Love and luck.

It’s been a very long and productive day. I went up to HorseBack UK. I am working on a new project for them at the moment and it means I go and see them quite a lot. Today I had the great joy of going up into the hills to see the horses who live there. (They are based at two different locations; one just west of me, and one about five miles to the north.)

The snow has come again. Down here in the valley it is miserable and wet and dirty and slushy. Red the Mare makes her most disapproving duchess face, and uses the filthy weather as an excuse to vamp for extra love. Which of course she gets. But up in the hills, the snow is glorious and white and thick and deep.

The horses were happy as grigs in their good rugs, and gathered round to say hello. There were some old friends and some I did not know so well, so I spent time introducing myself. By the end, I was surrounded by six or seven enquiring faces, all of them sniffing at me and mouthing the toggles on my coat and attempting to eat my fur hood. They were all so dear and gentle, and I was in absolute horse heaven.

Time still continues to gallop away from me, and I read myself stern lectures on self-improvement which do not amount to a hill of beans. One day, I think; one day I shall catch up with everything. In the meantime, I canter about like an unbroken colt, from unfinished thing to unfinished thing. I dream a little dream of The Organised People, and how lovely and calm and clear their lives must be. Still, I suppose it’s not the worst failing in the world. Even though my report card says Could Do Better, some things did get done.

Most of all, today made me keenly aware of luck and chance. The work I do for HorseBack and the people and equines there give me a satisfaction so profound I can’t really put it into words. It was through getting Red the Mare that I met them. And I only got her on the merest whim.

One of the Dear Readers asked a few days ago how it was that I came to have her. The story is so filled with near misses that I can hardly believe it came true.

For some reason, almost a year ago, I decided I would like to go back to horses. I think it had something to do with my dad dying. He was a horseman to his bones, and perhaps the idea was to keep some connection to him.

At that exact time, I was staying with the Beloved Cousin, whose husband makes polo ponies. I mentioned my whim, diffidently, to The Old Fella, and he said he happened to have a mare who was for sale. She was not good enough for high-goal, and she had been sold to China, which has recently rediscovered polo, but the man with the lorry had never pitched up, so she was still in the field.

The Old Fella offered to give me a look. I walked out of the back door to see him riding up on a chestnut mare, and I took one look at her white face and fell in love. ‘I’ll take her,’ I said. I rang up a transport firm and booked her to Scotland, and that was that.

So, if I had not been there at that particular time, and if the man with the lorry to China had arrived, and if she had been brilliant enough for high goal, and if and if – there would have been no Red. Even the thought of not having her in my life leaves me breathless. The fates indeed conspired; the stars aligned.

I worked with her for an hour this morning, and afterwards she stood quietly with her head on my chest. She likes to rest it there and close her eyes and let me gentle her sweet spots. No matter how distrait I am, no matter how fretful about my appalling time management, no matter how many things I have to do, that daily moment never fails to lift my heart and soothe my frayed nerves and bring me peace. It’s an idiot thing to say about a horse, but she is, without a doubt, the love of my life. I don’t need a valentine, because I have this glorious creature.

 

Today’s pictures:

The amazing HorseBack horses and one very special Shetland pony:

The herd, with their astonishing view. That is looking due south over the Dee valley:

It was too blizzardy when I got back to take the camera out, so here is a quick selection from the archive:

My golden girl with her dopey, donkey face on:

With her friend Autumn the Filly:

STANLEY HAS A STICK:

Hill:

Sunday. Horses, dogs, family, weather.

The weather stopped for a moment today; there was even a ray of sunshine. We are surrounded by floods, though; one local town about eight miles away is completely cut off.

The Beloved Cousin and I went to check on the horses. As we listened to the downpour rattling at the windows all last night, we had to steel our hearts, imagining the poor equines.

‘They are much tougher than one thinks,’ I said, not very convincingly. ‘It’s just a bit of wet.’

Sure enough, when we arrived in the late morning, there they all were, happy as grigs. There is a fascinating thing about the wisdom of herds; it is like the opposite of the madness of crowds. They had positioned themselves in the most sheltered corner of the valley, ready for the weather to set in again, which they did not need a forecaster to tell them would happen. The bigger and stronger horses had positioned themselves on the outside of the group, as if to protect the more delicate ones. The toughest of all were cavalier, out on their own, grazing as if there was nothing in the world to worry about.

Only one came to say hello, the sweetest and kindest bay mare, with whom I did absurd amounts of bonding. The Beloved Cousin had to drag me away, before the lunch got burnt. I almost wrote to the Old Fella in Argentina to see if she might like to move to Scotland. It turned out she is his fastest and best pony, an absolute legend on the polo field, striking fear into the hearts of all the other players. Yet there she was, in her winter off, mooching about the field like the dearest old dote.

She made me miss my own Red. I thought of the twist of fate which brought that mare to my door. She was almost sold abroad, and would have gone, except the fellow with the lorry never turned up. It makes me shudder a little in my shoulders to think of life without her. If one strange man had not been unreliable, I would not have had this great source of joy. Imagine.

It sounds a bit nuts to say so, but it is the great love I have for Red the Mare which keeps my bashed old heart beating now that the Pigeon and the Duchess are gone. She is consolation with knobs on and flags flying and trumpets playing. In my recording of gratitudes, apart from my health and the family and opposable thumbs, Red is the hugest name on the list.

See? I say to myself; there is always something. In almost all tunnels, there is light.

From next door as I write this, there is the sound of laughter. (There is a lot of laughter in this house.) The Middle Cousin is playing Hallelujah on the guitar, at which she is very talented. I’m going to have some Guinness and then the grown-ups shall watch Homeland, and we two old ladies shall take ourselves up to early bed, and tomorrow shall be another day. And perhaps, perhaps, with fingers crossed and the stars aligned, I move one step closer to the possibility of the lovely rescue gentleman.

 

Today’s pictures are of the day, with some from the archive of my old girls:

The herd:

The outlier:

The Legend:

One of the young fillies, on box rest:

Trees:

Stone:

Chickens:

Smallest Cousin, in her Sunday best:

Cousins’ canine:

My own old girls, from the archive:

It’s funny, looking back through the files for pictures of the dogs. The Pidge was often smiling, but the Duchess was always grave. She was quite a noble, serious dog, hence her nickname. She had gravitas. She would play and vamp and wiggle her stern, especially when flirting with handsome fellows, but her default setting was gravity. Perhaps it was that she did not take all that great beauty she had lightly.

My funny little equines, from the blue morning before I left for the south:

Suddenly remembered the Dear Readers’ request for pictures of the hair, and dutifully took the usual absurd self-portrait. Only problem was I forgot to put my hood down, so you get Nanook of the North instead of scarlet barnet. Shall put right the omission this week. But I thought this was quite funny, so you shall have it:

It actually was not that cold, but clearly I was taking no chances.

Oh, and so you can see what The Old Fella is doing, down in South America, here he is. This was posted on Facebook by the Argentine player he is working with. (The OF backs and makes and brings on young playing ponies.) Not bad, for an old chap:

Of lost time and lost dogs. Or, forgive me if I am not making much sense.

For those just joining:

Suddenly thought I ought to do a recap. One of the dullest things in the world, in life, is people talking about people you have never met, as if you have met them.

‘Oh, Archibald,’ they say; ‘ran off with a bongo player.’

Or: ‘Dinah’s never really been the same since the incident.’

There is a special sort of face I affect when this happens, and I have absolutely no idea who Archibald and Dinah are, or even if they are human (in certain company, likelihood is they could be dogs or horses). It is a bright, interested face, slightly stretched, faintly quizzical. What that covers, not always terribly well, is a what the buggery bollocks are you talking about face.

So, for the new Dear Readers – I have a most Beloved Cousin in the south. We are quite distant cousins, so we did not grow up together, but we have known each other well since we were eighteen. Her parents were like my second family, and over the years we spent happy holidays and Christmases and Easters together. Her husband is a professional polo player, who used to play high goal, but now mostly makes ponies for the top players.

Those who make their living from polo have to go where the work is, and in the winter months that is South America. So, once in November, and once in March, off the Old Fella goes to the pampas, and I pack up the car and come here for three weeks at a time, to help with the children, whom I have known since the day they were born, and be company for the cousin, and generally keep the home fires burning.

It is a very lovely and touching arrangement, and brings us all a lot of joy. In particular, for me, it is a revealing slice of family life. Since I decided not to have children of my own, the domestic life is a bit of mystery to me. I feel very lucky to have the liberty of a solitary existence, but I also love the fact that, twice a year, I plunge into the rhythms and jokes and business of the small people.

Anyway, for those just tuning in, that is what I am doing now. And every year, I slightly forget the all-consuming nature of it. That is why it is only now, at eight-thirty at night, with the little ones in bed, bath time over, supper made and eaten, that I can sit down at my computer and type the blog. (Or The Blob, as my middle cousin calls it.)

The thing that amazes me is the rushing of time, in a family house. All I did today was run a few errands, arrange some domestic arrangements, and effect the making of a special green soup, and the day was gone. That is why I say, every single time: I don’t know how you parents do it, and, every single time, all my hats must come off.

The girls in particular adore and demand the special green soup, which astonishes me (they are four and ten) and delights me in equal measure.

‘This is the BEST TEA EVER,’ shouts the four-year-old. She looks at me seriously. ‘We must have it every night.’

I know very few four year olds who would willingly choose a soup made from courgettes and spinach and leeks over, say, chicken and chips, but she would. She is a rare creature, but even so.

And it’s not as if she is a perfect, cookie cutter child. She’s not a cute, magazine baby. She is capable of wails and that sudden exhaustion that very small people are prone to and the streaming moment when nothing will do for her at all and she does not know what she wants. She can be furious and cussed and even, on occasion, stamp her foot. (She reminds me of myself at that age.)

But when it comes to eating, what she loves the most is the green stuff, and my green stuff in particular. It makes me feel as if I have won a prize or just published a number one bestseller. The compliments of children are the sweetest, because when humans are that small they do not flatter or flannel or dissemble. They tell you exactly what they think, without prevarication, at the very moment they think it.

The thing I love about these children is that they are very talkative and funny and interesting. Flights of fancy soar about all over the shop. Quite often, for no particular reason, they burst into song.

People are often surprised that I like children, when I don’t want to have my own. This is a small category error. (I don’t not want them because I dislike them; I don’t want them because it is not my talent, and I’m a great believer in playing to one’s strengths.) There is also the error of thinking that because one can get on with certain children, one is a children person. I regard small humans just the same as I regard grown ones; some are fascinating and delightful, and some are wearing and faintly dull. Just because someone is under three feet high, I do not automatically find them adorable.

It’s the same thing with dogs, I suddenly realise. Because I loved my two old ladies so much, because there was the joke of me being stranded on Dog Island without a ferry home, people sometimes think I am a categorical Dog Person. In fact, the utter singularity of my glorious, intelligent, sleek black girls has almost spoilt me for all other canines. I am a perfect bundle of awful dog prejudice. I do not like the small, yappy ones; I do not like over-bred, frankly peculiar-looking ones (I find Crufts absolute torture for this reason); I cannot favour needy, wiggly ones.

This shocking bigotry even goes into the tiny details: I prefer short hair to long, black to tan, cross-breeds to pure bred. What I really love is a mutt, something at which the Kennel Club would turn up its toffee nose. I like working dogs, who, even if they spend half the day dozing on the sofa, at least are designed for an honest day’s graft. The Pigeon and the Duchess, with their half Labrador, half collie heritage, were the crest and peak of this.

Sometimes, when I miss the Pigeon so much that I can hardly function, I think I shall never find her like again. And perhaps I shall not. But I am sneaking off tomorrow to meet a lonely gentleman who has had a hard start in life, and who, as the rescue sites put it, yearns for his Forever Home.

It might not take. I’m not even sure I am ready. But it seems absolutely idiotic to have read all those books on dog psychology (they need a pack leader, etc etc), to live in a place which is the very definition of dog heaven, to have the luxury of time, which so few people really do have, and to close myself off, just because there is a crack in my heart.

Another mistake people make is to think that by getting a new dog, one may heal the crack. I don’t think that is it at all. The crack will remain; there is nothing to be done about that except allow it to exist. It’s not so much that getting another dog will fill the space left by the divine girls; it’s that there is room, around the cracked part of the heart, to give a poor lost mutt another chance. Rude not to, really. The break will heal in its own time, but while it does, there’s no excuse not to give the love to a creature that may really need it.

Does that make any sense at all? I’m at the stage when my eyes are crossing and my neurones are short-circuiting, and my fingers can barely type a decent word, let alone bang out a coherent thought. But you must have the blog, and so tap tap tap I go, in the hope that there may be something there, despite everything.

 

Too exhausted for proper photographs, so here are a very few not entirely brilliant ones for you:

Smallest Cousin, interpreting life through the medium of creative dance. Otherwise known as Waving Her Hands About:

Middle Cousin, practicing music:

Serious dog training, in very interesting outfit:

The lovely furry girls I left behind in Scotland:

Last time I was here, the Pigeon was with. Here she is, from the archive:

With her friends in the south, looking slightly grand and put-upon, as she always did when pulling rank with what she clearly regarded as younger, sillier dogs:

The astonishing beauty of the dear old Duchess, from the archive. You do see why there is a part of me that thinks there shall never be another:

PS. The hair comments have been making me laugh and laugh. You have to remember that when I say dotty, it is a relative term. My lovely hairdresser is real old school. His salon is mostly filled with those tremendous old dames who get their hair set once a week, with rollers and clouds of Elnett. Thus, the idea of having a barnet chopped short and striped with red and black is considered most eccentric. In fact, in the wider world, it is a perfectly ordinary cut. I have not gone punk. (I did once do peroxide spikes, but that was another lifetime.) There shall be pictures, never fear, once I get my act together. But I don’t want your expectations to be too high.