years, and, aside from that dark stat, he is really considered too old, at nine, to do the business. But the lucky thing is that no one told that brave fella that everything was against him. He stuck his neck out and lengthened his stride and left brilliant horses in his wake. I backed him in cash, on the course, and I had him in a huge all for love double with the mighty mare, Quevega, and the brilliant Ruby Walsh guided them both home.

I am not ashamed to say that I burst into wild tears of joy. After Quevega, I actually HUGGED a completely strange young man in the Jockey Club stand.

The whole course erupted with joy both times. That’s the difference between being there and watching it on the television. As you stand, in the wonderful roiling cauldron that is Prestbury Park, you hear thousands of people calling RUBY RUBY RUBY, with one joyful voice. You also see the glorious wide smile of that wonderful jockey, and see the pricked ears and gentle preening of the beautiful, clever, good thoroughbreds that he rides.

I’m glad I won money, of course I am. But much more than that, I shall never forget the day I saw two mighty Irish champions smash records and make history. It really was a thing of utmost beauty. Even thinking of it now brings tears to my eyes.

And now, I’m going to have a restorative pint of Guinness and switch on the recording, so I can see on the screen those wonderful horses refuse to be denied.

Cheltenham. There really is nothing like it, in the whole wide world. Best five hundred and fifty miles I ever drove.

Cheltenham, Monkerhostin, Hurricane Fly and absurd excitement.

I am writing this at a million miles an hour at just after six. I’ve been awake for an hour, so excited about Cheltenham I cannot sleep.

I had slightly hoped I would wake early, and then I could go through all the form one more time, and invent the most cunning accumulator of all time, and make my old dad proud. Instead, I did some writing for HorseBack, because today is real red letter day and I had to mark it.

It’s possibly slightly more red letter-ish for me than for them, because it locks into my great passion as I charge off to the races. Today, I am going to meet Monkerhostin.

There is no time now to tell you how or why or all the delightful details. Monkerhostin was a really good racehorse, tough, genuine and talented. In his retirement, he is doing something even more remarkable than storming up the Cheltenham hill. He now lives with Sergeant Major George Beilby, and helps the Royal Marine through the struggles of post-Afghanistan life.

Anyway, the sergeant major is going to do some work with HorseBack, to highlight how horses can play such an extraordinary role in the path to recovery, and so, in my official capacity as Writer-in-Residence, I am going to meet him today and his glorious horse. I am beside myself. Monkerhostin is everything I love about the jumps. This is what his previous owner said about him: ‘He never gave up. Sometimes watching him down the back straight you thought he had no chance, but he never saw it like that. He wasn't always good enough but he always gave it everything he could.’

Those are the ones that stick in the memory, and make the heart lift.

So if you are at Cheltenham today, look out for Monkerhostin in the parade at 12.15pm. If the people at Channel 4 can get their act together, they might even show it on the television. And think of me, vibrating with excitement and trying vainly to act normally, when I get upsides these two remarkable people.

I can’t revise all the form now, so I’m just sticking with my beloveds. The Irish in me is strong this morning, and I’m staying true to my two darlings from over the sea, Quevega and Hurricane Fly. I’ve put them in a treble with My Tent or Yours as my charity bet for HorseBack. Channel 4 does charity bets, so I’m going to do one too. It does feel a bit cheesy, just choosing three favourites, and possibly unwise, since the favourite statistics at Cheltenham are not great. But they are the ones I love today and that’s all she wrote.

I really, really want Hurricane Fly to win, with every beat of my ridiculous heart, because I love him and because no one has regained the Champion Hurdle for forty years . But there is a reason for that, and I do think Zarkandar will run a huge race. Even when he was a baby, a raw four-year-old who knew nothing, he was amazingly tough. He’s a fighter, and he won’t go down without a tussle.

After all that, Rock on Ruby will probably beat both of them. I’d like to see Countrywide Flame run his race. He’s another of whom I am enduringly fond, although he’s probably not quite good enough to make the frame in this.

But really, today is all about a former champ, the lovely Monkerhostin, and his Royal Marine. The parade, at 12.15. Tell all your friends.

 
Only one picture today, of the special Cheltenham hat. I shall not be bringing the horse, you will be amazed to hear:



Oh, and to those of you going and those of you watching and those of you, like me, shouting yourselves hoarse, have a glorious day and a lot of good Guinness, and perhaps a winner or two.
 
PS. This is almost certainly atrociously written and riddled with howlers. Been up since five so brain already a bit addled. Forgive me.