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.

One step forward, one step back

I remember this now, from last year. One step forward, one step back. Yesterday, with all the excitement of the election, I had a glimmering flash of normality. This is what I shall feel like when my heart no longer aches in my chest. I felt hopeful, and rather stupidly pleased with myself. I can do this thing; I can get everything into perspective and not be sunk. Watch me, marching myself back to fine.

Then, today, there was a bit of a crash. I went out to take a picture of the beech avenue. The beeches are so magnificent this year, and the sun is out, and the autumn colours are to real to be true. The Dear Readers, I thought, slightly dizzily, in my antic head, love the beech avenue; I can give them that nice treat at least, since they have to put up with all my weeping and wailing.

I took the picture. The avenue looked quite ravishing. I’ll just walk up there, I thought. I’ll walk under those venerable old trees and look at the colours. And then I got a flash of a little black ghost, trotting away in front of me, and I could not do it. Couldn’t do it.

I went back into the house and made some soup. All I have done since Friday is make soup. Chicken soup first, of course, of course, as the two ladies I think of as my Jewish and my Italian mammas came out and rolled up their sleeves. I have no idea if those stereotypes really are true. I bet there are millions of Italian and Jewish mothers who have never made a pot of soup in their lives, but the awful thing is that is what I always think, when I am attempting to heal existential wounds through cooking. I’m the one who is endlessly banging on about not generalising or making assumptions, and yet there I go.

After the chicken soup, I move on to leek. A lovely simple pale green soup, with a little onion and a handful of watercress, for strength. Today, it is mushroom soup, black and earthy and tasting very strongly of itself.

Every so often I think, furiously, despairingly, like a child: I want my dog back.

Come along, says my sensible voice, ushering me gently on through the day; come along. There’s no call for that.

Other things are happening. The poor stepfather has smashed up his knee and is in plaster. My sister had to have a rather serious operation, and calls me, dopey with morphine, from her hospital bed. Even after having two surgeons go at her, she still finds the time to read the blog and send me heartening little emails of love.

The Older Brother actually sits down and writes a letter.

It arrived yesterday. I heard the postman and went to the door. Usually, there is a muddle of paper on the floor; periodicals and flyers and charity letters and bills. Instead, there was just one pristine envelope, Smythson’s finest, in deep cornflower blue. He managed to include Paddy Leigh-Fermor, Lucien Freud and our eccentric Irish uncle, all in one letter. (Freud loved his dogs.) It was funny and touching and clever and I was rather overwhelmed that he took the time.

I do one small piece of work. I run errands. I even read a bit of the paper, in an attempt to keep up with world affairs.

For a special treat, I get a copy of the Racing Post, and read about one of my favourite horses in the world, the magnificent Hunt Ball, whose rags to riches story always brings me delight.

He started off in very ordinary handicaps, trained in a small yard, owned by a dairy farmer who gets up at four-thirty every morning to milk his cows. Over the course of last season, Hunt Ball, a big, bonny fellow, romped round course after course, winning race after race, with the handicapper puffing after him. He went from a mark of 69 to one of 157 in one year, skipping round Cheltenham for his last win under top weight. It was possibly the most popular victory of the whole festival.

Now it has been announced that he is going for the big guns, the King George and the Gold Cup. If that dream comes true, then all of racing will die of joy.

I look at the smiling face of Anthony Knott, his owner. I think: that man really knows how to chew the marrow out of life.

I think: I have been writing this blog for half the morning and I have absolutely no idea what I am talking about. Free expression is one thing; incoherent rambling is quite another.

I think: go slowly, one foot in front of another.

I think: at least that lovely sun is shining.

I think: I really, really miss my dog.

 

Today’s pictures:

The colours were so outrageous up at Red’s View that I could only blink in disbelief:

My little band:

The good companions:

They are such an unlikely pair, the roly-poly little Welsh pony and the aristocratic thoroughbred mare, but they are absolutely devoted to each other.

Myfanwy the Pony:

Red the Mare:

She is continuing her Plan of Ultimate Sweetness. She stood beside me for half an hour this morning, just contemplating, resting her cheek on my arm, bending her head round so I could rub her forehead. She can be spooky and flighty, when the mood is in her and the wind is up, but at the moment she is like the rock of ages.

Pigeon, from the archive:

There are a lot of things about her I miss; the funniness, the adoring gaze, the undimmed enthusiasm. But one of the things of which I feel most deprived is the sheer beauty. Every day, I got to rest my eyes on something lovely. I miss my aesthetic fix.

The avenue, down which I could not walk:

The hill, from a slightly different angle than usual: