The Sweetest Photograph in the World.

Obviously, the title of this post refers to an entirely subjective judgement.

It is the sweetest photograph in my very own eyes.

Here I am, this morning, with the two nieces, the red mare and the little American Paint.





There are several things which I love about this picture. One is that the two nieces and I are hardly ever together in the same place. They are young and antic and move about a lot, embarking on their own lives. So it is extremely special when the three of us are reunited.

Second, I love that The Younger Niece and The American Paint both are doing almost identical ready for their close-up faces. (Autumn the Filly’s owner was taking the picture, so it might have been a pretty face for her. But it still makes me laugh and laugh.)

Third, I find it amusing that despite the fact I am supposed to be posing for a rare photograph with my beloveds, I am far too busy pulling Red’s ears to put on my own camera face.

Fourth, it was quite a tight space, between two stretches of grass that MUST NOT BE STEPPED ON. (The Brother-in-Law gets sad if there are hoofmarks all over his nice turf.) So The Older Niece, as you can see, is having to crane her neck even to be seen. Hello, I’m here at the back.

Fifth, that dozy old donkey you see there on the left, all muddy and woolly and shaggy, really is one of the poshest horses in Britain. My father brought me up not to pay any attention to human grandeur, but oh, when it comes to horses, he gave me a snobbism I cannot shake. I am not especially proud of the fact. But on dark nights, when my heart is afflicted with melancholy, I am afraid I trace Red’s pedigree back through Nijinksy and Northern Dancer to Hyperion and St Simon, in order to cheer myself up.

She has not only that obvious top line, but Derby winners a go-go in the bottom line. I love reading the storied names, as lyrical as poetry: Mahmoud, Sir Peter Teazle, Voltigeur, Smolensko, Dante, Gainsborough. She has the Byerley Turk, the rarest of the three foundation sires, twice. Nearly everyone has the Godolphin Arabian, as she does, but not everyone has the Turk.
None of this really means anything, but it means something to me. And what I really love is that there she is, day after day, dopey as a faithful hound, following me back to the field without a rope, swinging her dear, scruffy head, smiling her soft equine smile, quite unaware of the blue blood which courses through her veins. Of course, I could posh her up a bit. I could give her a haircut and brush a bit more of that mud off her. But I like her being a horse, mooching around in her paddock, getting as dirty as she likes, no matter how many glittering prizes her ancestors won.

And in other horse loveliness, the most tenacious, gutsy, bold and brave Bobs Worth returned to his best in Ireland today, and made my mother and me cry. He’s one of the most talented and most tough horses in racing and last time out he never went a yard. After a horse has been triumphant in a hard Gold Cup, there is always the danger he is never quite the same again. Some big race glories can take it out of a horse; they can look fine, work well at home, seem well in themselves, but that glittering, glimmering brilliance has been dulled, in a way that nobody quite understands.

After watching an uncharacteristically lacklustre run at Haydock, I feared for little Bobs Worth. He was so magnificent last season, and I was sad to see a champion brought low. But today, he kindled his fire again, and even though he had it all to find after the last, he picked himself up, put his head down in his trademark terrier fashion, and powered past his rivals.

Then he pricked his ears, stretched his neck, and looked up at the stands, as if to say: Ah, you were fretting over nothing. I got it covered, said Bobs Worth. I’m back. And the crowd, which knows greatness when it sees it, rose to him in delight.
 
Some more sweet pictures for you:







Back in the paddock, modelling her astoundingly smart new Amigo rug. I don’t really believe in giving animals Christmas presents, but the old rug was falling to pieces, literally held together with binder twine, and this one happened to arrive just yesterday, so it does feel almost like a present. And she looks so smart in it. Excellent service from the wonderful Ride-Away, who should surely employ the red mare as a model. She is, I often think, wasted in real life:



She did get an awful lot of love:



And, in other news – Stan the Man has a BLOODY ENORMOUS STICK:

Horses and family and convoluted hazel

The Co-Writer does this week’s Speccie diary. I am pretty impressed. Not only is it quite a thing to be asked, but it’s such a very, very difficult medium to master. You have to write six or seven pithy paragraphs, on different subjects, although a theme may develop. The tone is almost always wry and faintly ironical. There is one regular Spectator diarist who takes himself so seriously that I always think it must be Craig Brown, doing a little spoof. It’s an oddly British sin, taking yourself seriously. I suspect that it is not nearly so frowned on in France or Germany or America, although I may be falling into the trap of cultural assumptions.

As I read it I think: I would be absolute buggery bollocks at that. The Co-Writer gets to talk about her husband being on national television, and having dinner with famous historians. The absolute high spot of my week was getting my mare to walk nicely through a gate.

I sort of itch to have a go, though. My dander rises. This would be my diary of the week:

 

(At this point, you have to imagine silence de glace. Fingers absolutely motionless on keyboard. Eyes taking on glazed, faintly panicked look. Nothing.)

I have no Andrew Roberts to fall back on, it turns out. It’s a bloody good thing that Fraser Nelson is not on the blower night and day, offering me a commission. I would have to admit defeat, or crank out something blah and second-rate.

Instead, I have this lovely medium, where I may write what I choose, go where I like, muse on what I wish, in as many paragraphs as I like.

As a faint thaw comes, not enough to get all the snow off the ground, but enough so that movement is possible, I do serious work with my mare. A lot of it, after a bit of a lay-off due to the elements, is getting her to pay attention to me. It’s one of the most powerful tools in the arsenal, although it looks like nothing. I am her person, her good leader, and she needs to acknowledge that fact.

When you take a horse out of the field, it will generally look about a lot. The head goes up, on predator alert, the body is braced for strangeness. This is a perfectly natural reaction, and even looks rather marvellous – the ears are pricked, the eyes are bright – and lots of people would not correct it.

But I want her focused on me, not the bears in the woods. So every time she looks one way, I lead her the opposite way. I move, fast and firm, in small circles, reverses, figures of eight. After a moment, I have her absolute attention. If I move a step, she moves a step. We are in sudden, singing harmony. There it is. The head comes down, the eyes soften, the ears relax. By the end of the session, I have taught her to follow me with her head without moving her feet. Left and right, we swing back and forth, like a little metronomic duet.

The thing I love about this kind of horsemanship is that it is all about the small things, and you know I revere the small things. There is no punishment. If she does something I do not want, I gently correct her, usually by turning her in the tightest of circles or backing her up. When she does what I ask, she is lavishly rewarded, so that she feels inordinately pleased with herself. She is a creature who loves to please, which makes my work vastly easier.

It’s a theory which goes along the lines of making the wrong thing hard and the right thing easy. I think it could be applied to almost all areas of life. To an observer it would look as if I am hardly doing anything. Yet I am laying great, lasting foundations, which shall underpin our entire relationship, and keep us safe and happy. There are no fancy gadgets or complicated manoeuvres; just time, and patience, and thought. Oh, and love, of course.

By the end, she has had to concentrate a lot. I give her a pick of grass in the wild ground near the woods, and then I take her back into the field and set her free. She hasn’t done this much work in a while, and the sun is shining, and she has spring fever suddenly in her. She takes off with a vaulting leap, flies her tail like a flag, and gallops away to join her herd, calling for them as she goes, as if to say I’M BACK.

When she reaches them, she dances about, does a couple of pirouettes and a Spanish Riding School of Vienna leap. Her girls look at her, nod, and go back to eating their hay. This kind of exhibition is one of the purest expressions of beauty I have ever seen and I laugh and whoop out loud. The pleasure that horse gives me is beyond rubies.

There is further high excitement because the family is arriving for Easter. The Older Niece and the Man in the Hat are driving up the M6 as we speak. The Older Niece puts a picture on Facebook of her dog, in the back of the car, with a rather plaintive expression. The caption goes: Are we there yet?

I rush to the village to get lamb and haggis and a steak pie for strength. As always, I have a perfectly splendid time with the butchers, of whom I am excessively fond. Then I go to the flower shop for hyacinths and tiny delicate ferns and little dark plum carnations, for my Easter table. I love the ladies in the flower shop, because they laugh at my jokes. A smart gentleman arrives, with purpose. ‘I’ve come for the – what’s it called? – convoluted hazel,’ he says.

I laugh out loud. The ladies say, ‘I think you mean the contorted willow.’

‘I think convoluted hazel is much better,’ I say.

Great branches of the stuff are produced and it is very, very convoluted indeed.

And then I come back and arrange everything and feel a flush of achievement. Even Stanley the Dog looks quite impressed. It’s not international historians, but it is my own, small, good day.

 

Today’s pictures:

When I say Stanley the Dog was quite impressed, what I really mean is that he lay down on his sheepskin and went to sleep:

This is a bit more like it:

The clever girl, who got five gold stars this morning:

Of interesting people, and pandas

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I met a really interesting woman today. She was wearing a panda suit. She said things like: ‘when I went into Chatham House they thought I was there to bring the tea.’

I said: ‘If I could even say I went into Chatham House I would be happy.’

She told me that she had been a lobbyist for landmines and cluster bombs. She had already said about twenty interesting things by that stage.

I said: ‘Oh, it’s too much, you are a saint too.’

I laughed. Then I paused.

‘Unless of course you were lobbing for landmines. You weren’t working for an arms dealer, were you? You weren’t saying, yes, yes, more cluster bombs?’ Luckily she was not. Imagine the faux pas.

She had been to Eritrea with Bill Deedes. I grew very excited at this stage. I met Bill Deedes a couple of times when I was about eighteen. He was one of the wryest, driest, funniest, coolest old men I ever met in my life. He had the great talent, common to all the best people, of treating you as if you were the Queen of Rumania even when you were a raw teen of no discernable importance.

We were with The Older Niece. ‘Do you know about Bill Deedes?’ I said. She did not. I explained about how he was the inspiration for Scoop, how he was Dear Bill in Private Eye, how he was one of the last of the old school Fleet Street legends. The Interesting Woman said that his copy was so good that none of the subs would change a word. I had not known that. I am so glad I know it now.

Then we had a most excellent conversation about whatever happened to the liberals in Texas. For over a hundred years,  Texas was one of the most dependably Democratic states in the union. Now, it is a solid red state, with Governor Rick Perry at its helm, and a wild libertarian streak. I am always fascinated about how things like that happen. We moved on to the fabulous mystery which is Newt Gingrich. (I really want to write about the bizarre rise of Newt at length, and may do so tomorrow. It’s about time we had a good, meaty, outraged political post.)

It was a real treat. One of my enduring freaks is an intense, almost obsessive interest in politics, and American politics in particular. It’s very, very rare that I meet anyone who is much fascinated by that subject, let alone can talk fluently of it, and knows all the names. I wish we had had time to get on to the crash of Herman Cain and the strange pronouncements of Michele Bachman about Iran. (I discover, to my shame and chagrin, that all these months I have been spelling her name incorrectly. Disconcertingly, she uses the single L. I can’t be fagged to go back and change them all, so if you read a misspelled version in an old post, I can only beg forgiveness.)

Now, you may be wondering about the panda costume. In my book, everyone should have one and wear it at least once a week. (I admit I have gone a little panda-crazy since the arrival of Sweetness and Light, or whatever they are called, at the Edinburgh Zoo, on their special panda-jet from China.) In this case, it was put on a for a special photo call. The Older Niece and The Interesting Woman have produced a wonderful collection of songs for children, and they wanted some shots of them together.

I am shamelessly plugging their work. There are CDs of just the songs, and a special DVD with adorable shots of the human panda, lots of small singing children, old tractors, and dogs. What more could you want?

You can find them all, including downloads for your MP3 player, on Amazon here.

And they have a website here.

And these are a couple of the pictures I took of them today.

In elegant sepia, with added Pigeon:

In full colour, with both dogs, and the hill in the background:

Now, in other news, this is what the day looked like:

The amazing thing is that even despite the arctic temperatures and gales and snow, my little rosemary is still alive:

And the pot table, whilst a little moth-eaten, does have some green things on it:

The very opposite of moth-eaten is her ladyship. See how she is getting all furry for winter?:

And is the very mistress of the unwavering gaze:

Two hills today. One as usual, one in panorama:

Wednesday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

The sun shines, like a crazy shining thing. It is as hot as midsummer. My cousin calls and makes me laugh. An old friend I have not seen for years touches me by sending a message all the way from the West Coast of California.

I put in the death notice.

I speak to a very professional woman called Amy, at The Telegraph. When she reads the words back to me she spells them in pilot-spelling; that's Alpha Lima Bravo, she says, very very fast. I think: my God, she really knows that special alphabet.

It is hundreds of pounds. I try very hard to be dignified. I am representing the family, after all. I must be proper and correct. It feels like a very important and definitive thing to be doing, and I am glad that I have the responsibility. But I cannot help a most unworthy thought crossing my head: quite naughty of the old Torygraph to profit so mightily from the death of people. Not very family values of it; oh your dad died, that will be two hundred and ninety quid. Don't say anything out loud, I tell myself. To poor Amy I say, really without meaning to: 'It's not given away, is it?'

Not good with the dignity and gravitas. Not good at all. It's only a bit of cash. And it's really not Amy's fault. She just has to do that special alphabet, very very fast. She does not set the rates.

My back hurts all over. The Older Niece comes. She does very high-end Thai massage; she has many certificates from Bangkok. I lie flat on the lovely soft travel rug I bought in the Lake District, on my lawn, in the sunshine, while she rolls up her sleeves and gets to work.

'Yes,' she says, wisely. 'Very, very tense. Your back is locked. I think you are holding your grief in your shoulder blades.'

'They bloody hurt,' I shout.

The massage is quite full-on. You do it with all your clothes on and it involves a lot of rocking and pressing and pummelling. It's brilliant, but it makes me yell. Usually, for some reason, it makes me laugh belly-laughs, which surprises the Niece. Apparently most of her other clients do not make that noise. Today it does not make me laugh. It makes me shout and groan.

The Pigeon, who is very protective, loves the Niece but is clearly unsure whether she is using her powers for good or evil. She cannot bark or growl at this person she loves, so she chooses the excellent compromise. She runs over and lies down on my legs, putting her whole body between me and possible harm. She will not be moved, but stares balefully into the middle distance.

Eventually, with much coaxing, she goes and sits next to the Sister, who is also with us, and anxiously licks my hand to let me know she has not abandoned me.

'That dog,' says my sister, 'will never let anything happen to you.'

The Duchess, true to her years of achieving ultimate grandeur, does not move from her place in the sun, but merely gives the Niece a tremendous de haut en bas stare from her steely yellow eyes.

Apparently the physical aching is a thing. People have told my sister that it does happen. The Niece says it is because I am trying to be good and brave and calm and not startle the horses. She thinks that anything complicated and messy is getting stuck in my muscles. (She is a bit new age sometimes, and I am a strict child of the Enlightenment, so when she says things like this I sometimes josh and tease her. Now I wonder if she is not right, on account of mind and body being so intimately connected. That's not just hippie talk; that's empirical fact.)

I am quite cross about this. It seems that even when faced with death my competitive streak still surfaced without my knowing it. I was going to damn well do the best grieving ever. It was going to be pure and clean and true. I would remember my old dad at his most majestic and best and cry for him and that would be that. That's what I thought I was doing. Turns out my shoulder blades know something I did not. Something is trapped in there, and it's not going to be all as lovely and limpid and straightforward as I thought.

Bugger, bugger, bugger, I say, out loud. The Pigeon walks over, stares me straight in the eye, and gives me a great big lick on the nose.

 

Pictures:

The quince is flowering:

And the tulips continue quite unreal:

I love that apple tree:

Under it, nestles the acer:

Beside the little blue flowers:

I love the light on all the green things:

The hellebores are very elegant today:

The dozing yellow eyes of The Duchess:

The watchful face of The Pigeon:

The hill:

 

PS. Such a sweet thing happened just now. I was taking the dogs through the woods, thinking that perhaps a bit of walking would be good for loosening the knots. We were going past a rather lovely house that we sometimes walk by when we ran into a quartet of people from the South, touring the area. They were so nice: staunch, smiling Yorkshire people. (I know I should not generalise, but I have a deep love for the people of Yorkshire.)

'Do you know this area?' I said. No, it turned out, they did not. So I gave them a little history of the house, with specific reference to the local vernacular, which is very lovely and very particular to this part of Scotland. We commented of course on the fine weather, with the air of surprise that British people always have when it turns out sunny. I wished them a lovely stay, and we walked on, in our different directions.

I don't know why it was such a delightful interlude, but it was. I think it was because they were such nice people, so friendly and beaming with good nature. They were obviously having a marvellous trip. They were taking that most simple of pleasures: a walk in the country. The whole thing was very polite, very proper, and very good.

Will they remember, I thought, when they get home, the slightly distrait woman (my hair has gone to pot and I am dressing in a frankly peculiar way just now) with the very charming dogs whom they found in the woods?

For some reason, a line runs through my mind. It is of Karen Blixen. It goes something like: if I sing a song of Africa, will Africa sing a song of me?